All language subtitles for genius.s02e04.picasso.chapter.four.1080p.web.dl.hevc.x265.rmteam_track3_[eng]

-Previously on Genius...
-I am Max Jacob.

Most days, I am a poet.

-That's even worse
than being a painter.
-JACOB: I cannot bear

the thought of living
in this world without you!

PICASSO:
Max, I love you,

but not the way you want me to.

DORA: They have sent the rest
of his family to the camps.

You are the only one
who can persuade him to get out.

We could take away everything

-and everyone.
-JACOB: I am not

a Jew anymore.
So I am not leaving.

This is my home. Here with God.

PICASSO: You're
a brilliant photographer, Dora.

But there is a painter

-trapped inside of you.
-FRANCOISE: Are you going

to tell me what you thought
of my paintings?

You have talent.

DORA: You want
to paint something new,

and you think
getting this young girl

into bed will help you do that.

PICASSO (chuckles):
You're just jealous.

Are you sure you are ready?

Yes.

LAURENT: I could offer you work,
as a model.

That wasn't our agreement.

If you don't like it, leave.

PICASSO:
Love can be dangerous.

Fernande!

SABARTES:
If you ask me,

this will not end well.

*

*

(clock ticking)

APOLLINAIRE:
What dirty Beelzebub are you!

You horny,
stinking Lord of Flies,

fed on dung and garbage stew.

(laughter)

We won't attend your revelries!

You putrid Salonikan fish!

And festered eye

compose your flesh.

Or is it,

as your friends report,

your mother let

a liquid fart?

-(mimics flatulence)
-(laughter)

Death to illusions!

(cheering and applause)

(cackling)

PRIEST (chanting):
...et habitavit in nobis:

et vidimus gloriam eius,

gloriam quasi unigeniti
a Patre.

Deo gratias.

(creaking)

(footsteps approaching)

*

OFFICER: You are coming with us,
Mr. Jacob.

Then... set your hand free

and let your instincts

-carry your pencil...
-(chuckles)

...to his destination.

(both laughing)

Where are you going?

I have plans.

Well, change them.

I have already seen you
three days this week.

You told me we shouldn't spend
too much time together.

-I'm just trying
to follow your rules.
-Rules?

I despise rules.

Do as you please.

I'll take Dora to lunch.

You don't mind, do you?

Have a lovely time.

SABARTES:
She is a child, Pablo.

You'll only spoil her
for someone else.

You're more narrow-minded
than a bishop.

(knocking)

She's totally capable
of looking out for herself.

-Monsieur Cocteau.
-I'm sorry

-to barge in.
-Jean.

I've received a letter from Max.

He's been arrested
by the Gestapo.

They hauled him off to Drancy,

but that's just a temporary stop
before they ship him east.

Poor Max.
You know, I-I tried to warn him.

I've drafted a petition
to the German embassy

asking for his release.
Everyone signed it.

(clears throat)
Morricone,

Cole, Salmon.

I can't.

For God's sake, Pablo,
the-the man is sick as it is.

He won't survive in a camp.

The Nazis hate me, Jean.

They have threatened
to throw me into a camp,

they outlawed my art
and denounce me

in speeches and, uh...

My signature would do Max
more harm than help.

Send the letter without my name.

Before it's too late.

DORA:
Where have you been?

Chasing
after your new, uh, plaything?

I've had a terrible day.

I had my bicycle snatched
right out of my hands

on the Rue d'Athènes.

You see that man?

He's been staring at me
since I sat down.

I think he's following me.

Did I tell you how René Drouin
has asked me to do a...

show at his gallery?

-Mm.
-But he wants to change
the dates again.

How am I supposed to prepare
if he can't make up his mind?

(scoffs)

Have you heard a word I've said?

You are not the only one
with problems, Dora.

Something terrible
has happened to Max.

PICASSO:
Max. What a surprise.

I, uh... I hope you don't mind.

I heard you were back in town,
and, uh...

I... I'm glad to see you.

What, uh...
what happened between us, uh...

It was a-a hard time
for all of us.

I care for you, of course,
but I am...

I am not, um...

Yeah.

Max, it's all right.

I have, uh, met someone.

-How wonderful! (chuckles)
-Yeah. Yeah.

Um... who is he?

No. No, no, no. No, no. A woman.

-Yeah. Yeah.
-Oh.

Her name is Cécile.
She is, uh...

(chuckles)

...something. Really, she's...

(keys jangling)

(lock clicking)

Oh.

(clears throat)

I see that you have your eye
on someone, too.

Oh.
(chuckles)

No, she's-she's just a neighbor.

Just a neighbor. Oh.
What is her name?

I don't even know.

(Jacob sighs)

Invite me in!

I want to see what,
uh, you've been up to.

And, most importantly,
I need a drink.

Actually,

I was just on my way out.

Why don't you come with me?

(chuckles)

SAGOT:
700.

-PICASSO: Each?
-(scoffs)

-For all three.
-Piss off, Sagot.

I wouldn't let them go
for twice that.

(scoffs) If you don't like it,
try your luck with Soulié.

But don't forget you still owe
me the money that I advanced you

for the pigment.

Let's go, Max.

I know a place

where people
actually appreciate modern art.

(bell tinkles, door shuts)

Henri Matisse.

The drawing is rudimentary.

Worse than a child's.

And the perspective is flat.

Clouds are yellow,

-skin is purple?
-Yes, it's...

it's all wrong.

But it's magnificent.

JACOB:
Makes no sense.

PICASSO:
Yet it's completely alive.

(scoffs) You are twice
as talented an artist.

No, this artist
has more than just talent.

He has vision.

I have never painted anything
this revolutionary.

(scoffs)
But you could.

(sighs)
Yes.

But I need to find a new way
of seeing things,

like this man has.

He understands.

Understands what?

That we don't need artists
to show us

what people look like anymore.

We have photographs for that.

This Matisse is showing us
a deeper truth.

The way things are
in our dreams,

not just as they appear to be.

He has bent

all the rules.

I want to smash them.

There is someone
you should meet.

-(indistinct chatter)
-PICASSO: Apollinaire.

That can't actually be
your name.

Judges and tax assessors
call me Kostrowitzki.

But Apollinairus
is indeed my middle name,

inscribed on my
birth records in Rome

and ordained by destiny
in honor of Apollo,

the deity of the Delphic Oracle.

You're even more
full of yourself than I am.

(laughs)

I think I like
your Spanish friend.

(laughs)

Absinthe! The green muse.

(laughter)

As artistes,
we must demand nothing less

than the perpetual
immoral subversion

of the existing order.

-Oh...
-Look out! Hey!

Shit! (grunts)

You'll get yourself killed.

And if he did die,
do you know what he might see?

-On the other side?
-Tell me.

I will show you instead.
(laughs)

-Clowns?
-Not just clowns. Harlequins.

-What is the difference?
-Look closely.

There is evil behind those eyes.

Everyone thinks that harlequins
are entertainers...

...but that is merely
their disguise.

They are actually... devils,

escaped from hell.

Your picture is, um,

too symbolist.

-Oh, really?
-Mm.

And what have you
written tonight?

My poem is, um...

Oh, oh, oh. Right here.

It is just waiting for me

to pour it upon the page.

It is, uh, much too cheerful.

-The acrobat, you mean?
-Uh, yeah, he's so pretty.

You might as well
be an Impressionist.

Perpetual immoral subversion,

it's not pretty pictures.

If you want to outdo Matisse,

you must use your images
the way that I use my words.

You must shatter
all the conventions,

you must stun them
with perversity.

He's right.

Sweet little dancing nymphs!

They will not rattle any bones

at the Autumn Salon.

Why didn't you
say something before?

You draw so damn quickly,

I didn't realize it
until just now.

His trouble is, he's too sober.

(chuckles) That's always
a problem, of course,

but right now, uh, my trouble is
that I will miss the last train.

Oh, you can't leave.

I need more pretentious poetry
and heartless criticism

if I'm going to fix
this damn painting.

I can't stay all night,
every night.

-I've got other,
uh, commitments.
-(laughs) What commitments?

(kisses)

Where have you been?

Drinking English ale
with the riffraff again?

Please, Mother, it's late.

Do you expect me to support you
until you are 40 years old?

What more do you want from me?

I bring home a paycheck
every month.

Yes! And you waste it all
in bars and cabarets.

And now Monsieur Maurice
has complained

-about your work at the bank.
-(groans)

I don't care about
Monsieur Maurice

and his godforsaken bank.
I am a poet, not a peon.

The only place
you're a poet is in

your gin-addled brain.

Do you know what I had to do
to get you that job?

If you lose it,

I won't think twice

about throwing you
out on the street.

(rain falling outside)

(kitten meowing)

(kitten meowing)

Well, you're a sorry
little bugger, aren't you?

It looks like
you're not the only one

who got caught in the rain.

(laughs softly)
The poor thing.

Is it yours?

Well... (chuckles)

-I suppose she is now.
-(kitten meows)

What should I call her?

My aunt had a cat named Minou.

Perfect.

And what should I call you?

Fernande.

Why don't you come
to my studio, Fernande?

Get the kitten some-some milk

and you some hot tea.

I can't, I'm-I'm expected.

(Minou meows)

Poor Minou, she's...
very disappointed.

Don't you ever clean?

If I disturb the dust,
it gets on the paintings.

Destroys them.

Your paintings must be
very precious to you.

They're everything.

Ah. (chuckles)
Hold the kitty tight.

Why?

I want to show you
my lodger. (chuckles)

You are very kind to strays.

(meows)

-You paint clowns?
-Harlequins.

Most of the artists I know
prefer to paint naked women.

I prefer not to paint
what everyone else does.

I'm submitting it
to the Autumn Salon.

I went last year.

This looks...

well... not like any
of the paintings I saw.

That's exactly the point.
I want to shake the judges

out of their frock coats
and cravats.

It's a new century.
Everything is changing.

Art must change, too.

Most painters just want someone
to buy their pictures.

That's being a whore,
not an artist.

There's no shame
in making a living.

I've been meaning to talk to you
for a long time,

but you're always
in such a hurry.

Who are they?

Some people I saw
at the Lapin Agile.

She looks like she wants
to get away from him.

What's wrong?

It's as though you've
already drawn my picture.

No. I don't know if I could

ever draw someone
as beautiful as you.

(purring)

(pencil scratching)

-What are you doing?
-Drawing.

-I didn't say you could do that.
-Sorry. I thought...

People pay me to model for them.
I don't do it for free.

Where are you going?

This was a mistake.

Laurent will ask
a thousand questions.

Where have I been?

Who was I with?

This can never happen again.

(door slams shut)

The Gestapo don't know
the first thing about poetry.

I am quite certain
they have no appreciation

for the talents
of your little Jew.

Um, he's a Catholic, actually.

I wouldn't repeat that fiction
to anyone else.

Of course, Minister.

Now, that's not
his only difficulty.

It's well-known that he has
certain deviant predilections.

He-He's revered in France.
He's, uh, an idol to our youth

and... he invented
an entirely new

language of poetry.

Personally, I'm rather partial
to the symbolists,

but despite his pretentions,

I agree Jacob's words

have a certain power.

You've read him?

We are not all Philistines,
Monsieur Cocteau.

Then you understand how much
he means to-to the French.

Indeed. And you do
have some rather

influential friends in Vichy.

I'll see what we can do.

NURSE:
May I help you?

I have release papers
for prisoner 15872.

-Jacob?
-Yes.

I'm sorry.

Monsieur Jacob died last night.

What...

*

The service is starting.

I should have dragged him
out of that monastery

and put him on a boat
to America.

You are not the king, Pablo.

You could not force Max
to do something

he didn't want to do.

He died alone.

In a cold room

on a dirty cot.

This damn war is almost over.

If only he could've stayed
hidden for a few more months.

He had a good life.

He had God.

Now come inside
and say good-bye to him.

No, no, I-I said good-bye to him
last year in Loiret. No.

If you don't pay your
last respects, you'll regret it.

No, I want to remember him
alive, not dead in a coffin.

I'll only see myself
lying there.

I wouldn't worry
about dying, Pablo.

I'm sure you are immortal
like a vampire.

What is wrong with you?
Have you been drinking?

-I'm going home.
-Why?

So you can climb into bed
with your little girlfriend

to feel young again?

What a marvelous idea.

(cheering,
patriotic music playing)

G.I.: Hey, toots,
I was here first.

-Wait your turn.
-How about a date, mademoiselle?

-I got chocolate.
-(door buzzer sounds)

(laughter)

Who are all these people, Jaime?

They put his face
on the cover of a magazine,

now everyone wants
his autograph.

So, w-why are you here?

Oh, well, Pablo invited me
to the Catalan to celebrate.

He's not here.

He's with Dora; they're choosing
work for her gallery show.

Mademoiselle, you seem like
an intelligent young woman.

You must know the kind
of man he is.

What do you mean?

He is a genius.

He thinks it gives him the right
to demand of everyone,

especially his women,

to cater to his whims.

He's been like this
for 50 years.

Do you really think
he's going to change for you?

FERNANDE:
Should I come back tomorrow?

Why not stay a bit longer?

We agreed on three hours.

Yes, for five francs, but...

...I have ten.

My neck hurts.

I don't think
I can pose anymore today.

And I can't paint anymore, so
why don't you get comfortable?

I will rub your neck.

Pig.

LAURENT:
So how much did he give you?

I earned it.

I don't need to report
every centime to you.

So you expect me to pay
for everything, huh?

The food? The rent?

FERNANDE:
Maybe if you made a sculpture

someone actually wanted to buy,

you wouldn't have
to take all my money.

You ungrateful bitch!

PICASSO:
Fernande.

-You all right?
-LAURENT: Mind your business,

Spaniard, or I'll report you
to the immigration authorities.

You don't have to let him
treat you this way, Fernande.

Knock on my door any time,
and I'll help you.

(chuckles)

Why is he talking to you
like that?

Hmm?

Who is he to you?

No one.

Look at his eyes.

He's a lunatic.

Leave us alone.

(sniffles)

APOLLINAIRE:
Everything enchants Picasso.

The delightful and the horrible.

The abject and the delicate.

His new masterpiece
Saltimbanques strikes

like a sword in the heart
of those who cling to history."

Oh, it is powerful, Guillaume,

but, uh, since when
are you an art critic?

Since I discovered La Plume pays
25 francs per review.

-What?
-(laughs) I submitted it

for the next issue.

Why don't you let me finish
the bloody painting

before you try and publish
articles about it?

Watch where you're going.

(scoffs) You are the one
who's in the way.

You little Dago.

(laughs)

(excited chatter)

Come on, let's go.

PICASSO:
Let go of me!

What the hell were you thinking?

That man is twice your size.

You could have
gotten yourself killed.

The bastard deserved it.

What is wrong?!

I've never seen you like this.

Just...

exhausted, I suppose.

JACOB:
Well, maybe you should, uh,

try sleeping,
instead of painting all night.

How am I supposed to paint,
when I have to listen

to the girl next door
getting screwed

-all night long?
-What girl?

Fernande.

Oh, I thought
you did not know her name.

APOLLINAIRE:
What, the one who lives

-with the sculptor?
-I can't understand

what the hell
she's doing with him.

Oh, for Christ's sake,
you're in love with her.

Of course I'm not.

You can't sleep, you can't work.

You are jealous
of the man she is with.

Ah, he is right.

You just do not
recognize the signs

because, uh, it has never
happened to you before.

Well, if-if this
is what love feels like,

-I-I don't want it.
-APOLLINAIRE: Good.

Because love destroys,
and you must create.

(exhales)

The Autumn Salon
is less than two weeks away.

This is your chance to spit
in the face of the masters,

to shake the world,

to stun Matisse.

You have worked so hard
on Saltimbanques.

Are you really going
to throw it away

over some fantasy
about another man's lover?

She does not love him.

For Christ's sake!

You forget this tart.

Just go home,

and finish your painting.

(panting)

(grunting)

I need to talk to you.

Did you follow me down here?

I just wanted
a moment alone with you.

What happened
was a mistake, Pablo.

I told you
not to bother me anymore.

It wasn't a mistake.

It was beautiful.

I know you felt the same.

I love you, Fernande.

I loved you
the very first moment I saw you.

You're making a fool
of yourself.

Well, maybe I am.

But that pig you're living with
has no right

to treat you the way he does.

What do you want from me?

Move into my studio.

I'll protect you from Laurent.

I'll take care of you.

I'll be good to you.

Do you know how many men have
said things like that to me?

I'm not like other men.

All of them.

-But you're all liars.
-No.

No, I swear.

On my mother's virtue.

Why should I trust you?

Fernande.

And why in God's name
would I trade

one broke artist for another?

PICASSO:
I'll take your offer.

What offer?

-The 700 francs.
-Ah.

I'm told 700 is what Vollard
has paid for a new Matisse.

A masterpiece.

I'm offering you
three paintings.

Ooh.
(tongue clicking)

(clinking)

I will offer you 500
for all of them.

Less, of course, the money
you owe me for the pigment.

To hell with you, Sagot.

(door opens, bells tinkle)

I'll take the 500.

Ah, that was two minutes ago.

The offer now is 300.

He's a goddamn thief.

300 francs.

What the hell am I supposed
to do with a lousy 300 francs?

(chuckles)
Two years ago, you would've

thought that a fortune.

We could feast for a month.

Don't you see?

I wanted to show Fernande
that I'm not

just another poor artist.

To get her out of Bateau-Lavoir,

take-take a fancy apartment
in Montparnasse.

And then what,
you'd be blissfully content

and start painting again?

Yes.

Well...

(sighs)

If winning this girl is the only
way to get you working again,

we'll just have
to make it happen, won't we?

How?

There's something you can buy
plenty of for 300 francs.

What?

Black magic.

(bell tolling)

Did you get it?

(exhales)

Opium.

The dark mistress.

(laughs)

(string music playing softly)

PICASSO:
I'm surprised to see you.

-You invited me.
-But I wasn't sure

you'd be brave enough to come.

I was curious about the art.

The art?

Or the artist?

So how does she rate?

I think she's brilliant.

Tell her yourself.

-I'll introduce you.
-No, I-- really,

I just...

I just wanted to see
the paintings.

Perhaps another time.

W-Why did you bother to come
if you didn't want to meet her?

I suppose I was trying to play
along with your Bohemian rules.

I told you, I don't have rules.

Well, whatever
you call this game.

It's not as easy
as I thought it would be.

I-It's not a game.

It's life.

Artists must be free.

No restrictions of any kind.

Dora is a surrealist,
she-she understands.

I'm not Dora.

W-Well, maybe this
was the-the wrong place

for the two of you to meet.

Maybe we should try again,
in a more comfortable setting.

FRANCOISE:
He invited me

to have dinner
with him and Dora.

(laughs)

He's got no shame
at all, does he?

He doesn't give a damn
what anyone else thinks.

In fact, the more
he offends people,

the more he seems to like it.

It's scandalous,

but it will certainly
be interesting.

It's one thing
to look the other way

while he sleeps
with other women,

but... I won't be paraded
in public as part of his harem.

You're not actually
in love with him, are you?

(laughs softly)

Maybe you can have
some fun with it.

Give him a taste
of his own medicine.

-Bonsoir.
-Bonsoir.

I would like you
to meet André Beaudin.

It is an honor to meet you, sir.

You are a little devil,
aren't you?

DORA:
Well, it seems

we need another setting. Waiter?

Françoise, sit next to me.

I have so many questions
to ask you.

FRANCOISE:
I have seen your paintings.

I think they're extraordinary.

Well.

It's true what you say about
this one, Pablo.

She has excellent taste.

He is very handsome.

(tittering)

(laughs)

Waiter, we'll have, um,

caviar, oysters,

champagne.

Right away, Madame.

Isn't this fun?

(snorts)

Yeah.

Another, please.

Garçon.

Just, uh,
bring the check please.

(gasps) Did I tell you
what happened to me last night?

No.

I was walking
across the Pont Neuf.

A man ran out and snatched
my little dog.

I'm sorry, that's...
that's terrible.

Poor Pepe.

I can't imagine what that
evil man has done with him.

First, your bike's stolen.

Then your dog.

How many times are you
gonna tell these stories?

I don't understand why
you're not more upset.

-You love that dog.
-But I am sure Françoise

would rather discuss something
more interesting.

Heh.

DORA:
It's such a clear night.

Why don't you walk me home?

I am too tired for walking. Huh?

DORA: That's what happens
when you get old.

You quit before the fun
even begins.

Go home, Dora.

Go home. Eh?

-I suppose I'll see you
some other time...
-Yeah.

...if I'm not murdered
by hooligans on the way home.

Thank you for
an interesting evening.

Good night.

I really should go with him.

Look, I am not a fool,
Françoise.

All right?
It's obvious

why you brought me here tonight.

It's not because you've got
an interest in me.

PICASSO:
Are you coming?

Are you sure she's all right?

Don't worry about Dora.

Dora will be fine.

(yipping)

*

I told you to leave me alone.

What if I told you

I have something that can
take away all your sadness?

You cleaned.

I did it for you.

You didn't seem
to like it dirty.

What about the dust?

Your paintings?

I just want you
to be comfortable.

Do you know what this is?

For opium.

Have you tried it?

You just want me out of my head

so I'll let you screw me again.

No, you-you don't
have to do anything.

I just want you to feel good.

I would build you a castle
or sail you away

on a magnificent yacht,
but I can't do any of that.

Um, I want to make you happy,
at least for a little while.

*

(chuckles lightly)

I want to show you something.

I don't understand.

It's a shrine to you.

But why?

Because I worship you, Fernande.

I know you didn't want me
to draw you.

Are you angry?

No.

No, it's...

You make me look so beautiful.

Sometimes I...

can't find the right words
to say what I feel...

but I can with my pencils
and brushes.

You don't have to.

I want to.

PICASSO:
Dora.

What happened?

(crying):
A man attacked me.

He stole my dog and my bicycle.

It was terrible.

We found her wandering
along the river,

-but there was no evidence
of an attack.
-These idiots

would not believe me,
so I made them bring me.

-(shushing)
-Tell them.

Tell them, Pablo. Tell them
what has happened to me.

Th-Thank you
for bringing her here.

-You can go now.
I'll take care of her.
-OFFICER: Forgive me, monsieur,

but perhaps you should
take her to the hospital.

I don't think
she's in her right mind.

All right.

Thank you. Thank you.

(sobbing):
Oh, Pablo.

(shushing)

Come, come, come, come, come.

LAURENT:
You crazy slut!

After everything
I've done for you,

you're gonna leave me for this
dirty, little foreigner?

If you come near her again,
I will kill you.

(door slams)

We're going to be happy now.

Is she doing any better?

Uh, the doctor gave her
a sedative.

Yeah, she'll be fine.

She won't be fine.

She's a Surrealist.

They all go mad sooner or later.

Pablo, that is absurd.

She needs some rest.

A couple of weeks in Antibes.

Can't you see she's suffering?

-A holiday isn't
going to solve that.
-Oh, no?

What do you suggest then,
Mademoiselle Dr. Gilot?

I don't know.

But what I do know is that...
this...

what we're doing...

you think she doesn't mind

because she's
such a free thinker,

but she does mind, very much.

And it's hurting her
and it's making her worse.

Don't be such a narcissist.

It's got nothing to do with you.

I'm sorry. I thought I could do
things your way, but I can't.

Maybe Dora was right.

Maybe you're still a child.

(scoffs)

Maybe.

But I am going
to look after myself

and I hope you look after Dora.

-DOCTOR: It will be over soon.
-Please.

I don't want this. Please.

Please.

(whimpering)

Clear.

(muffled screaming)

I've told you before,
no private matters

on company time.

What is this nonsense?

It is my work.

You are confused, Kostrowitzki.

This is your work.

Not anymore.

I'm a published art critic now
and a poet.

Throwing his ink
towards the heavens,

sucking the blood
of what he likes

and finding it delicious!

This inhuman monster,

it is me!

Brushed by shadows of the dead,

the blind man
rocks a pretty child,

the doe with all her fawns
slips by.

The dwarf observes
with saddened pose

how Harlequin

magically grows.

It's wonderful, Guillaume.

It captures the mood
of the picture perfectly.

(laughs)
We have done it, Pablo.

All of those academic graybeards

will be apoplectic
when they see it. (laughs)

When the Autumn Salon opens,
you'll both be sensations.

(Apollinaire laughs)

They have to accept
my painting first.

I'll be right back.

*

PICASSO:
Matisse.

We're leaving.

I don't understand.

I'm not submitting it.

But why?

It's not good enough.

Captioned by
Media Access Group at WGBH