All language subtitles for Au.Pan.Coupe.1967.720p.WEBRip.x264.AAC-[YTS.GG - YTS.BZ]

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Wall Engravings

She's a musician.

I saw her through
the bearing window this morning,

she was singing an opera song,
I think,

standing in the kitchen!

Who could've known?

Nothing could have predicted
her madness.

No sign.

She's a hard woman, authoritarian.

Have you heard her voice?

She's always been tough.

With the help,
when she still had some.

Five more minutes.

With her husband too.

We knew each other well
and he was a good man.

So nice, you couldn't even imagine.

A photographer.

One of the first
to have captured views of Paris.

An artist too.

He used to paint.

That poor man, she had relegated him
to the back room.

The one you live in.

When I arrived
everything was in ruins.

Without what I pay her,
she could barely live.

She is educated.

He was her second husband.
She's had a rough life.

She never truly got over it.

An earthquake in Japan in 1928.

She came back alone
with her two-year-old daughter.

Her husband died there.

- Where is her daughter?
- In Mexico!

She went to Mexico 15 years ago.

She writes sometimes.

She doesn't take care of her mother.
Children are ungrateful.

It's her own fault,
she is impossible to live with.

With everybody, really impossible.

Careful, you'll get dirty.
I didn't have time to wash up.

We finish at five now.

I came by on Thursday.

I couldn't.

I also came by on Wednesday.

I know, I found the letter.
I couldn't.

We saw each other twice
in three weeks.

Jeanne, it's not as it was before.

I don't have the answer.

You're bored with me.

I love you.

What can I say that interests you?

Why do you love me?

Jeanne, I don't know anymore.

I love you.

Don't worry.

I love being with you even when
you don't speak for a while.

I lost faith in myself.

In you.

Jeanne, it's happening again.

I want to leave.

Yes, all the time:
"Do this!"

"You can't do that!"

I'm ashamed to know
less than you do.

And because of this,
we could never get along.

I have to tell you
when I think I'm right.

And you're wrong.

Exactly. It should be me
who is right.

That you think I am right.

That's not it.

It's me, Jeanne.

It's happening again. Help me.

I want to help you.

Anything to stay with you.

Anything you want.

We should be reborn elsewhere,
another childhood.

Other parents.

Not prison at 15 years old.

This, I still can't forget.

I know when I'm wrong.

But it's against my will.

When I want to be alone,

when I should want to be with you.

Jeanne, I don't deserve you.

We're allowed to want to be alone.

Give yourself every right.
We are not statues.

It's all about understanding
and starting again.

It's foolish.

What do you dream of?

I want to go elsewhere. Elsewhere!
On the moon.

I want to be good,

pure, happy, free, tender.

Easy going.

But I can't.

The world is harsh
and closed around me.

Around us.

And those who refuse to see it
as it is, are liars.

Money spoils everything.

You want to leave?

Our story, you will forget it?

She stopped by earlier today.

She usually stops by at five.
Usually...

And then, how do we know
we don't love anymore?

How do you know?

Jeanne...

Jean...

Yes.

Three months later,
Jean left Jeanne

letting her believe
he was running far away.

"Jeanne,
I would rather give up everything,

"than accepting what society
offers me.

"I might not send these letters,

"I'd rather disappear from
your life forever.

"Whatever happens, know
that I loved you completely.

"I've been living with a group
of Beatniks for the past few days."

LIVE FREE OR DIE

Lucien!

Come down!

"They're beggars.

"I don't like their life either.

"Beatnik means: defeated.

"I am not defeated.

"Me, I don't beg.

"I was never a child delinquent,
or a greaser.

"I'm not a Beatnik.

"No, I don't want
to reinvent the world.

"Maybe there are possible joys
on this planet,

"they slip away from me.

"But it probably comes from me."

"My adventure must be solitary.

"I haven't eaten in three days.

"The only thing making me suffer
is the cold.

"Strange summer.

"I have a fever.

"I want a bed.

"Goodbye Jeanne."

He died shortly after

in totally obscure circumstances.

However, his death was declared
as "natural".

His body was found in a house
garden on the outskirts of Lyon.

A worker found him there
one morning.

Jean had no evidence of injuries
or beatings,

and his face was imbued
with a great sweetness.

His arms were tied around his neck,

and his open eyes
seemed to look at the sky.

Jeanne never knew of his death.

The world is so big.

To look for him, but where?

As people always say
for others' love stories,

I can say, you will forget him.

That you were so different...
Anything.

But I know you too well.

I know you will never forget him.

Often, I think of Jean as a child.

A child.

I would rather learn he was dead,
than to imagine him far from me.

And probably unhappy.

Did he talk about
a country or a town?

Just of leaving, forever.

And of dying.

How should I have loved him?

It was not about loving him.

You could have done that
more or better,

but it was about him accepting
the world first.

Remember, you told me
that before knowing him,

you had never imagined
anyone hating the world so much.

The fear of running into him.

Someday, somewhere.

When it will be too late.

Yes, you ran out of time.

You can't explain the world

to anyone.

But maybe to Jean,
with a lot of tenderness,

maybe.

Jeanne avoided every place that
saw them united and happy.

- Jeanne...
- Jean...

The memory of Jean haunted her.

We must decide to change everything
when we understand it's all fake.

Jean, look!

I found this at my place.

I'm going to put plants everywhere.

Jeanne...

Even in her own room,

the images and the words
followed her.

The judge said, runaway case.

It's true. The desire to leave
came naturally to me.

The desire to die too.

School did not interest me, the job
they had chosen for me either.

I left.

I stole a scooter.

Bikers caught up with us
on the road to Amiens.

My father came to get me
at the police station.

What a shame.

My father...

I left again.

We called the police station:
the fools house.

I quit the job.

The judge said juvenile delinquent.

I like that word, it makes me think
of that sacred liberty.

15 days in Fresnes, yard service,

before joining what they call
the rehabilitation center.

There, the hardheads' pavilion.

Hardhead.

An escape.

We steal what we find
in the teachers' lockers.

Farmers report us.

They found us the next day
asleep in a field of cows.

I am in a cell.

They come and tell me:

Your father is dead.

I am free.

I quit the job the judge
had gotten me.

I hide in Pigalle.

Days in the cafés,
and often the nights too.

There is stuff written
on the walls of the cell.

"Welcome to the Continental hotel",
"Caged lions",

"The daggers of revenge",

"The roads to hope".

They locked me up on a Sunday.

I meet you.

Jeanne...

I cry when I think
of the day that I met you.

Jeanne, you are so kind.

Jeanne you are tired of me.

Jeanne, help me.

Jeanne, you taught me everything.

And yet, he taught me everything.

I understood the world
when I listened to him.

It was hard to appease him
because you understood his anger.

You shared it too.

How to explain sweetness?

Indulgence?
Or that the world is so strong?

So rich.

Maybe more beautiful
than in our best dreams.

Jeanne especially avoided
this cutaway of their love,

where it all fell apart
when she understood

that Jean's promise never
to leave her, was just a reprieve,

and that he would run away one day

as he had told her
on their first encounter.

I think there is
something bad in me.

When something is going too well,
I wreck it,

when someone loves me,
I leave them.

And if I find a place
where I'm happy,

I have one thought, to run away.

What?

Tormented soul?

Beautiful story.

Do you think that is a way to live?

You are like your mother.

"The trip to
Saint-Gervais-d'Auvergne is long.

"Fortunately,
Ginette likes to read.

"As she arrived to her hometown,

"the traveler felt more deeply

"an emotion unknown to her.

"Both overwhelmed and happy,

"Ginette observed the scenery
which seemed familiar.

"There she is

"on the road to the farm where she
had lived until she left for Paris.

"She stopped when she saw,
in the yard, a familiar shape.

"And, from her lips, she called:
Mother!"

"Miss, I called you numerous times
but couldn't reach you,

"you were either out and your father
did not know when you'd return,

"or no one was home.

"I write you for the fourth time

"about the monthly payments
that you still owe me.

"Would you like to keep the studio?

"I have kept my promises and did not
tell your father about this,

"as you have asked me.

"I hope you will keep yours,
and won't let me down."

You'll get your money, old girl.

Pierre?

Jeanne.

I'm fine.

Remember last time
I told you about the room?

Yes. I received another letter
from the landlady.

Four monthly payments.

It's an important sum.

You're kind.

I'm really sorry.

You're the only one I can talk to
about this.

My father? No.
He doesn't want to help me.

I avoid talking to him about it.

And he's never been okay with it.

Almost nothing.

I had to do the mock-up
of a paperback,

I passed.

I couldn't draw one line.

I don't think so.

I think I'll never lose again.

I don't think so.

Yes...

Something broken, really.

As quick as possible.

I've made up my mind.
I'll start packing tomorrow.

I'll give the keys to the concierge,

and pay the landlady what I owe her.

Yes.

Goodbye Pierre. Thank you.

Anyways, I'll see you on Thursday.
Bye.

You should make paintings of walls.

Just as they are exactly.

That already exists.

Not only paintings,
but pictures too.

What does it matter? Otherwise
writing poems is useless too.

They are already on the walls.

Traces.

In fact, maybe it is not discovering
that's important,

but rediscovering.

Yes, paint our walls.

Let's write our names everywhere
if we want to.

On walls, on trees,
on benches, on statues.

What does it matter?

Here, another has already written
my name.

Jean.

Who is this Jean?

Jeanne, we have so little time.

So little time.

Mister Jean "Doit-Lity".

I've heard them all.

Do-it quick... Jean Do-it,
pay the landlady.

Jean Do-it for 50 kg.

And I'd answer
"Does" nothing for anyone.

"Jeanne, do you know
that in Malaysia,

"some plants and flowers grow
in a few minutes?"

"Jeanne, did you notice?
There are no black flowers."

Here, Jeanne, you've got mail.

"Dear Miss, following the contract
concerning the rental of my studio,

"19 rue Turgot,
Paris, 17th arrondissement,

"enclosed is the inventory of
all objects and furniture

"you must give back
when you leave the place,

"in the state you have found it:

"one walnut foldable table
with four legs,

"and two extensions damaged
on right side,

"a little white table, two garden
chairs freshly repainted.

"A bed base and two-person mattress
in good condition;

"300 books, including 35 magazines;
a white patterned tureen;

"a family portrait; a lamp base;
a refrigerator;

"a gas heater; a dozen white
porcelain plates with blue flowers;

"including two chipped ones;

"6 forks; 6 spoons; 6 knives;

"12 glasses; one bread tray;
one rolling pin."

- Jeanne it's not about...
- We'll see.

Gone to the movies.
I'll be back at midnight. Kisses

I read them all when you were out.
Where did they come from?

From a bazaar,

on my way to Manosque,
two years ago.

Between two laundry packs
and fruit crates.

It's a nice collection.

I got the album for almost nothing.

People there didn't see its value.

Marie Aubert; Marie Spinelle.

Your postcards tell
a woman's life story.

At first, Marie is 16 years old.

She lives in Tavernes, in the Vars.

Ms. Aubert,
Tavernes around Barjols, Vars.

06/13/ 07.

1907.

"Happy birthday, Madeleine."

"Come over for lunch as soon
as possible in Tavernes-les-Bains."

Nice.

"Thinking of you,
is thinking of happiness.

"It is hoping,
like beautiful fables,

"sweet joys that fill my heart,

"and make it work ineffable hours."

"Souvenir from Barjols."

"Souvenir."

"Souvenir."

"A kiss from Tavernes."

"Barjols, 8 November, 1907.

"Train station district flooded."

"Souvenir from Tavernes."

Every page is a parcel
of Marie's life.

Here's Marie, maybe.

Meanwhile, Marie and Louis
met and fell in love.

Marie followed Louis to Toulon,

Marie Aubert became Marie Spinelle.

There, their son?

No, little Gabriel, their nephew.

"Do you recognize our little
mischievous boy?"

"He came to say hello.

"His father and his mother send
their wishes to cousin Marie.

"Little Gabriel has had
whooping cough for the past 15 days.

"He's quite tired.

"Hugs from all to all,
Marc Pau."

We should be very agile
with children.

Always...

Give them the utmost sweetness.

Then, there's war.

Other floods, other thoughts,

other memories, other kisses.

Louis dies, time goes by.

The postcard trend passes.

Marie abandons her collection.

Those stayed in a jumble
on the last page.

1948, the last one.

Marie Spinelle probably died alone
in her house.

In the silence and the flowers,
like her beautiful album.

That's it, a life story.

Our story.

Marie, Louis,

Little Gabriel's whooping cough,

all of it lost in a corner in time.

Is little Gabriel alive?

And his children?

Also out of this world,
or almost out?

And them, swimming happily.

"Tavernes, Garden square."

Three kids wearing caps,
one smiling to the camera.

Today, maybe three little old men.

Reading the paper,

in front of the village café,
God knows where.

Nothing will remain of our stay
on this planet. Nothing.

Nothing at all.

I am such a fool.
It doesn't matter.

What's important is living.

Of course, and as best we can.

Jeanne, it's all going to hell.

People carry on their shoulders
thousands of years of regrets,

of remorse, bitterness,

hope, despair.

I don't care what remains
of our stay on this planet.

Let's live.

One day, one of these bombs
could explode.

Nobody thinks about it.

Everything will be destroyed.

Kisses will be cold.

Especially, the only perfectly
beautiful thing, nature.

That's what I'm thinking about.

What I'm afraid of.
That everything would stop.

That there are things much
more serious than my problems.

Something more powerful
than everything.

I knew that in his refusal
to be happy,

there was mostly
a refusal of living.

But because I loved him,

I hoped to change him.

You changed for a while.

Then, his nature was more powerful
and took him.

That's when he probably
decided to escape.

Yet, he loved you.

Did you remove his portrait?

I couldn't look at it anymore.

Especially in mirrors.

His reflection gave the illusion
Jean was in the room.

And that portrait reminds me of a
time, both beautiful and terrible.

Michel had invited us
to his house in Provence.

The first days,
Jean was very happy.

From morning to evening,
we rode our bicycles.

We often went to see the sea.

We laughed.

Here, Jeanne. If you play
the asset, the heart wins.

The club, with four leaves,
brings you luck.

We should repaint all of Paris
with these colors.

And us too.

With all these colors.

With all these colors.

With all these colors.

With all these colors.

Jeanne.

Jeanne!

Come.

Jean wanted to know the name
of all the trees, all the flowers.

"The mimosa blooms in winter,
my love."

"One species produces snakewood.

"This plant is usually called
sensitive.

"Because its leaves fold back
at the slightest touch.

"The mimosa belongs
to the acacia family,

"its yellow flowers
gathered in little spheres,

"are sold under the name mimosa."

The acacia is a fake mimosa,
my love.

The orange tree is cultivated
for its flowers and its fruit.

The cypress is a conifer,

with persistent foliage,
a spare beauty.

The dictionary became insufficient.

We bought seven little atlases.

It read, on the back page:
"Pocket scientific baggage".

"Wild flowers 1",

"Wild flowers 2",

"Garden flowers",
"Wood flowers",

"Alpine flowers",

"Medicinal plants",

"Swamp flowers".

It would take years
to know everything.

My love.

What category do the daffodil
and the periwinkle belong to?

The campanula?
The wood sedge?

The touch-me-not balsam?
Horse mint?

Bastard balm, small cow-wheat,

myosotis, dewberries,

Nottingham catchfly, wood viola.

Thorny, fragrant...

Look at this picture.

Laugh Jean. Laugh.

Laugh, Jean! Laugh!

Suddenly, he burst out laughing.

There.

I pulled the switch.

He laughed for a while.

We laughed for a while.

At every step, a memory.

Cherries in Cogolin,

a cop in Bourg-Faron,

in Jouques, a little pastry chef,

two fake Beatniks in Manosque,

and elsewhere, a sunset

and Jean playing cowboy.

His face had changed.

His voice, even.

He had learned to smile again.

I remember.

Jeanne!

Jeanne, come down, it's dawn.

"Arthur, my brother,
the dawns are sad."

Jean listen,
"Light breaks where no sun shines;

"Where no sea runs,

"The waters of the heart
Push in their tides;

"Light breaks on secret lots,

"On tips of thought
where thoughts smell in the rain;

"Above the waste allotments
the dawn halts."

Dylan Thomas, an English poet

who, like you, often talked
about the sea and flowers.

I remember.

We talked...

We used to talk...

Imagine if man could not
control nature anymore.

Just imagine an abandoned garden.

Weeds grow this high.

They invade everything.

Paths disappear.

Roads and tarmac break.

The earth reappears.

The Eiffel Tower slowly rusts.

Ivy runs along metal rods.

We go back to prehistoric times.

The order they invented is wrong.

It's chaos disguised as order.

The aligned trees, the soldiers,
the schoolyard, always order.

"Align!"
"Get in line!"

"Having a position",
"Holding one's position",

"Align!", "Align!"

"Hold your position!
Goodbye nature!"

We talked.

Then, his mood changed.

Jean hid in silence.

He avoided me,

he stayed alone for long hours,

he left when the sun came down,

and went swimming at night.

The rain.
This vacation is over.

Jean, you've been fighting again.

Come in.

Jeanne, I'm dying!

By dint of pretending to die...

Stop Jean, stop.

One morning,
Michel came down to the atelier

and decided to paint
Jean's portrait.

During the whole posing process

he stood still and mute
in the middle of the room.

Yesterday or the day before,
I don't remember,

I showed you the two
delivery trucks

painted in lime green,

it's the color of leaves
in the spring.

It's the color of my dress.

How wonderful

that the blue of the sky goes
so well with the green of the grass,

of the trees, of everything.

Any color catches my eye.

Color touches me.

Steal from nature,
she takes it back.

In violet, I see the color of shade.

You're quiet, Jean.

We are going back to Paris.

I'm going to take this job.

I am not made for it, but who is?

Working is ludicrous.

There are so many people
doing things that interest them.

How lucky.

You want to change the world.

We can decide not to live.

What about me, Jean?

We came back to Paris.

Jean worked on a construction site.

He hoped that physical work
would keep him from thinking.

A month later he left.

I would have liked
to change his life, all of it.

Give him the strength
he did not have.

Or the strength to forget.

I don't have much to tell you.

I know so little about him.

Just a minute.

I will be back
in a few minutes, sir.

One morning,
about four months ago,

I get in at 8:45 everyday
to open the shop,

and I saw,

in the nook next to the door,

in the shadows, a big package.

I set my foot on it to see,

and the package moved.

It was Jean.

But these things can't be told.

I can't tell you why I laughed.

It was because of him,
of his funny look, all of that.

I let him in.

He was hungry.

He washed up,

then he spoke.

What did he say?

He wanted to go far away.

A big trip to South East Asia.

He talked about
your daughter Jeanne, too.

He loved her.

He said beautiful things about her.

I offered him the upper room
for as long as he'd like.

It's a sort of shed.

He stayed there for six days.

Three whole days
without leaving the room at all.

In the evening,
after the workers had left,

he left to get milk, bread,

books.

I brought a cold meal three times,
and we ate together.

I stayed with him until morning.

He liked to listen and to talk too.

What did he talk about?

What would you like to know?

Tell me about him.

I want to know about him.

My daughter loves him,
I want to know.

It's crazy to want to talk
about a man in a few words.

I can't tell you anything.

He is very good and very sad.

He escaped to avoid
making Jeanne unhappy.

You make him sound like a saint.

No, he is just trying to understand.

There is probably
something inside of him,

I don't know what exactly.

An absence,

a hole, that make it
difficult for him to live.

I understand this.

People like that are dangerous.

Jeanne's mother was like this.

She also escaped,
she ruined my life.

I wanted to spare Jeanne.

But of course,
we can't avoid anything.

He speaks very sweetly about her.

But he fled.

This kind of people don't hesitate.

Why don't we ever meet the others.

Not the ones who flee.

Not the ones who want
to change the world.

No, the others.

The ones who would help you
put up with it as it is.

The ones who would surround you
with tenderness.

The ones who would
give you their hand.

We meet them sometimes.

Jean can change.

No, it's over.

Jean Doit is dead.

In this briefcase
is his whole story.

His body was found a few months ago

in a garden
in the outskirts of Lyon.

He is buried there.

Oh, little Jean...

You should have given yourself
time to understand.

I went to Lyon.

I met with the doctor
at the hospital.

He told me.

Jean let fever and hunger
take him.

I searched, and I found almost
everyone who knew him.

You were the last one.

My daughter doesn't know he's dead.

I don't think I will tell her.

Jeanne is not as strong
as she thinks.

I worry about her.

I can't help it.

Jeanne not taking it any longer,

went back to the Pan Coupé
one last time,

because that's where
they used to meet in the end.

Where is he now?

Elsewhere.
On another construction site.

Jeanne...

You are not well.

Go home.

Lay down.

You're burning up.

Jeanne didn't dare to say
that Jean had left.

Jeanne saw signs everywhere,

uninvolved with her pain,

and yet, unceasingly
delved her back into it.

I would like to start all over.

Go back to the room,

Jean,

our laughs...

Jean!

The green spot, there,
it was my son's room.

I lived there 30 years.

And then, the city of Paris
decided to destroy it.

We were relocated.

Oh, I am good.

It is even bigger.

It is the end.

I would have liked to stay there
until the end.

With my memories.

You are nice to listen to me.

People don't have the time.

I'm the neighborhood nutjob.

Well, that's what they say.

It is a little true, too.

Sometimes, I lose control of myself.

Michelle!

In the end, madness,

might simply be no longer
entirely belonging to yourself.

Sometimes,

disordered things wander in my head.

Words come out of my mouth,

my arms, my hands make gestures
I don't understand.

I have a melody in my head.

I love music.

I realize that I sing at home.

Or in the street even,
as they say.

Out loud.

I remember you.

I saw you once about
three or four months ago.

You were talking on the street,
I was in a café.

They said you were rough,
authoritarian...

The people from the café.

I love flowers.

People...

people...

words...

One word.

People should stop saying
nonsense.

Forever.

It's warm today.

Sunny days really don't last long.

They say it, but it's true.

Winter was also warm.

It barely snowed.

It rained in the spring.

In Paris, it often rains
in the spring.

Yes... It rained.

In 1940, it rained
one summer in Royan,

every day for a month.

Can you imagine? Every day.

In the end, people went swimming
in the rain.

It was fun.

Fun...

Now,
there are no real seasons anymore.

Winters are warm,

rain falls in the summer,
in the fall,

in the spring.

Some say it's because
of their atomic things.

That's nonsense.

There have always been
rainy summers

and warm winters.

Do we know?
We don't know anything.

Henri Barbusse street,
next to the Luxembourg garden.

Barbusse street.

Don't scream.
Can't you see it's closed.

I'm asking if you're free.

"I'm asking if you're free".

There are other taxis.
They're not running out.

Are you going to stand here all day?

You could be polite!

Are clients polite?

I'm asking you, please sir,

to take me to 16, Barbusse street.

I can't. I don't want to.
There are other taxis.

You've got taxis there! Move!

Don't touch me!

The acacia.

The periwinkle.

The cyclamen.

The bellflower.

The wood sedge.

The touch-me-not balsam.

My love.

How could you not love life?

Why?

Pierre, who loved Jeanne,
remained silent.

He knew Jeanne suffered less
from Jean's departure

than from the despair of not being
able to give him the will to live.

She's understood that
at the end of his escape

Jean would inevitably
meet his death.

Jean, everything is fragile.

Can we live off a memory?