All language subtitles for Vakantie van de filmer (Johan van der Keuken, 1974)

My grandfather was a socialist
at the turn of the centuy.

His convictions complicated his life
as a village schoolteacher.

To my mother and the other children
he must have been a strict father.

He played the violin, beautifully.

ln his late fifties
he took up photography.

lt became his passion
until a few years before he died.

The photography bug caught me
when l wwas about twelve.

Here, at fourteen
with my old plate cam!era.

l was fascinated by the old man
in his eighties...

...producing pictures from a tray
in his mysterious darkroom.

During the holidays
we made leisured cycling trips...

...taking pictures,
always in the same spot.

l must have faced this farm
a dozen times.

Grandfather often stopped
for a chat with a farmhand...

...in the clipped Norrthern dialect.

ln those days the Labour Parrty
wwas too right-wing for him.

He took the Communist paper...

...and laughed scornfully
at the lies of the radio newws.

ln 1955 his old Rolleiflex
wwas stolen.

He never got used to the Ikoflex
his children bought for him.

ln his last years he lost heart.

And yet at 86, eighteen years ago,
he took my picture.

Then l photographed him...

...eighteen years ago, when l wwas 18.

Of course, my grandfather
is just an image, a memory.

And yet...

rHE FllMMAKER'S HOlIDAY
Johan uan der Keuken
1974
(to mytather)

l can't see the face of the earrth.

Over its shoulder
l gaze into ttwilight.

The country is gettting empty.
Agriculture is slowly being strangled.

Old age covers the county,
impoverished and gentle.

WORKERS!

Has your husband been ill long?

For the past thirtty years.

He had to work too hard
when he was vey young.

He was not strong.

His grandmother, a hard woman...

...made him work
in the heat and the cold.

He wwasn't strong, you know.

But he wwas intelligent. He wwas
only ten when he finished school.

Things were different
in those days, you see.

Harrvesting with scyythes...

Me working in the fields
alongside my husband.

lt wwas hard work.

Were there more people here?

Oh yes, lots more in the old days.

Nowadays young people
go to the cities.

They want a big house of their own
and can't live without a car and a tractor.

They wwant to be able
to take the Sunday off.

Sundays and Saturdays...
Saturday, Sunday and Monday...

And the holidays as well.
They need more money.

The young people marry and go away.

There are only two young men left.

One of them fancies my niece.

She is not interested.
She keeps avoiding him.

Her mother would like to see her
get married, but she won't.

She says he's too old.
Well, what can you do?

Your husband wwas mayor?

His grandfather used to be mayor...

...then his father wwas
and then he was mayor.

Well, what can you do?

My husband was the mayor here
for 22 years.

And if he hadn't got
Parkinson's disease...

...he would still be mayor.

ln this village?

The dining-room wwas his office.
All the people came to see him.

Do you miss all that?
- Oh yes. Always visitors calling.

We never had a meal without someone
at the door for a signature.

On holidays eveybody dropped in,
friends, police...

32 people in our dining-room!

One policeman had a fine voice.

All the youngsters wwaited outside
until he'd sing.

They didn't go dancing
until he'd sung.

And at grape-picking time,
all the youngsters pitching in.

Lots of drinking!

ln 1914 when the wwar broke out
all the bells were ringing here.

My sister did her First Communion
then, and nobody came!

Yes, we lost an uncle in that war...
an uncle.

And then in 1939
the Germans occupied! us.

There wwas some collaboration.

The husband of this lady here
wwas executed by a firing squad.

He wwas pro-German.

He had it in for my brother,
but he escaped.

My brother escaped, you know.
l don't know how, but he did.

Yes, my brother escaped.

Well, what can you do?

l'm scared! Scared of the dog.

The photograph is a memory.

l remember what l'm seeing now.

The film doesn't remember anyything.

The film always happens now.

And that foot and that foot...

...and my nails and my sheet...

Down with the army!

Hello, little boy.
Hello, little fellow.

Shake hands.

Hello, little Tony.

WWhat a cary-on.

Well, what can you do?
That's how it is.

Tony, would you like a sweet,
litttle boy?

Old people greeting a child.

l think of the poet Remco Campert...

...nearer to the truth
in December than in July.

Remco, growing from manhood
to childhood.

Eighteen years ago, when l was eighteen,
l photographed him.

Fourrteen years ago l made
a short film-. A Moment's Silence.

Remco near the stadium, working out.

Or is it the boy
he's still to become?

cold

winter approaches

l can feel it in the air
and in the words l write down

eveything is becoming clearer
you can see to the end of the street

words have no end

l am a poet, nearer to the truth
in December than in July

l am a poet, it seems
by the grace of the calendar

yet it's the cities, not the words
which are drawing to their end

if only somewhere
summer and winter

a star would shine
shedding a fierce white light

l say a star,
but it could be anything

as long as it burns
and gives warmth to the words,

but l don't believe in such a star
still less in wintertime

in words l have to believe

yet who can do just that

l am a voice, cold and dying
full of winty words

Wsdom is in the belly of Chubby.

Three years ago, in the film 'Diary',
Chubby was in this belly.

Waiting for Chubby. His brothers
full of curiosity about him.

We don't know it's him.

We'll learn at the end of the film.

This belly is now this belly.

Afew wrinkles above the navel
are proof that Chubby was in there.

Where are you?
- l am here!

l can't see the face of the earrth.

Over its shoulder
l gaze into the ttwilight.

French film critic
Andr� Bazin once said...

...film is the only medium that
can show the transition...

...from life to death.

Filming this transition several times
has taught me nothing.

Nothing happens.

Showing the death-to-life
transition is harder.

You've got to make the transition
come true, for nothing happens.

Last year Ben Webster died.

Here he lives
as l filmed him seven y!ears ago.

Ben is a mother's child
alwways asking attention!.

Ben is a gentleman,
swearing in whispers.

Ben knowws his greatness...

...but a stranger can floor him...

...with one unkind word.

Ben says that the landlady
closes the curtains...

...so people won't see that Negro.

Ben drinks. Life is a burden to him.

But his music evokes rage
out of silence...

...and blanks out rage with silence.

He plays and says-.
Listen, nothing happens.

Ben, before you outgoes, you eating?
5 o'clock?

Eleven!

Nice the cake?

Nice the coffee?

Nice the water?

Nice and fresh, wwater is.

Tomorrow we going to flower-show.

For the flowers.
- Yes.

And Sunday we're going to the zoo...

Sunday we going with all to zoo.

With Erik and Dennis, John and Meta.

We'll make you a nice day, OK?

Do you wwant to go to the garden?

Old man can't talk.

Old man can't talk, Jopie.

But he can sit.

l got a sweet.
From the lady. Two sweets...

Ben talks about a friend
from the past.

Dictatorship founders in Greece

Long live Democracy

What about it, my dear?

Are we going into the garden?

Poor thing.

Are you coming, Louis?

He doesn't want to. He's tired.

Well, what can you do?

None of us is as young
as we used to be.

Madame Bacabe?

Your paper.

How was your Sunday?
- Vey good.

Did you go out?
- Just to the cemetey.

We put flowers on the grave
of my poor brother-in-law.

l went to my children, as usual.
- There wwas a funfair.

My wife won a rabbit.
- Good for her.

l wwasn't too excited.
l don't like rabbit.

l would rather have potatoes.

After we came home
my wife cooked suppe'r.

And then we watched a film
on television. Did you see that, too?

lt put me asleep.

Oh, l found it fascinating!
It wwas about the Resistance.

Hitler beginning his propaganda...

...and the Germans thinking
it wwas all for the common good...

...while he wwas
already preparing for wwar.

That was our Sunday,
just like any Sunday. It's a habit.

l must be gettting on.

Give my regards to the children.

Flowers going to sleep there...

...falling and falling...

Flowers going to sleep there...

Out of the night comes a poem.

Hardly a week passes
without my thinking of this poem.

lt's from a film
l made ttwelve years ago...

...about the poet and painter Luceberrt.

it's all in the world, it is all

the mad dog's smile of hunger

the witch's fright of pain and

the great vulture and thirst

the great ancient heavy nightingales

it's all in the world, it is all

all those who live deprived of light

the dragonflies imprisoned
in their iron lungs

have the power and fastness

of solid stone watches

inside the broken paper of power

yawns under the stray bullet of peace

yawns before
the short-sighted bullet of war

the looted skull

the erosion

it's all in the world, it is all

poor and narrow and slowly born

sleepwwalkers in a cold circus

all is in the world, it is all

sleep

The light comes on.

The photograph is a memory.

l remember what l'm seeing now.

The film doesn't remember anyything.

The film always happens now.

l can't see the face of the earrth.

Over its shoulder
l look into the light.

And the light is me, amongst others.