All language subtitles for October in Madrid Octobre a Madrid 1967 DVDRip x264_track3_eng

Ok, we're already rolling.

You can begin,
I wanted to surprise you.

Let me know what you're doing
little by little,

the operations you're doing.

Now, it's the foundation.

You must spread it carefully.

No, I don't care
about the technical details.

Just tell me
the different operations.

OK.

- Is she talking loud enough, Jose?
- No.

She must speak louder.

- She needs to speak much louder.
- Yes, much louder.

You need to project the voice,
Otherwise it won't work.

How much footage do we have left, Jose,
so we don't waste any time?

Well, in feet,
we have 78 left now...

That's more or less
three quarters of the reel.

Now, I'll apply the powder.

My name is Anne and
I am an actress.

My name is Anne and
I am an actress.

This is how a script written
four years ago was to begin

and this was supposed to be,
or almost, the first image.

I wanted it to be the first shot
in October in Madrid.

Do you think this will take
longer than you said?

- I don't know.
- You don't know.

Don't forget, put a little more
make up on your eyebrows.

You have to speak louder.

Now the eyes.

How many meters?

127 feet.

- Used?
- Yes.

Hello. Yes?

No, Marcel is shooting.

Can he call you back?

In fifteen minutes.

This girl is an actress,
she lives in Madrid.

This isn't October.

I associated the words Madrid and
October for their sonority.

This film is both a film
about liberty and constraint.

A film about truth and fiction.

It ended up existing,
by becoming true,

through all the difficulties, beyond
all the real or provoked difficulties,

all the contradictions a filmmaker
can encounter at every moment.

At this very instant, for example,
as I try to say this text,

to read this text.

Since I'm writing this text and
I'll re-read it later

in front of a microphone
in a studio.

Now I'm putting on lipstick.

...I'm reading it.

I was told not to speak
over my images,

my voice is too serious,
too relaxed, too sad.

It would be a mistake.

I catch these words,
make them mine.

I can see someone behind me!

I want to break them,
caress them, manipulate them,

let them fly off and take them
again and break them.

I want them the way
I wanted this film.

- I'm ready!
- Ok, thanks, it's done!

October in Madrid.

October in Madrid

I've come regularly to
Spain for several years.

I've been here this
time for several months.

I loved Spain
long before I knew it.

Exile is dear to me.

Exile is a wall one
wants to be surrounded by.

My first image of Spain was
a bull captured in its solitude.

I followed it through the
telephoto lens until it died.

The film is called
Death of the Bull.

My second image of Spain
was that of Christ.

I filmed a holy week
in Valladolid

and in a spot
in old Castile.

Christ in the City.

Today I have 3000 meters of film

and a borrowed camera.

But with the constraint of only
knowing the results of the shots

upon my return to Paris.

I've thought for a long time about
recounting the private life of a torero.

Guillermo introduces me
to two young banderilleros.

We begin by filming
their training.

We spend a morning
at Casa del Campo.

It's not important why this
is the only morning

and why the filming is unfinished.

I've just agreed to shoot
news reports for TV.

This is Roncal Valley,
in the Pyrenees.

French shepherds are presenting
a tribute to Spanish shepherds.

I did not film the ceremony itself.

I didn't feel like it after
a 36 km walk in the rain.

"El Verdugo," the executioner.

I was asked to do a report on

the shooting of this film
directed by Luis Berlanga.

For a week I follow Luis Berlanga
and his crew around Madrid.

There I suddenly get the idea
for October in Madrid.

One day, Berlanga must
shoot Plaza de las Comendadoras.

This setting strikes me with its
harshness, its grandeur.

By the strangeness of
its details:

an electrical tower
planted in the middle of it,

a clock that always
strikes 8:00.

I decide this plaza will be
the setting of a script

that I haven't yet written.

Later, I have to do
a report on Sophia Loren

who is shooting
The Fall of the Roman Empire.

I have the script for
October in Madrid.

An extra, Sophia Loren's slave,

lives at Plaza de Ia Comendadoras

and every morning goes to
the forum, 15 km outside of Madrid.

The opposition of
anachronistic demands:

dreams, the daily amazement
of this extra, Carmen,

who flees one mediocrity for
another, more artificial and fake.

The fall of her dream
with the end of the film shoot.

The fall of my own.

It is obviously impossible
to realize this idea,

just as it is logical to envisi�n it
with the techniques of reporting.

But I have the main character.

It will crystalize, like in my
previous films, in a woman.

The woman of A Simple Story,

the one in The Eighth Day,

Anne, the actress for a film
that hasn't been seen yet.

Retiro Garden in Madrid, Sunday.

What will Carmen do?
Who will Carmen be?

Who will interpret Carmen?

What characters will
be around her?

The French tax collector is
threatening to arrest me.

Take what from me?

Carmen won't try to escape
her mediocrity by exceptional means.

She'll be a saleswoman
in a big store.

She'll walk there every morning
from the Plaza de Ia Comendadoras.

She will have a fiancé.

She'll dream of children
and a well-kept home.

The department store
where Carmen will work

will be, for example,
Galerias Preciados.

Nadia introduced me
to Sempere,

he's a painter
and engraver.

He's offering his studio
as a set for the film.

It may be the studio
of Carmen's fiancé.

He'll be a painter
and be named Guillermo.

My name is Carmen.

I live in the
Plaza de Ia Comendadoras.

My name is Carmen.

Marcel, your film
isn't going to be easy.

I think you've got
a very interesting idea.

The problem will be to
not tire out the audience.

By telling a story with too many
words and not enough images.

Of course it can be
done in several ways,

but I think cinema is
expressi�n through images.

Speech can add to
or counterbalance the images

but it can't be counted
on to express the story.

I'm sure you'll
overcome this problem

and you'll make a
really interesting film.

Keep spreading them out.

What goes through your head
about the film

in trying to remember this
conversation the other day

when you were watching TV.

I think films can't be linear.

Films must be made like life,

It doesn't go in one direction,
there's simultaneity

and lots of directors have tried
to do something like this

but there are many who
still haven't...

And maybe even sometimes artists
manage without knowing it...

Nadia likes the idea of the film.

She offers to help me,

she does so with an
extraordinary devotion.

...sometimes consciously and
I hope that you're going to do...

Pregnant, and up to the night
before giving birth,

she is at my side.

When I get discouraged,
she gives me energy.

I film her at home,
in her studio.

She will be part of the film.

A few months after
finishing the shots,

I return to Madrid to record
the things she said during the shoot.

She remembers them
almost exactly.

...a way of expressing oneself, and it
can be done through images or speech.

With Nadia, I film, one Sunday

the preparation of a religious
processi�n, Plaza de Ia Comendadoras.

With the aim of filming, one day,
Carmen and Guillermo

so they can be, through editing,
witnesses to the processi�n.

Carlos' sister will be Carmen.

Carlos is one of
my friends in Madrid.

He's been very helpful to me
since my first trip to Spain.

I still haven't found the character
of Guillermo, Carmen's fiancé.

Carmen is a brunette,
tall and beautiful

I will film her later.

I live in Madrid,
Plaza de las Comendadoras.

With Nadia, I shoot documentary
footage of Plaza de las Comendadoras,

trying to describe the familiar
place where Carmen will live.

It's hard to believe my
plaza isn't in a village

and that it's located so close
to the store where I work.

Children and old people,

with almost no
generations in between.

"We're not beautiful,
why are you filming us?"

I tell them they're
beautiful. I think so.

I need money to live on
until the end of the film,

to put gas in my car
to get around freely.

I need to film a boat ride
with Carmen and Guillermo,

in the lake of Retiro Garden,

from Carmen's point of view,
without ever seeing her.

The sun in the trees,
Carmen's finger in the water.

I want Carmen to run into
a group of communicants.

I will film these
communicants later,

in Montreuil-sous-Bois,
close to Paris.

Guillermo will take Carmen
home for the first time

and they will make love
for the first time.

They have to go to a ball.

Time passes.

I run around Madrid.
I look for sets, ideas.

I film everything I want,

everything that presents itself
and that I like.

A processi�n, between
Liege and Baionnette.

Le Rastro, a kind of flea market.

Would it be too picturesque
for Carmen to walk through?

How will Carmen be dressed?

La Castellana, a wide avenue,
very busy around 11 AM.

A market in old Madrid.

The tailpipe on my car is broken.

Death.

A campesino on his donkey,
lost on the Paseo del Prado,

asks me:
The road of four roads?

I give directions and offer him
a tip for filming him.

He refuses politely.

A headlight on my car
isn't working.

Is the film
going to be made?

Is it going to end?

Can I go to the end?

Nestor Basterrechea,
one of Nadia's friends.

He suggests I be the cameraman for a
commercial short film he is directing.

I accept and am bailed out.

My film will be made.

I write down the general
lines in a page and a half.

I now want a more free
and different film.

My concierge: she comes from
the Asturias, mining country.

Luis, I met you when
I was shooting El Verdugo.

I followed you for a week
for the TV news.

I did a report on this film.

It's from Berlanga's film
El Verdugo

that the idea came for
October in Madrid.

One Sunday, I go film
Luis Berlanga at home.

I will draw new encouragement
from this encounter,

maybe a response to my
own problems.

I will record Berlanga's words
at the same time as Nadia's,

a few months later.

...what especially prevented
me from seeing it

is that I knew there
were a lot of cuts.

What sequences were cut?

Excuse me for speaking in Spanish

but I can express myself
better in my own language.

The cuts made to my film
are obviously not gratuitous.

That would mean the censorship
doesn't correspond to anything.

It would be as anarchic and
surreal as we are as creators.

The aim of these cuts
is clearly absurd

because everything I wanted
to say about a society

and the problem of an individual's
relation to this society

remains I think, present in the
versi�n of the film shown in Spain.

However, the cuts altered
the dramatic progressi�n.

The censors' intention was to eliminate
the more or less hard and strong image

showing how we execute a man
sentenced to death in Spain

and to suppress everything dramatizing
the conflict between man and society.

Are you happy with
the film you've made?

I'm happy every time I'm making a film.
I make them

in a more and more vegetative,
spontaneous, somnambulistic manner.

So I'm starting to wonder if we're
really making films we like and want,

or if we make them, if we feel them
when we're in the middle of directing.

Practically, I give birth to my films.

They're there, they exist. I have a
moment where I let myself love.

I go to the point of loving or
hating like one loves or hates

a creature at certain moments.

I don't have any projects.

I like doing things,
cinema as much as love.

In the most
vegetative manner possible.

So it's absurd to talk about
projects for a man like myself

who likes improvising everything
on the street corner.

I have projects
but just by having them,

I already don't like them,

and I don't give them
the same tenderness.

What do you think about
the young Spanish cinema?

To begin with, I believe in
individuals like good anarchists

and in the auteur theory.

I don't believe in schools

or a general definition of what we
could call the young Spanish school.

Individually, there are auteurs
I like, who interest me,

others who interest me less.

We have to look for our roots.

I may be old fashioned but we must
recognize that Spain must first

confront this immensity before it
deals with external problems.

We haven't begun to examine ourselves
the way the French and Italians can.

We aren't yet capable of
introspection in cinema.

With this restriction, the Spanish,
by tradition,

not in a pejorative sense but in an
authentic sense of Spanish tradition,

must confront everything and cinema.

I don't think any young Spanish directors
have thought of seeing what is around them.

They all record a series of foreign
outside impressions they find before them.

They think they're reflecting something
but this something is not the truth.

They don't throw themselves into
other countries, in other geographies,

in search of the violent impressi�n that
should deeply move them before a thing

instead of simply reflecting it.

Yesterday, Sunday,

Guillermo took me to the Retiro Garden.

We went out in a boat.

He rowed.

I know Maribelle through Carlos,
Carmen's brother.

Maribelle is married to a soldier
she hasn't seen in four years.

She has to leave for Rio de Oro
where her husband's garrison is.

My name is Carmen. I live in a
pensi�n owned by a large, gentle woman.

Her husband works in Paris.

She's from Toledo, like my family.

The woman, foreseen as Carmen's
landlord, Plaza de las Comendadoras.

Carmen's family will live
in the provinces

and Carmen will be in a
pensi�n owned by this woman.

This woman's husband works in Paris,
Rue de Ia Pompe.

He sends her money every month

at the price of some flings with
Parisians thinner than she is.

I was born in Toledo.

I left my mother in Toledo.

I didn't know my father.

He was killed in the civil war,

a few days before my birth.

Toledo, an old Jewish and Arab city.

A city of calm and balance.
A city for escape and getting away.

Architecture, immobile in time.

In a whirlwind like there
only exists in Spain,

it seems I can go back in time
to reach Toledo.

Augustin isn't the ideal
character for Carmen's fiancé.

Oh well, he won't be a painter and
the studio where he will take Carmen

will be a studio a painter
friend has lent him.

At the same time as Carmen
and Guillermo's boat ride

on the Retiro lake,

I film an ordinary side of the garden.

A little girl looks like

she's come out of an 18th
century English painting.

I ask her to wait
for me to film her

while I go get film
from my car.

She's running late and says
she'll be in trouble.

It was the first time
I went to Guillermo's.

Some of his paintings are mobile,
others are lit.

He overlooks Madrid and some
terraces where laundry is drying.

There are also iron sculptures.

We went there after our boat trip
on the lake in Retiro.

Carmen leaves me. Carmen
doesn't want to shoot anymore.

But we did makeup
and wardrobe tests.

Maybe I can make her come back
since this may just be a mood.

There was a festival in the
Plaza de las Comendadoras.

Like every year, a processi�n
in honor of the Virgin.

We watched it with Guillermo.

Afterwards, we decided
to goto the ball.

Guillermo is a painter,

an artist.

My friend Guillermo Delgado gave me
the idea for the name of Carmen's fiancé

and the idea to make him a painter.

Very little daylight and one
lamp help me light Guillermo.

Which legend of cinema once said

you need a lot of resources
or everything is impossible.

This is a sketch for a correspondence
with a French girl across the street,

who for a few mornings has been undressing
before him, knowing he's watching her.

Guillermo, while we were shooting
your sequence, you asked me a question

that both shocked and pleased me.

You asked me...

- if you like what you're doing.
- That's great because you find exactly

the same intonation
and it's the sentence I wanted.

Did it seem normal to you
to ask this question?

You didn't know me well
enough...

...to think that I loved this professi�n.

Speaking from artist to another artist...

It's at the heart of all the ethical
questions an artist has to ask...

...love what you do.

Especially in our time which is so...
prostituted.

In every respect...

My friend Carlos.

He is the brother of the girl
who's supposed to be Carmen.

I will never film Carmen.

Her fiancé forbids her from shooting.

Carlos can't make
them change their minds.

She is Spanish and is named
Maria Carmen Miguela.

Together, we went to
film The Death of the Bull.

I had just met her. It was my first
trip to Spain and my first film in Spain.

Five years ago,

five years that have gone
by like a storm.

I've lost my actress.
I've lost Carmen.

I'm looking for Carmen.

I'm looking for
a potential Carmen.

I film randomly in the street.

Will I find Carmen?

Consuelo's garden.
Consuelo's mother.

Consuelo's neighbor.

Consuelo has black eyes,
a little bit of a gypsy.

I met her in front of the Prado.

I go with Maria Carmen Miguela to
ask her mother to allow.

Consuelo to be in the film.

Her mother comes the next day
to excuse Consuelo who can't

or doesn't want to come meet me where
I saw her for the fist time.

My lights are waiting
to light Carmen.

My camera is waiting
to grab her reflection.

Jorge is dead.
My friend Jorge.

Sleepwalker poet and mine engineer.

He was coming back from gas
research in Rio de Oro.

He was interested in the film,
he was helping me.

I wanted to film him.

A friend in common tells me
the news in a letter from Madrid.

Jose Antonio, poet.

Correspondent in Madrid
for a Parisian paper.

He helped me shoot
Christ in the City.

The ball I chose for Carmen and
Guillermo is almost empty.

It has just rained.

The ball was almost empty.
It had just rained.

Guillermo wanted
to take me to his place.

I decide to film another ball that
doesn't match my characters.

No Carmen, no actors.
My friends aren't free.

I film from my balcony,
in the rain,

the houses around me,
the street.

An accident.

Aranjuez,
60 km from Madrid,

one of the best
corridas of the season.

Nadia tells me about it,
says I shouldn't miss it.

New York.

"Jump!" cries the crowd to the
desperate man perched on the 12th floor.

Niamey.

Rebels are shot on the public
square in front of 10,000 people.

Saigon.

A rebel is shot in front of TV
cameras for several million viewers.

Atlanta.

White police chase a car and force
black students to run several miles.

Before losing consciousness, he pointed
out his murderer: his daughter.

Jean-Claude, 19 years old, kills
his cousin with a hammer,

the pretty bakery girl who
rebuffed his advances.

The Russian-American cosmonauts
are at their 33rd revolution.

Two team members take turns
in the capsule.

The ball on the
outskirts of Madrid.

The ball where Carmen and
Guillermo probably never went.

Chonette, actress, sells stamps and
butterflies near the main street.

My name is Carmen.

My name is Carmen.

Every morning,
I go to work on foot.

Sempere's friends introduce
me to Chonette.

Blond, white and pretty,
she isn't Carmen.

I like her. She will be Carmen.

The idea of Carmen
walking to work every morning

inspires me to capture Chonette
with a zoom lens

free in the streets of Madrid.

I try to catch her
from a thousand angles,

free of any constraints.

Free as I was, as I am,
and as I still want to be.

Carmen won't know this place
and the life here

as it was foreseen at
the first stage of the script.

She will not have known Guillermo.

I will not have known Carmen.

Empty and useless sets.

My phone has been
cut off for several days

I just need to shoot the first
and last shots of the film.

Before leaving Madrid,
I throw a Flamenco party

in honor of my friend Juan
and some other friends.

It's September 26, I think.

The tape recorder I have isn't
in sync with the camera.

It's behind or ahead that Jose
sings over the images.

It doesn't really matter.

I didn't organize the rolls of
image and sound in the same order.

This should be the last image of
a script written four years ago.

This is what I wanted the last
image of October in Madrid to be.

Chonette takes off her makeup

and makes the gesture
imagined for Anne the actress.