All language subtitles for Down.There.2006.1080p.WEB-DL.AAC2.0.x264

(city streets)

(city noise)

(muffled children shouting)

(dog barks)

(music playing in background)

(footsteps)

(moped drives by)

(stove starter clicking)

(telephone rings)

(hangs up phone)

(footsteps retreat)

Why did Amos' mother
commit suicide

in Tel Aviv
on a rainy day?

Around the same time,
my Aunt Ruth commit suicide

on a pale sunny day
in Brussels.

Suicides happen everywhere.

Was it, for most of them,
a sort of exile

wherever they were?

Women who dreamed
of something,

of what,
they probably didn't know.

But they couldn't
sleep anymore,

neither in Brussels
no in Jerusalem.

They each had a son,

one of the sons
became a great writer

afterward.

Long after the death
of his mother.

The other didn't.

Even though his mother,
my aunt,

would have liked that.

For awhile,
he painted.

His painting was gloomy,
he stopped,

then he work
in haute couture

and he liked that,
at least I think he did.

Now, he works in
a luxury hotel

still in Brussels.

He likes Brussels.

I think of my Aunt Ruth
when she came back

from the convent
after the war.

She had changed, supposedly.

Supposedly, she was
full of life before.

She gave up everything;

the piano, reading,
everything.

I even think she wanted
to convert.

It didn't last.

My grandfather,
who was religious,

didn't want her to.

She got married,

and then it started
to be bad.

She often came
to our place to get away.

She took care of me.

She gave me
my first books.

She had a child,
my cousin,

but that didn't
make anything better.

My father did all
he could for her,

my father loved
her sister,

and I loved my aunt.

Sometimes she scared me.

She talked to me
like I was an adult.

She scared me.

But she did love me.

She sang me songs in Yiddish.

I would listen,
but I wanted to go play.

My mother,
my father would tell me,

"Be nice with Aunt Ruth.

She isn't well."

So, I was nice.

Sometimes, we went
on vacation together.

It was always
in Belgium

on the North Sea.

She didn't come with us
when we went by boat

to Israel on vacation, no.

For her, the time
for that was over.

And it probably wouldn't
have changed anything.

It was too late.

Anyway, she already
couldn't stand the heat,

the light anymore.

(footsteps approaching)

(floor creaks)

(footsteps)

(telephone rings)

Hello?

Ken?

Ken?

Yes, I'm okay.

Well, I don't know
if I'm going to go today.

I have to work.

Well, if I go out
I will be distracted.

Well, maybe next week.

No, I have to--
I have to work today.

Okay, oui.

I'll call you next week.

Bye.

(hangs up phone)

(rhythmic tapping)

(children shouting)

I don't feel
like I belong,

and that's
without real pain,

without pride.

Pride happens.

No, I'm just disconnected

from practically everything.

I have a few uncles
and sometimes

I let them go,
or they let me go,

and I drift.

That's most of the time.

Sometimes I hang on
for a few days,

minutes, seconds,

then I let go again.

I can have the look,
I can have the hair.

Semi-blind?

Semi-deaf?

I float.

Sometimes I sink,

but not quite.

Something,
sometimes a detail,

brings me back
to the surface,

and I start
floating again.

I feel so disconnected
that I can't even

have a house with bread,
butter, coffee, milk,

toilet paper.

And when I buy some,

I feel like
it's a heroic act.

Basically, I don't
know how to live

or go anywhere.

When I take the bus,

it's a state
of heroism, too.

And this all
has to do with that,

with Israel or not Israel.

Of course notrealIsrael.

Within Israel
where all of a sudden

I would belong.

But I know that's
also a mirage.

Something in me
has been damaged.

My relationship
with the real,

with daily life.

How do you make a life
in a non-rarified air?

It starts with
bread in the house.

A minimum of order,

a minimum of life.

And besides all that,
I lose everything;

my keys, my glasses,
my notes, my sister,

and almost my mother.

My notes on Israel, too.

Because after months
of non-reflection,

but reflection
nonetheless,

I finally accepted
Xavier's offer,

and I started
to take some notes.

I lost my notes in Spain.

A big blue and white
checkered notebook.

I either left
this big notebook

at the movies.

That was the first
time I had gone in months,

and I went with
my niece,

otherwise I would
have stayed in bed

at the hotel.

I either lost the notes

at the movies
or at the fast food place

we went to before the movies.

I didn't go back
to look for them

out of laziness,
out of boredom,

but mostly out
of lack of desire,

or out of parasites of desire,

disrupted, or worse.

Out of the feeling
that if I sing,

well, then I should just sing.

I should just
deny myself,

like I usually do,

except sometimes
in spurts,

that's what I generally do,

except for my notes
or work.

When I still
manage to work

by refusing to let
all the rest

get near the surface.

Sometimes.

And it's getting
harder and harder.

(water sloshing)

(airplane soars overhead)

(waves breaking ashore)

(echo of instrumental music)

(city street noise)

(dial-up internet sounds)

(footsteps)

(typing)

(airplane soars overhead)

In the book I'm reading
someone says,

"Rabbi never stopped
pestering us."

One day, we'll have
to look Israel straight on.

without reservation
or procrastination,

we won't escape it.

Here we are,
I'm here,

and I'm leaving again.

When I go to
the airport,

at security,
I was asked

if I wanted
my passport stamped.

I said, "Sure, why not?"

Like if it was
an act of courage,

an act of allegiance
as well.

She couldn't care less.

She stamped it.

And if one day
I have to go to Syria,

what will happen?

Probably nothing,

or else I have to get
a new passport.

A passport costs
280 Euros.

My act of bravado
will cost me that much.

Bravado.

This is where
I've gotten to.

I don't mind that
people know I came here.

It isn't very pragmatic,

but it's not wearing
a yellow star, either.

No. I'd even say
it's the opposite.

And I won't escape
the yellow star.

I'm with it.

It's written inside me.

Yesterday I had
a very bad day.

A day like in Paris,
but worse.

I had a gastro something,

and when Judy
came to get me,

I said, "Let's go
down to the beach."

After two minutes,
I got terrible cramps.

I wanted to go back.

She took me.

I was dying of cold,

and though it must have
been 65 degrees

and I was dressed
for mid-winter...

I was shivering.

I went to bed
and I slept.

It was raining
when Amos Oz's mother

committed suicide.

Amos became a great
Israeli writer.

Everyone I know reads him,

although sometimes
they criticize him.

I went out
at seven in the morning.

I was out of cigarettes.

I walked to the beach.

It's half a block
from the apartment

where I'm staying.

I saw a small crowd,

someone was filming,

someone who embraced a man.

Some debris
from window panes.

I turned the corner,
bought my cigarettes,

and I asked, "What happened?"

Just three words of him,
boom they went.

I asked if anyone
was injured.

Four dead was the answer.

I was speechless.

All of that was
supposed to be over.

Nothing is normal.

Someone else add,
"and 50 wounded," in English.

And seriously, too,
it could've been worse.

I said, "So, this is over?"

The man says,
"No, it's not over.

It's just set back
three months."

I didn't know
what to do anymore.

People kept on running
on the beach.

Others were
picking up garbage.

Others walked.

I really didn't
know what to do.

I said to myself,

"Let's go get some
tea somewhere."

But nothing appealed to me.

I mean, I couldn't imagine

sitting down
somewhere after that.

(brakes squeak)

(car horn honks)

(airplane soars overhead)

(footsteps)

(footsteps)

All day afterward
the telephone kept ringing.

It was people who,
for the most part,

I didn't know.

Friends of my landlord
who knew I was there,

and got worried.

And they all said,
"It's a good thing

you were sleeping."

And each one said,

"We should get
together one day."

I said, "Yes"
but I said "No."

Well, I said
I would call them back.

And during the night
the phone calls came, too,

I only found out later.

I was sleeping so deeply
that I didn't hear.

So people worried.

Kindness on the telephone.

That's what made
me fall apart.

I have fallen apart
since then.

I have had trouble
getting over it.

When I finally
did answer,

they were relieved.

I'm alive.

I told Sonia it put
things in perspective.

It puts things
in perspective,

and then sorrow returns.

I think of my Aunt Ruth
who came back to the house

after electroshock treatments.

It put things
in perspective,

sometimes for months.

Sometimes more,
sometimes less.

Then she had to go back.

I remember one time when
we thought it was for good,

because she bought herself
a pretty summer dress.

She got us drinks,

and even something to eat,
I think.

I'm not sure anymore.

I must have been
about eight.

She was wearing
her pretty dress.

She had company: us.

My father, my mother,
not my sister.

I don't think my sister
was born yet.

And then there was
her husband

and her son, my cousin.

We all act happy,

but underneath,
we were still worried.

How long would it
be this time

before she had
to go back there

to the hospital?

"It puts things
in perspective"

I said to Sonia.

"What perspective?"

(street sounds)

(clang of object on table)

(ripping of envelope)

(birds chirping)

(city street sounds)

(muffled conversation)

(circular saw whining)

I called my mother.

I told her
I was fine.

She said,
"Take care of yourself."

Of course I take care.

I don't take the bus,

I don't go
to the supermarket

or to the movie theaters.

Well, mostly I stay here
in the apartment

and I eat what
my landlord has left.

And I read very
complicated books

about the Jews.

I take notes,

I reread them,

I try to understand.

Sometimes I understand,

or I get the whiff
of something,

something that's
already there inside me

but I can't express.

I reread my notes.

Once again,
I tell myself,

"It's really complicated."

On the radio they said
a poem in German.

Then they translated it
into Hebrew.

I didn't understand
the Hebrew or the German.

It was very soft German.

Well, it was spoken
very softly.

It was a poem.

This, I'm certain of it.

It must have been
a very beautiful poem.

Just before I left
for Israel,

my mother came back
from Mexico City.

When she got back,
she called me in Paris.

With a weak voice
she told me, "I'm tired."

I told her,
"Who wouldn't be tired

coming back from
such a trip?"

Just that.

"Yes," she agreed.

(birds chirping)

(muffled music plays)

(telephone rings)

Hello?

(muffled conversation)

(echoed hammering)

(city street sounds)

(circular saw whining)

(waves breaking ashore)

(airplane soars overhead)

(airplane soars overhead)

(helicopter blades chopping)

(wind blowing)

(plane soars overhead)

(muffled conversation)

(waves crashing ashore)

(wind blowing)

(airplane soars overhead)

I hear an airplane passing.

I go out on the terrace
for a look.

I no longer like
going out on this terrace.

From this terrace
you can see the sea.

The explosion
was near the sea.

The airplane
has passed.

I can't see it anymore.

I see the neighbor again.

He's sitting on the terrace
with his wife

drinking Nescafé.

I reread my notes.

It's complicated.

I finished
a loaf of bread

which was not
supposed to be for me.

It was frozen.

How am I going
to find another one?

Maybe Judy made it herself.

When she described
the apartment on the phone,

she said I could
even make bread

because there was
a bread making machine.

I said, "That's nice,

but I don't think
I make any."

They have everything
now in Israel,

but I never
saw that bread.

I finished the last slice,

and I'm already
obsessed with it.

I will have to try
every bakery in town.

I'm dead set on
Judy finding her bread

when she comes back.

In my notes,
there is stuff

about time and space,

about putting
down roots in space.

This I can understand.

Even in the really
good bread

and pastry shop
on Yehuda Street,

I didn't see that bread.

Maybe they would
know where to find it.

I should have kept
a slice to show them.

I'll never be able
to describe

what the bread is like.

Maybe there is another
one in the freezer,

behind the frozen meat.

No.

In the meantime,
I am going to make rice

and carrots to get rid
of my cramps and all the rest.

Happiness begins with
thinking about yourself

and doing what you
have to do to get better.

I ate rice,

the water from the rice,

and the carrots.

I liked it.

I got sick eating
all the good salad

you can get all over Israel.

But it will pass,

and I eat them again,

and I won't
get sick again.

Who knows.

I break a glass,

a glass which is part
of a set of six.

In the four pages
of instruction

it says that anything broken
must be replaced

or reimbursed.

I add a glass
to my list.

Last night I went out.

I saw people,
some of whom I know,

others I don't.

Everyone talked about
what went wrong in the world.

"In '47, they should
have done this."

"In '56, they should
have done that."

"And in '68,
the other thing."

Everyone was
always wrong.

Everyone spoke French,
so I understand.

And everyone tells me
I was lucky to sleeping.

I leave Yona Hanavi Street,

which means
"street of the Prophet Yonah."

My grandfather
was named Yonah, too.

And he was a descendant
of the Rabbi of Belz.

My cousin explains
that they were

Ultra-Orthodox.

They are called
"The Blacks"

because of their clothing.

I walked to Yona Hanavi Street,

I don't get lost.

I watch TV,
the French channel,

I fall asleep.

I get up,

the plant man is
already on the terrace.

He seems to be
watching the plants grow.

I think plants
don't grow that fast,

not even in Israel.

On the other hand,
you never know.

(traffic noise)

My cousin is leaving
for Paris today.

It's too bad.

I like having
my cousin near me.

She seems to know
how to live.

"Come more often,"
she always tells me.

Yes.

I like to be here.

Why?

Because,
because of everything,

of nothing.

Something in the air,
something in me.

I make rice and carrots
for myself.

I leave things around,

then I decide
to put everything away.

"In this country,
I won't let things

lie around anymore,"
I tell myself.

The man drinks coffee
with his wife on the terrace.

If my grandfather
is a descendent

of the Rabbi of Belz,

then so am I.

I search within myself
to see if I can feel it.

Yes, yes I feel it.

No, now I can't anymore.

What is it
to feel it anyway?

I don't know.

Actually, I realize
I know more words in Hebrew

than I thought.

I remember "chalutzim,"
that means pioneers.

"Chalutzot" is
woman pioneers.

"Chawerim" is comrades.

"Chaweroth" is comrades, too.

(speaking in Hebrew)

On the telephone,
I can almost

have a conversation in Hebrew.

I mix it up
with Russian,

then someone says
lots of words,

I can't keep it up.

So, I say...

(speaks Hebrew)

"I don't speak Hebrew."

If I had been born here,

my mother would have
let me play in the street

with the other children.

In Brussels,
she wouldn't let me.

She was afraid.

Here, she would
have let me,

and I wouldn't have
spent hours looking

out of the window at
the other children playing

with a ball
or something else.

Looking out the window,

I got all up
inside myself.

Here, I would have run.

I would have screamed.

Here, the child
is a king,

like in America.

Now, I'm in the habit
of looking out the window.

I look and I get
all up inside myself.

(children shouting)

(airplane soars overhead)

(woman speaking in Hebrew)

It's hot out today,
it feels good.

I hear children.

They are already
playing in the schoolyard.

I make my bed,
do a little exercise.

It feels good.

The man from
the university came.

He's a calm man.

He says little,
but when he says it,

I tell myself, "Yes."

I try to get him
to speak about Israel,

he does, calmly.

I agree with
everything he says.

I don't really remember
what he said,

but it was all
self-evident.

I asked him if it was
because Amos Oz's mother

felt like she was
exiled here,

that she committed suicide?

If she had lost
something of herself

when she left Europe?

He looked at me for awhile,

and then he said,
"Maybe, yes, that happens.

People don't ever
think about that,

but it happens.

It can happen."

He asked me, "And you?"

"I don't count.

I go home next week."

"Yes, I know."

"I have to start
getting the apartment

back in shape.

Everything was
so tidy here.

How will I manage?"

He smiles.

He rises and opens
the drapes.

The air,
the light pours in.

For a few seconds,
I'm blinded.

Then I can see again.

He says, "It's hard
to get out of prison,

especially your own prison.

But you do get out."

I don't dare ask how.

Another time, maybe.

But when he leaves,
I realize he has done me good.

He's a man like before.

He's calm,
and he knows.

He knows exile,
prison, inside, outside.

Well, I think he does.

(circular saw whining)

(brushing teeth)

(running water)

(airplane soars overhead)

(roar of jet engines)

(car horn honks)

(airplanes soaring overhead)

What if we had
gone to Israel

instead of Belgium?

Yes.

Perhaps we should have.

But it's so hot down there,

and the earth
is so arid, yes.

But we would have
gotten off easy.

It would have been
an inspiration.

Perhaps we would
all still be here.

My father wasn't
strong enough

for this arid land,
my father said.

One day, he told me
that when it started

to smell bad,

he brought us
to Danzig,

my mother,
my three sisters and me,

and he went to Marseille.

He intended to take
a boat to Palestine.

He had his mind
made up to go to see

how it was down there.

Find us a place to live,
find work,

and then send for us.

Then, on the dock,
he met someone from Kazimierz

who was coming
back from there

gaunt, exhausted.

Somebody who I don't
remember who he was,

told him,
"Don't go down there.

There is malaria,
swamps, mosquitoes,

and hot.

Life is too hard.

Maybe alone you'd
get along there,

but with a family
and young children,

it's not possible."

And the hot wind
kicks up the sand.

The sand gets
into everything.

In your eyes
and all your fingernails,

in your clothing.

It's only sand,
rock, stone,

swamps, mosquitoes.

You'll die.

Die once again."

"So, where can we go?"

"I heard that in Belgium
it was good.

You can live, work,
raise a family.

So they say anyway."

"Let's go see."

They went.

They survived,
more or less, well.

On my father's side,
they live to the end of the war.

But how?

Without wind,
without sand.

Now, I'm here in Israel.

I'm here in
an apartment

which is not mine,

and I live on everything my
landlady left in the fridge.

I don't go out.

I close the drapes.

I hide.

Well, a little.

Actually, I begin by reading
very complicated books

and taking notes.

I hear the sounds
of the city.

I'm in Tel Aviv.

(telephone rings)

Hello?

(muffled conversation)

(cityscape sounds)