All language subtitles for En.therapie.S01E32.1080p.BluRay.DD+5.1.x264-SbR_track4_[eng]

Are you going out?

You too?

Are you going to Strasbourg?

On a Tuesday?

We have to talk to the kids.

They know.

But we’re saying nothing
so they’re in an impossible position.

Emmanuel didn’t even call
at Christmas.

Liza is scowling all the time.

She didn’t smile all week
at my parents’.

As for Adam...

- Did your parents say anything?
- Who cares?

No, they didn’t,
but that’s not what I’m talking about.

I’m talking about your children.

About Adam,
who’s bottling it up every day.

He wakes in the night, screaming.
He’s 11!

We have to fix it.

What’s the matter?

Has something happened?
Talk to me!

Is it us?

I haven’t closed the door, you know?

Just because I don’t want
to see Esther again.

I need some time, do you understand?

We have to talk honestly to the children
about our problems.

You’re right.

We’ll do it.

When I get back
we’ll think about it together.

See you tomorrow?

IN THERAPY

ESTHER - TUESDAY, JANUARY 5, 2016, 9 A.M.

Thanks for seeing me.

No problem.
What happened is horrible.

It’s a heavy sky today.

There’s not much light here.

Sit down.

Charlotte phoned to tell me
she doesn’t want to continue.

I’m sorry about that
but I respect her decision.

She thinks
we’re getting lost in a labyrinth.

I think she wants
to make her decisions by herself.

That’s what I understood.

She has her head screwed on right.

I wish I were a novelist or playwright.

What do you mean?

A little puppet theater.

Where the artist maps out
the characters’ destinies,

makes them do the right thing
at the right moment,

decides who sleeps with whom,
who lives, who dies,

when the big revelation
has the most impact,

and when a cooling off
is most appropriate.

But no, we’re not demiurges.

Or even a bad novelist.

Disappointing his readers,
who want blood and woe,

by choosing the outcome
that makes his character happy.

There!

I’d like to create
mediocre and boring works,

in which all the characters find
the happiness and calm they deserve.

I’m sorry, Philippe,

sincerely sorry
about what happened to your patient.

Those who helped him go are sorry.

His brothers-in-arms in the police
are distraught.

His hierarchy,
all the way up to the ministry.

His father is totally devastated.

He didn’t deserve that end.

Yes, everyone is sorry.

Institutions have no feelings.

Nor do hierarchies.

And the individuals
caught up in those structures...

I don’t like them
salving their conscience

by expressing their sorrow.

Do you mean you consider me
like an institution?

A hierarchy?

What do you think?

Do you really feel anything?

Philippe, I share your grief.

It’s tragic.

You don’t think I’m sincere,

you think I’m holding you responsible
for his death.

Do you feel guilty?

Adel’s death is an absolute tragedy

towards which
every event ineluctably drove him.

He tried, with amazing courage,

to escape the death wish
inherited from his family history,

and his father’s guilt.

Adel deployed so much energy
building the path of his life.

Under his armor, patiently constructed
to hold up a shaky edifice,

was such sensitivity,
such finesse, such fragility.

He’d lost before he started.
Nothing he could do.

It was all determined

by what his beginnings
had inscribed in him.

Everything he did helped to bring about
a destiny that wasn’t his own.

All that energy, just to, in the end...

You haven’t talked about him
like that before.

Am I idealizing him?

It’s possible.

Or the tragedy is letting me see in him
what I refused to see before.

So why do you feel responsible?

You just said he was doomed.

I should have worked out
how to protect him,

how to stop him
following his tragic logic to the end.

If I can see that someone
can’t ensure his own safety,

if I’m aware of that,

if I have a strong suspicion...

isn’t it my duty
to stop him hurting himself?

I should have stopped him going.

I didn’t.

I didn’t because I had a doubt.

I wasn’t sure any more.

That moment of doubt
makes me responsible.

On the contrary.

Taking up a position like that
is very risky.

After his death, I got to see
a report from the intelligence services.

Fabien, Adel’s friend, gave it to me.

He’d got it from Vincent,
his colleague in the police.

It’s touching,
how they’ve passed it around.

Chibane is the only thing
we all have in common.

I wonder if we form
a sort of chain of guilt.

The second day
he was out there in the field,

I think,

Adel was with a small group
doing reconnaissance.

They were going through a village

when they were attacked.

Apparently he didn’t fall back
with the others.

He joined the poorly armed villagers
who were taking on the jihadis.

He fell among those peasants,

who were trying
to drive off a bunch of killers.

In a way
he was a hero.

It’s awful and heroic at the same time.

But it wouldn’t have happened

if I hadn’t revealed
that destiny to him.

If I hadn’t connected him to that end

which he’d managed to keep
out of his line of sight.

His father’s quite right.

My responsibility is overwhelming.

I should never have disturbed
his subconscious defenses.

You’ve seen his father?

At the funeral.

Then he came to my place yesterday.

I called you after he’d gone.

I was really upset.

The man is a monster of guilt,
both allotting it and feeling it.

He’s doing what he can.

He brought his son up in ignorance
for a reason.

He pushed him towards the future.

He kept him from turning to his roots,

his culture, and all that bullshit.

He knew he wasn’t tough enough
to face it.

The past is toxic.
His logic holds water.

You’re saying the best way to live
is in ignorance?

Where’s freedom of choice
if we don’t know what’s shaped us?

You mean I was right
to awaken the demons of his past,

for the sake of his right to know? Okay.

But why couldn’t I set him straight?

What happened, at that moment,
is insane when I think back on it.

Believe it or not, but for just a moment
I thought that he was right.

That maybe I did need guys like him,

to sacrifice themselves
and ensure my safety.

Because if that war comes here,

I’m not prepared.

Maybe I am ready to pay
to be protected.

Maybe there are people like Chibane
whose problems suit them to that job.

Warriors, tragic heroes.

As opposed to us neurotics.

After all, there isn’t
just Madame Bovary or Proust.

There’s also The Iliad, Antigone...

and Die Hard.

You said it yourself.
Adel Chibane was not a puppet.

Even less was he your puppet.

None of your patients is.

And your relationship is only
a tiny part of their lives,

of what guides their actions.

You don’t have control
over your patients’ fates.

Yes, it was his fate, his freedom,
a succession of circumstances...

Heaven forbid
it was anyone’s responsibility!

But in all those factors
there was me and him.

And you and me too.

Why are you trying to fudge
the question of my responsibility?

I’m not denying the effects of analysis.

Our collective irresponsibility
makes me angry.

Our splendid intellectual superiority,

which lifts us high above the mire
of material causality.

We shrinks!

I’m angry with Freud,

that bourgeois,
conservative Viennese Jew.

I’m angry with Lacan,

that bourgeois Parisian Catholic,
and just as conservative.

And with us, theorizing
our detachment from worldly affairs,

staying out of the game,
neutral, uninvolved, apolitical...

No, worse. Politically pessimistic!

Put the theoretical debate
to one side for a moment.

Do you think analysis
is a way of escaping from reality?

I’m in a bad way, Esther.

I’m barely sleeping.

I wake in the middle of the night,
crippled with anxiety.

I lie there wide awake till dawn.

I can’t talk to my wife.

When I face her,

it’s like a veil falls over my brain,
paralyzing me.

I couldn’t even talk to her
about Chibane’s death.

So, as for our relationship
and our children’s wellbeing...

The oldest has gone for good.

And my daughter is trying to forge
her identity

in a violent – even criminal – gang.

As for the little one...

he cries out at night in his sleep.

Are you okay?

Yeah, I’m okay.

I’ll get you a glass of water.

Philippe! I’ll call for an ambulance!

It’s all right. I’m okay like this.

You scared me.

Here, drink some water.

How do you feel?

Okay.

I’ll just rest here a couple of seconds.

I think I’ll go home.

I heard what you said earlier.

- The sky is overcast.
- So?

We can’t see the stars
or the constellations.

We have no points of reference.

I do know you,
despite our disagreements.

Do you know what sailors say
in such cases?

I know because, before Gaëtan,

I had a lover who was a navy doctor.

He had a beautiful
and very sexy blue uniform.

He taught me this,
among other things.

I’m listening.

I think I know
where you’re going with this.

About sailing.

When our senses are blind,
we must trust our instruments.

Only our instruments.

They’re less infallible than us.

Our instruments.

Sextants, compasses, screens, radars...

That’s you all over.

Theory, the mechanism...

There you are,
behind your theoretical dashboard.

With so many instruments
you can’t see the sky.

Maybe the mistake
is to stop trusting your instinct.

With all your tools
you’ve forgotten how to look at the sky.

You no longer know
how to sniff the wind,

how to use your body
as a measuring instrument.

What do I care
that your objective truth

aligns itself with microphysics
or the brain’s chemistry?

Shall I tell you what I think,
deep down?

The little good I’ve done my patients...

Take the swimmer.

I think I’ve helped her a bit
because I got involved,

I gave some of myself.

But that couple...

I executed
the correct academic flight plan,

but I’m really not sure
I did them any good.

Especially her,

with her mental core
that’s so fragile and unreachable.

To hell with instruments!

To hell with masters!

We should chuck them into the current,
as Zhuang Zhou said.

Our bodies in the current,
that’s the measure of everything.

As Zhuang Zhou said.

Down with Zhuang Zhou!

I know exactly what you’re thinking.

You think all this is because of Ariane,

that I’m questioning all this
so I can sleep with my patient.

Another hypothesis. What if I let
Chibane go, to get rid of a rival?

That works, huh?

Is that what you think?

Stop evading it, answer me!

Are we back on Ariane, yes or no?

Sorry, Philippe, but it was you
who brought her up. Right?

Was it like this
when you still had patients?

Like what?

I don’t know.

The decor, the atmosphere.

Pretty much, yes.

- I’ve redecorated a few times, but...
- It feels old.

It’s not at all reassuring.

It’s like you, in fact.

Something about it induces stress.

A feeling of being locked up,
restrained...

You feel that to break free you’d need
lots of courage, faith and energy.

The structure, rules and norms
all weigh down!

There are different schools.

And you know that every patient
projects their own concerns.

What’s your office like?

It’s snug,

with lots of old engravings,
globes, sextants...

proclaiming
that I’m striving for reference points

of good taste and beauty.

It tells you what a snob I am,

and how eager I am to be liked.

Isn’t that what you think of me?

I’d never allow myself such violence.

What you call violence,

my violence,

comes from the power
of the emotions troubling me.

I’m no longer holding them back,
I want to stay mentally alive,

and not betray my desire.

And in such moments, well, sorry,

but one mustn’t give up.

Otherwise something in us dies.

It all dries up,

bit by bit, year after year.

And in the end we get this.

Which proclaims how you’ve given up
on your life,

given up on desire, given up on love...

I’ve never understood
how you could give up so totally.

While Gaëtan was openly cheating on you,

why didn’t you take the opportunity
to escape?

What were you afraid of?

Do you know what Franck said, two weeks
before his cancer finished him off?

“Esther is my biggest regret.

“A loss about which I’m inconsolable.”

What do you say to that?

That this is another strategy of mine
to justify sleeping with Ariane?

Why do you need my blessing
to do that?

That’s a typically shitty shrink’s answer!

Maybe I’ve just lost my faith.

I see all we’ve built up,

and I realize it makes no sense,

like a religion,
like an empty rhetorical exercise,

a marketing campaign

that has no more punch
than the proverbs of the Dalai Lama,

or...

a sect,

which is constantly becoming
more radical and isolated.

Shrinks can neither take up arms
nor do themselves in.

All they can do is insult each other.

It doesn’t make them very likeable.

And there you are,
the devotee of an abandoned religion,

still hanging on to its rituals,

with your nice little decor,

your utensils,
your ceremonial objects,

your incomprehensible prayers...

And like all the devout,
you’re obsessive about it.

You’re afraid the world will end

if you change one line of your liturgy.

That’s why you let
the most important thing in life get away...

Love.

Shut up! You’re talking nonsense.

It’s mind-boggling
how wrong you are about me.

How can you accuse me
of being cold and insensitive,

when all my life I’ve struggled
with the violence of my emotions?

You’re the one who needs
a prison guard!

Can’t you see how fragile I am?

How I need distance?

How my emotions
are a horrible boiling magma

ready to explode
and destroy everything in its path?

You projected what suits you onto me!

I’m not the cold monster you describe,

a crouching spider.

I’m finding my peace, bit by bit,
step by step.

Of course I wanted Franck.

Of course his desire aroused me.

But it wasn’t hard to resist.

And it wasn’t because of rules, ethics
or God knows what else.

It was because the man I loved,
loved madly,

was Gaëtan, even if he did cheat on me.

Even if he’d lost
all sense of proportion.

I could never bring myself
to really hold it against him.

From the first day to the last
I loved him.

Dumping my pride.

Even when he was fucking
his little disciples, and everyone knew.

That’s who I really am.

I met Gaëtan in a period of my life

when I had no limits.

He let me be myself.

That’s not very “girl power”,
I don’t care.

I’m a feminist, fuck the contradictions!

After he died,
I stood there by his grave,

and I knew
that if I were to do it all again...

I’d do it just the same.

He made me understand
who I was without him.

Do you think I’m writing a novel
in my office?

It obsesses you. Do you think
I’m writing your life story

or preparing the prosecution’s
closing speech against you?

I’m just trying to be alone.

By myself.

With the help of words.
They’re what I’m hanging on to.

You’ll never understand what we had.

Maybe some people are incapable of love.

Can I tell you love doesn’t exist?

That we can’t sacrifice
everything for it?

That in your office,
like at all times all over the world,

the most absolute, crazy
and improbable love can arise?

I can’t tell you that.

But don’t use my life!

Stop talking to me about Franck!
It wasn’t Franck I loved, it was Gaëtan!

Don’t mention him to me again, okay?

Give me a break.

Stop dragging me and everyone else
into your orbit.

If it’s what you want, I’ll say it.

Go to her.

Pay the price.

It’s exorbitant, but pay it
without haggling or complaining.

Do it!

Now go.

Go!

I’m sorry.