Original subtitles

THE MURAL

A FILM BY

BASED ON A TRUE STORY

My dear friend! Welcome!

I never thought we'd meet again, so soon,

much less in Buenos Aires.

- And your wife? - Here with me.

Yours?

Blancaluz stayed with family in Montevideo.

Your Reception Committee.

Mr. Siqueiros: Friends of the Arts welcome you as a guest.

Please feel at home in our country.

No doubt, ladies.

I'll call you back.

It's urgent!

Excuse me, don Natalio.

- What's wrong? - Legarreta called, from Congress.

They shot Senator Bordabehere!

They meant to kill Lisandro de la Torre.

Don Lisandro?

Sir?

Not now, Amalia.

The President's Office calling, General Justo.

Botana.

I'm not Uriburu. This is a democratic government.

They can't just shoot people in Congress!

Natalio! A Senator in Congress!

What will they say in Europe?

We're savages. We shoot senators in Congress.

Serious countries don't do that,

they shoot natives in their colonies.

Well?

Magic. Let me work my magic.

Natalio, this is very serious.

Bread and Circuses, Mr. President. Trust me.

If not me, trust Cr�tica.

Extra! Cr�tica! Uriburu Dead!

Thank you.

URIBURU DEAD.

"No hate, no forgiveness. "

"Cr�tica is silent as death deserves. "

This Botana...

- Bastards! - Worse.

Suckers.

Uriburu didn't die in Buenos Aires, his boots on.

He dies in Paris, in bed:

"Nurse, my bedpan or I'll wet myself".

Maestro! Leave this shit.

Art awaits us.

Look at that. It sucks!

Perfect!

Imagine:

The military, landowners, ships, trains, John Bull,

the Pampas, Indians, gauchos, cattle, wheat,

a cornucopia spilling grain turning into gold coins.

Imagine, Pablo.

A splendid mural in this contradictory Buenos Aires:

Luxurious palaces and humble proletarian houses,

factories and smoking chimneys,

soot smeared haggard faces of workers...

A monumental mural,

exuding the suffering of the people oppressed...

by a selfish class for whom Art is a luxury, an ornament.

We must take works of art out of the aristocratic cloisters

into the streets, to awaken, provoke Public Art

Art for the masses, transcendent Art,

liberating Painting from dry scholastics

taking it to the horrendous social reality that surrounds us...

and wounds us.

Who brought this lunatic?

Waldo Frank.

- Ah! Jewish! - Shut up!

In Paris:

Picasso, Leger, Bracque,

told me in Europe everything was finished,

here in America we can create Art as powerful...

and impressive as the great works of the Past.

Though Cubism in its renewal, destroyed cold scholarly models,

it is now a motif on swimsuits or in nightclub decorations.

This is the destiny of any noble, generous impulse,

in a corrupt world managed by a degenerate bourgeoisie...

that denigrates artists.

- Communist! - Marxist Leninist!

- Back to Moscow! - Long live the Civic Legion!

- Death to Bolsheviks! - Public Art we say! Public Art!

If Art won't serve the cause of social revolution,

this is only masturbation!

Long live the Civic Union!

Good lads! Bravo!

While Art...

continues in the hands of fascists and speculators...

in the service of the most miserly interests.

The lights, shitty fascists!

THE REMAINS OF CARLOS GARDEL MUST REST IN BUENOS AIRES.

THE CASKET LEFT MEDELL�N

NEW YORK, HONORS HIM

URUGUAY WEEPS HIS LOSS

I see the twinkling of the lights afar marking my return

I didn't write this!

The typographers skipped a line.

Excuse me, Madam. I'll take care of this.

Thank you.

- Miguel! - Madam?

Was it... a little girl?

No, Ma'am. A little boy.

A boy. And his name is?

Hip�lito, Ma'am.

Hip�lito...

Oh, you "radicheta".

- You like cats? - Yes, Madam.

- Carlos Gardel? - Also.

They know him in Germany?

I've been in Buenos Aires two years, Madam.

- Employed by? - Messrs. Von Buch.

- Are you or have you been married? - No, Madam.

Boyfriend?

No.

Girlfriend?

Don't worry Fr�ulein, it's not a sin.

You believe in sin?

I don't.

Come in!

Excuse me, sir.

Look!

Don't miss the downtown: There will be a great crowd.

I can get you a pass to the Stadium for the wake.

I have a lecture at a Union.

Cipriano, show the gentleman.

"Against the current", by David A. Siqueiros.

Thank you. Very much.

It's yours.

I'm very thankful, but...

I wish to talk to you about a project of mine.

Thank you, Cipriano.

Have a seat, please.

I hope to paint a mural on a silo, on the waterfront.

The authorities won't give their permission.

So I thought, don Natalio, as a progressive person,

a lover of the Arts, you might clear the red tape.

Siqueiros,

although we have some democracy,

there is much fascism:

The military; the Civic Legion, you saw them...

It is necessary to counterattack.

I'm a newspaper man, not a politician.

I thought they were the same thing.

You are wrong.

The right-wing here is very strong.

A good proposition. Not a good moment.

A good moment for the Arts.

For the Arts: Yes. For Revolution: No.

Art... is Revolution in itself.

My friend David. I have a project.

Ram�n: Mr. Siqueiros.

Welcome to Los Granados, sir.

Shall we?

This way.

I built this to retire from the world.

Why not paint a mural here?

Here?

Why not?

Murals are conceived for the masses.

Paint something different.

I'm a revolutionary.

My art confronts with everything you represent.

David: I'm not just any bourgeois.

By principle, I hate tyranny.

I help any revolutionary who comes to the newspaper,

for the pleasure of seeing him succeed.

Leave me.

Jaime.

Wait!

Not like this!

Carlos is winning, knock it good.

Daddy, Daddy!

I hate you.

Bravo, Daddy!

Good!

- Your sons? - Yes.

Congratulations. The little girl?

Georgina, my favorite.

Natalio: You are quite unusual,

but this fancy of yours will cost you plenty.

State your price and conditions.

We'll talk money later.

Let's see... The first condition:

No one sees my work without my authorization.

- Not even me? - No one.

Without that condition, I don't work.

May I know the theme?

An abstract experiment.

Abstract?

Fine.

The guest quarters are yours.

You are so kind.

One more thing. I choose my assistants.

Observe the undulating movement.

The simultaneous profiles.

How the figures vibrate.

What is the idea?

Berni, correct?

- Castagnino. He is Berni. - Antonio.

- And he's Spilimbergo. - I know Lino well.

My answer: We create a space: An enveloping space,

through a composition in polyangular perspective.

Polyangular?

An opportunity for creating a dynamic monumental painting.

A laboratory of creation, where all contribute and learn.

An initial conceptual image?

Unfortunately,

Lino,

the theme cannot be Social Revolution, as I would have liked.

We have the freedom to produce a plastic revolution.

Novel techniques.

New chemical compounds: Silicate, used in industry.

We must make the concave into convex,

the horizontal into vertical, cross the planes,

paint roof, walls, floor. Everything.

How?

How the fuck should I know?

L�zaro, you are a professional architect.

Maestro, where do we begin?

By being less formal.

Where do we begin?

By feeling this place, the space.

See. We produce a fugue. The deformity of the body.

Chaparrita, shit.

You look gorgeous.

- A comrade, perhaps? - Our patron.

Onward, proletarians!

They waited, but...

- Don Natalio ordered lunch served... - Thank you, Ram�n.

May I introduce Madam Salvadora Medina Onrubia,

queen of this house and of my heart.

- Tom�s, a chair for Madam. - Thank you Tom�s...

Darling, I'll eat with the children.

May I introduce David Alfaro Siqueiros.

Madam...

I've seen him at the paper.

I admire his work, his ideals.

You haven't introduced this charming lady.

Blanca Luz Brum. Mrs. Siqueiros.

Blanca Luz Brum...

writes poetry and had the audacity of swatting President Hoover...

with a bunch of roses.

Madam: You are well informed.

I'm a journalist too.

- Pablo. - Salvadora.

- Your wife? - At home, not well.

May she get better.

Excuse me.

In New York they told me, that President Theodore Roosevelt...

told my colleague William Randolph Hearst,

Hearst? A fascist.

...he told Hearst, the War on Cuba was to him, -Roosevelt...

the beginning of the imperial stage of the United States.

"Speak softly and carry a big stick". Another fascist.

Hearst, answered:

"Don't fool yourself, Mr. President, I invented that war.

I needed to sell more newspapers.

You were one of the cowboys we sent to shoot it out with the Spanish. "

Sounds like a legend.

When a legend is larger than life, the legend wins.

Or, the legend sells newspapers.

- Mother, may I ask you a question? - Yes...

- Can I go riding? - Yes. Go sit down.

- Let's go riding? - Yes.

Clarita, you believe in reincarnation?

- No, Madam. I'm Catholic. - Roman Catholic.

Yes, Madam.

When you die, you'll go to heaven?

God willing...

I will reincarnate...

Centuries ago I was Queen Nefertiti.

Stop it, Mother!

Joan of Arc, Marie Antoinette...

- Helvio: Stop it! - You said...

Why do you win at chess? Why are you always right?

You're not a child.

You're a dwarf, like the porter at Harrods.

A pleasant surprise was Siqueiros' wife.

The American government threw me out,

but Yankees stand in line to see my paintings.

In New York, his Art exhibit was a huge success.

You are painting a mural in this house.

In my place of retirement.

- Can we see it? - When it's finished.

By heart?

Body of woman,

white hills, white thighs,

you are the world in your surrender.

A rough peasant I plough through you,

forcing a child from the depths of the earth.

Good.

I was alone like a tunnel.

Birds took flight from me.

Night swamped me in its crushing invasion.

To survive me.

To survive me...

I forged you as a weapon,

an arrow in my bow,

a stone in my sling.

Please!

Our friends didn't come to listen to my poems.

If any thing, yours.

Mine are to be whispered.

Don't raise my hopes.

It's different.

You said: "a capsule submerged in Time".

You dominate it all , my Blancaluchita,

sensual, a mermaid, queen of the deep. Cheers!

While corrupt bourgeois play poker, get drunk.

No, no.

These mother fuckers will die off soon.

This work remains eternal proof of my love for you.

See how I missed you, chaparrita.

I don't know you.

Comrade Siqueiros, painting a mural in an millionaire's mansion.

In the cellar.

Botana will pay for his fancy.

You abandon the cause.

The end is what counts.

Money for our little house.

- You want a house? - Agreed.

- Principles won't feed you. - It will serve the cause.

The bourgeoisie must pay for the revolution, mother fuckers.

Who else?

David, no!

- I'm tired. - I missed you, Blancaluchita.

Please don't.

Fr�ulein?

No.

It's her day off.

- How is she? - She's better.

- What's wrong? - Nothing, Daddy.

I know. It's your mother.

Carlos told me.

Let me handle this.

Great events were performed by men who were short:

Napoleon Bonaparte, Mahatma Gandhi, Jesus of Nazareth,

Sim�n Bolivar, Louis Pasteur are only examples.

The greatest of short men: Helvio!

The king of short men!

30,000 sorrowful souls

honor the mortal remains of the ill-fated singer.

At his wake: Politicians, artists, sportsmen.

No one missed the ceremony.

On the way to the Cemetery,

down Corrientes St., so close to his songs,

thousands of admirers weep his loss...

covering the hearse with flowers and heartfelt emotion.

Silence: Carlos Gardel is dead.

You see gentlemen?

This magician promised me a circus.

There it is.

Who remembers the Bordabehere murder?

We exchanged one body for another.

I did nothing. Cr�tica did it all.

My friend! What's Cr�tica without you?

It might be La Prensa.

Bye, Prince!

Bye, Carlos!

Mother!

Where did you bring me?

- Rich brat. Become a man. - You're crazier every day!

Bravo, comrades!

Friends, this is your home for as long as you need.

The Foreman will show you your rooms.

- Swinia! - Zdrajca!

What's wrong?

On jest policiant, he's a spy!

Stop it, damn it!

This is my house! What is the problem?

Sir, we are workers, enrolled in FORA.

So?

This man is a snitch.

He's hurt.

Salvadora: We agree no one in trouble gets thrown out?

He stays.

You are guests. No arguments. No fights.

When you wish, you leave.

Thank you, towazyszko.

You! Snitch! You're mounted police?

Intelligence, sir.

Intelligence, no less?

Go work in the stables, you hear?

At your orders!

Don't move!

- I'm tired. - I'm through soon.

Keep still!

What are you doing?

I've had it.

Fuck off.

- Son of a bitch... - Fuck you!

- Good evening. - I didn't expect you.

Some nights I can't sleep.

I wanted something to read.

Anything particular?

An impressive library.

In Buenos Aires I have 40,000 books.

Poetry?

I don't read much poetry.

My passions are History, Biographies.

Philosophy, Greek Philosophy.

- You are a talented poetess. - Poet.

Would you write for our Supplement?

Why not?

Done.

A collector?

Not exactly,

I'm sensitive to works of art...

like you, for example.

Good evening, Mr. Botana.

Hold it up.

Who needs these thick socks?

- Comrades in jail in Ushuaia? - Correct.

I got the pardon for Sim�n Radowitzky.

I didn't know.

It's difficult,

the bourgeoisie won't forgive shooting the Chief of Police.

An execution, in fact.

You asked for me, Madam.

Hand it to him.

- Stay standing. - Forgive me, Madam.

Saravia, you're safe here.

As soon as you leave, you're in trouble, on both sides.

Yes, madam.

Stay as long as you like, if you cooperate with me.

Yes, Madam.

Information.

A specialist, yes?

You must tell me what happens in this house.

You are my man of confidence.

At your service, Madam.

Sit down.

Eighteen years old...

At your age I fought with don Aparicio Saravia's troops.

As a young boy, 14 years old,

I fought under General Di�guez,

in the Western Division.

We fought for the Revolution.

Carlos, how many men has your father shot?

Quite a few... And you?

More than the fingers on your hands...

and your toes.

Carlos.

How do you feel? Honored by a warrior.

Such important people.

Proud, Daddy.

Very proud.

And you, Clarita, with such an important boyfriend?

Proud, Daddy. Very proud.

Fr�ulein, my sons inherited from their father...

something common in Uruguay.

I know nothing, Madam.

When my sons were born, the birthday child,

I checked their anus... What did I find?

They have white anuses, like blacks have,

not black, like white people.

Mother! Enough!

What do you think?

Good. Quite... artistic.

Speak straight.

No red. Revolutionary red.

Not your type of work.

It is a "Plastic Exercise".

A technical revolution in muralist painting.

With dynamics in form and social content.

The content of the padding?

Pablo Neruda, mind your words.

Our friendship doesn't allow you to insult me.

It's sad to see you go astray.

- Necessity imposes conditions. - Your patron's conditions.

You offend me.

They wouldn't let me paint a mural in the docks, as I wished.

I had to take what the bourgeoisie offered me.

I prefer the revolutionary artist.

Shit! Look at you! The worst bureaucrat!

A diplomat! Diplomacy is the purest hypocrisy.

You were military attach� in Paris.

In the service of the Revolution.

What shit.

In any case...

both of us...

are part of the same hypocrisy.

To the Revolution!

The Revolution is absent.

To the beauty captured in the mural.

To Blancaluz!

To Blancaluz then.

- Ready. - Thank you, Saravia.

- All set, boss? - Yes, thank you.

I want details.

The gentleman...

No gentleman... a son of a bitch.

The son of a... Don Natalio, Madam.

They were naked in the middle of the room...

So? Go on!

- Madam, I... - Saravia!

Don't Madam me!

You're a snitch,

in Intelligence,

give me your report.

The male subject...

introduced his erect penis...

in what presumably was the vagina of the female subject,

both making vulgar exclamations...

The male subject threw the female on a table...

introduced once again his erect penis...

Although a witness, but not having actually seen,

with his own eyes...

Madam...

I'll be back.

Saravia?

When men begin to see women,

as thinking human beings, capable of confronting them,

not as mere lovable objects,

more or less essential for their pleasure and comfort...

If that is not the case,

men will have to be reeducated.

This I said to Mr. Benito Mussolini... at his offices in Rome.

After the interview, il Duce led me to the door and said:

"Madam, women are for making babies".

We need him! "Il Duce"!

This confirms that we must reeducate men.

Do you believe I'm a Duce?

All men have a Duce hidden inside.

Me too? My poetry is witness.

I'd have to get to know you better.

I'll surrender my heart to you.

Pablo...

As poets, don't we get too close to being vulgar?

Some. You, never. An inspired poet.

What an admirer I have!

A beginning. I promise to learn all your work,

poem by poem, verse by verse, letter by letter.

- No need for such sacrifice. - My pleasure.

40, 50, 60, 70, 80, and three.

What does it say here?

Ninety wax matches.

Go down the Avenue and buy one at each corner shop.

Yes, don Natalio.

85,

87,

82,

again 82,

88,

85.

You see, son?

Average 85 matches instead of 90,

the company has 6% more profit,

the Argentine people, victims of fraud.

Imagine this heading:

"Match Company cheats the Argentine people".

- You'll publish that? - No.

First we look for a Notary.

We print one copy. We send it to Nilssen,

President of the Board of Directors.

These gentlemen won't cheat our people ever again.

- And... - And?

Sit down.

Your first article.

Will it be published in the next Supplement?

Not this week.

It will be Saturday next.

- Thank you, Mr. Robledo. - You're welcome.

- At your orders, Madam. - Good afternoon.

Good afternoon.

Don't swallow.

What is Cr�tica, to you, Carlos?

A newspaper that overthrew a constitutional government.

But put in power a General who threw me in jail.

Maybe you deserved it.

How bold of you.

It was treachery.

He got his due.

We, on the other hand...

We're the Fourth Power.

The first, in fact.

Presidents pass, we remain.

The weaker the government,

the more they depend on us and our readers.

There you are: Most are our readers.

We do them a great favor: We spare them having to think.

Cr�tica prints it. That's it.

We create public opinion and they're no longer alone.

Cachuso, look who's there.

God made me a horsefly, a horsefly on this city's back.

Biting to keep it awake.

I founded this paper with that motto.

When I'm gone, you'll be the horsefly, Carlos.

God put you there, not me.

Why are you so sure, Daddy?

You are my son. I am raising you to be like me, tough,

unmanageable, ruthless, generous too.

What if I'm only a little man off the street?

Incapable of being Natalio Botana?

I wasn't born Natalio Botana. I'm a self-made man.

A building. Each brick I laid myself.

- If I'm not capable? - You will be capable.

You're my son. Of my own blood.

If we continue being individualistic,

the bourgeoisie will treat us as consumer items,

salaried workers in the service of Capital.

For decent working conditions...

organize a union like we did in Mexico.

Uruguay has a Confederation of Intellectual Workers.

Argentine artists are too individualistic.

The four of you can start.

Why not?

What do you think?

I never toasted with this. There's always a first time.

To the Argentine Union of Plastic Artists!

Cheers!

Guess what happened?

- Clarita said I'm a male chauvinist. - And you are.

You took me to school tied on a rope.

The dog died. I replaced him with you.

So, you are a male chauvinist.

Like father, like son.

Daddy's not a male chauvinist, he's macho.

A macho leading the herd.

We are the deer?

Georgina's a gazelle.

And mother?

The flock are the readers of Cr�tica.

Daddy creates public opinion, he thinks for everyone else.

Helvio, Jaime, Georgina: We're lucky to be children of Daddy,

a great man.

Daddy?

I'll give you Daddy!

Whore! You are a whore.

You called me?

We know each other well, don't we?

There's a likeness to me.

I paint you like I see you.

Like a whore.

A goddess of the sea.

Let me rid you of the bourgeois stench.

Don Natalio:

In the name of this great family of Cr�tica newspaper...

Boss, you're the brains, the heart.

The soul, the soul!

This Sterling Silver Cup...

was paid for by all workers of all sections,

from the Newsroom - we're up front-,

to the newspaper boys.

Lots of IOUs were signed.

"To Don Natalio Botana, alma mater of Cr�tica Newspaper,

on occasion of printing one million issues!"

Go ahead, don Natalio.

One million papers in one day, in a country of 10 million people,

is an heroic feat.

Not so...

with presses rolling off 100,000 issues an hour.

But mostly, thanks to you lads,

writing news the people want to read,

doing overtime, running in the streets.

Cachuso! Come!

Come here!

Call it for us.

Cr�tica! One million issues!

That's music to my ears. Thank you!

Come.

Come. It's an order!

Go inside.

Your Birth Certificate.

Notice anything strange?

What does it say here?

"Mother?" Salvadora Medina Onrubia.

"Father?"

Does it say Natalio Botana? No.

It says: "Father: Unknown". Un-known.

You understand?

You are my son. You are not Botana's son.

Your real father was a gentleman. Not this son of a bitch!

Carlos!

Save, the Prince.

What's wrong?

What's wrong?

I'm no longer "prince". Salvadora overthrew me.

Are you mad?

Helvio: I'm illegitimate.

What?

"My own blood", Daddy said to me.

My own blood.

You understand?

Dear brother, I need to be alone.

Carlos.

Carlos.

Go away!

Carlos.

Daddy!

Your swimming has improved.

Come.

- You're cold. - I suffer the cold.

Carlos said...

Sit down.

Good.

Very good.

Helvio, I thought about what you told me...

I mean...

Everyone thinks the death of Carlos was an accident.

Only you and I, know the truth.

Your mother...

Your mother is sick, a sick woman,

very sick.

In the care of doctors, psychiatrists,

though she prefers quack doctors.

I'm talking to you as a boy your age.

My eldest son.

We must help Salvadora.

We must help her, to avoid a tragic end.

We can't let anything like that happen again.

Helvio:

Your mother wasn't the only person responsible.

I'm also guilty.

May I?

He liked to swim here. Run races with his friends.

Do you believe in reincarnation?

Madam... In Mexico Death is with us always.

She's there in everything we do.

Death is our faithful companion, all our life.

Loved ones come and go.

Death is always there, waiting.

I believe in Life after Death.

We'll have to die to find out.

Andr� Breton once told me, Mexicans invented dark humor.

Without the certainty of Death, the Future would not exist.

If you drink yourself to death we say:

"You want to die, even Death will taste good to you. "

Why go about committing suicide, no?

In any case, we all end up dragged off...

by Death.

I believe, in suicide as a premeditated act:

To act Death, not to live it.

Almost a work of art, unfinished, but final.

Leaving us a message we will never receive.

A message to blame us.

One may feel guilty for those one kills,

not for those who kill themselves.

I'm surprised, you wouldn't see my mural.

I'm not interested. Not having seen it, I hate it.

I understand.

Sometimes I look at it...

You feel betrayed, just like me.

Why does Natalio always get his way?

I want to show you this important and original way to burst in...

For our struggle, this method is much faster and effective...

than a paint brush.

Next day, the bourgeois pigs want to clean it...

They find: Surprise! It's almost permanent.

Comrades!

Maestro Siqueiros,

not only honors us, he's identified with our cause,

he comes to teach us.

I appreciate the words of General Secretary Codovilla.

I insist on my staunch dedication to the service of Marxist-Leninism.

Our only path is a path of struggle.

We must be alert to traitors inside,

particularly the worst of all: Leon Trotsky. Yes, Trotsky.

Everybody against the wall!

Horrendous!

He was found dead.

The Ayerza family is distraught.

Kidnapping and syphilis are the ills of capitalism.

A Marxist concept.

- Blanca Luz is a Sandinist. - Andinist?

Sandinist, a follower of Augusto Sandino,

struggling to overthrow the Nicaraguan dictatorship.

Victoria.

Maruca, nice to have you here. I finally met you.

Excuse-me, sir.

- Sir. - Yes.

The detainee.

An important artist in our Police Station.

I was brought by force.

You're accused of illegal subversive acts.

Guilty as charged.

Look at this newspaper:

- "The communist Sequeiros... " - Siqueiros.

"Siqueiros,

house guest of the Number One Gangster of Argentina. "

Lampoon. Fascist.

Yes? And this?

"The subversive preaching of a dangerous foreigner".

Fine.

The Minister of Interior called me personally.

You have influential friends.

If they are influential, they're not my friends.

Don't be ungrateful...

So.

Mr. David Alfaro Siqueiros: You are free to go.

And my comrades?

They have no influential friends or whatever.

Don't worry. This was a warning.

Tomorrow they're free to go.

I leave tomorrow, with my comrades.

As you wish.

- You married in Java? - Borneo?

How exotic.

Very exotic.

I warned you.

I said I'd run the risk.

Pablo, please understand, I admire you, we're good friends.

I love you, a little...

I belong to only one man.

Only one man...

Why him?

Although he has power, he's very sensitive and has...

Lots of money.

No, I meant lots of charm.

We have a profound relationship.

- And Siqueiros? - David?

Our relation ended long ago.

But not entirely.

Not entirely.

- And you and your wife? - Fine.

But not entirely.

What are you doing?

The children finished lunch.

Why wasn't I told?

I follow orders...

That's enough.

You're not staying tonight, Madam?

I prefer my apartment. The atmosphere here is nauseous.

- How do you feel? - I'm tired of having to answer:

"Very well, thank you. "

Thank you, towazyszu.

I wish to accompany you.

I appreciate that.

I never thought you would be...

the only person to show me affection.

Good evening.

Good evening, Madam.

Why did you marry her?

She dazzled me:

A beautiful woman,

an intellectual, with a strong personality.

With a child,

a delightful child.

But Salvadora became a bitter woman,

selfish,

too free.

Too free, at your side?

You are different.

I've heard that before.

Siqueiros said: "You will be my only woman:

Wife, mother, lover, my sister, my everything. "

Like all the rest,

I was cheated on,

beaten when he was drunk.

And worse:

The loss of our child.

I hate Botana.

I hate this house, the mural.

I hate you.

I'll hate you as long as I live.

Say something, fuck!

What?

I could kill you right now.

Yes.

So?

What do you say?

Too late, David.

Our relationship was dead in Montevideo.

As dead as our child.

You won't understand, stupid crazy bitch: That child wasn't mine!

It was yours.

I told you a thousand times: I'm sterile.

From badly cured clap.

David: It was yours.

I love you, Blancaluchita. I love you.

Friends.

Comrades:

The task is almost done.

I never imagined myself in Argentina...

painting a mural in the basement of a great mansion.

When I was young,

I dreamed of coming to Buenos Aires...

to run a brothel.

I never thought I could fall so low.

Here I am.

David. Your artistic aims are achieved.

Don't put yourself down, maestro. You know it's almost a work of art.

Almost? Antonio! A great work of art. Fuck!

Daddy says the guests are arriving.

Tell him Marie Antoinette said: "Have Pompadour welcome them. "

Pompadour was Louis XV's lover and Marie...

I know, stupid.

David.

Mr. President, the artist, David Alfaro Siqueiros.

General Agustin Pedro Justo.

Congratulations. Remarkable.

You too, Botana, only you could indulge like this.

A place for meditation, to welcome friends,

enjoy good cognac, play some poker.

The model?

Madam, you confirm the beauty of Mexican ladies.

Blancaluz is Uruguayan, an exquisite poetess,

...poet.

Uruguayan?

Thanks to the talent of your husband,

and the generosity of my friend,

we have you permanently in Argentina.

Mr. President: I'm honored.

The powerful raise up this country.

Or destroy it.

You wanted to show me...

A place I discovered.

The ladies called it "The little room for crying".

- We're even? - We are even.

It's done.

- And now? - Now?

Exit and final curtain.

Final.

An ugly word.

All right then, end of First Act.

A toast.

To "Plastic Exercise!"

To the artist.

To the model.

To the art patron.

No. I don't like that title.

Which then?

To an admirer, of both of you.

Coming?

You're not coming?

It's my night of glory.

Good evening, Natalio.

Like good old times.

Excuse-me.

I leave you two works of art.

One I paid for. The other is priceless.

In the past, I would have killed you.

Why not this time?

My affair with Blancaluz was over.

I had nothing to do with your expulsion.

- I spoke to the President. - Thank you.

I've grown accustomed to exile.

Good luck, my friend Siqueiros.

Likewise, my friend Botana.

You'll need it.

Farewell.

See you, brother.

- Where? - Where?

In the Red Square.

Why not?

Thank you, Pablo.

It's farewell to my almost friend.

You believe in reincarnation, don't you?

Yes.

Then, until the next avatar.

Have a good trip. I promise to see the mural.

May I hug you?

- You've nothing. - We'll see.

I'll have to pay up.

Pass.

David Alfaro Siqueiros returned to Mexico...

where he continued his art work.

He fought in the Spanish Civil War,

and became known as the "Great Colonel".

Years later he attempted to assassinate Leon Trotsky...

and spent several years in prison.

Today Siqueiros is remembered...

as one of the three great Mexican Mural Artists.

His remains are buried in the Rotunda of Famous Persons.

A year later Blanca Luz Brum left Botana and traveled to Chile...

where she entered an uncertain stage of her life.

Years later...

she exchanged the hammer and sickle for the Catholic Cross...

and was awarded special honors by the Chilean Dictator Pinochet.

Pablo Neruda dedicated his life to Poetry...

and was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.

He died in September 1973,

days after his friend President Salvador Allende was overthrown...

and committed suicide.

Salvadora Medina Onrubia died at 77 years of age,

in distress as she had lived all her life.

According to her son Helvio...

her last words were: "Hate, hate, hate".

According to her niece Gloria: "Oh God, Oh God, Oh God".

Natalio Botana, running the Cr�tica Newspaper,

held a staunch anti-fascist position in regard to the Spanish Civil War...

and the Second World War.

He died in 1941 in a questionable car accident.

He was one of the most significant figures of Argentine Journalism.

The Cr�tica Newspaper survived him with difficulty...

and definitely closed down in 1958.

After the demolition of "Los Granados",

Siqueiros' mural was rescued and,

during a long troublesome legal process,

lay for 18 years in boxes in a warehouse.

On the initiative of the Argentine President...

Cristina Fern�ndez de Kirchner,

the work of art was restored and installed in May, 2010...

in the ex Taylor Customs House.