All language subtitles for neruda.2016.limited.1080p.bluray.x264-usury_track3_eng

Hail, Emperor Caligula.

Hail.

I would like to welcome
the USSR's biggest defender,

but I'd like to know who is this Mr. Neruda?

He speaks of peace,

yet he supports strikers
who attack our law enforcement.

I don't know what gives you the right

to insult our president

in the foreign press.

I'm talking to you, sir!

I'm listening, Senator.

- Are you Neruda or aren't you?
- I am.

Good, because two months ago,
your name was Ricardo Reyes.

Why did you change your name?
Did you steal something?

Silence!

How dare you?

It's a question.

Show the senator some respect!

Silence.

The honorable Senator Neruda has the floor.

Thank you very much,
Mr. President of this shitty senate.

I would first like to thank the Russian people

for defeating fascism
and achieving world peace.

Secondly, I'd like to thank

the Communist Party, my party,
for always defending

the rights of workers and of the people,

rights that are being ignored right now.

Union leaders, Communist Party members,
are being thrown

in jail by your president.

The traitor González Videla,
who sold out to the Northern empire!

You elected him.

We all elected him, Senator.
Regrettably, we all did.

All of us idiots in this room elected him.

Excuse me.

It's been only three years
since World War II ended

and here, in this happy home,

a fabulous persecution is about to begin.

I've always thought this is how
Chilean left-wing elites liked to celebrate

when they're not busy complaining.

Deep down, they're happy. They're in love,

and they love to soak up
other people's suffering and sweat.

In this cave,
the artists and the intellectuals gather,

those who traveled the world
and returned happy.

The advisers.

The lawyers.

Criminals need to surround themselves
with men in ties

who went to university to study the art
of bureaucratic cheating.

Don Pablo

isn't ready to go yet because he promised
to dress up as Lawrence of Arabia,

the desert guerrilla fighter.

And his wife,

I don't get her.

An Argentinian aristocrat educated in Paris,

but she wound up with the son of a laborer.

How do I look?

Unrecognizable.

Silence, please.

Silence!

Thank you.

Next on our program,
a surprise from our host.

I give you

the poet Pablo Neruda.

All eyes on him.

All lips.

"Tonight, I can write the saddest lines...

Many want to kiss him.

"Write, for example...

They want to hold his hand.

"The night is starry...

They want to sleep in his bed.

"And the stars are blue
and shiver in the distance...

They say he smells of seaweed.

"The night wind revolves
In the sky and sings...

The embarrassment of once again
repeating the poem from a rural school...

"Tonight I can write the saddest lines...

...written over 20 years ago.

"I loved her

"And sometimes, she loved me, too

"Through nights like this one...

Many women must imagine

he makes love with a rose in his teeth.

"I kissed her so many times
under the endless sky...

And that after kissing them,

he runs off to write new love poems,
inspired by them.

He's the king of love.

"I loved her, too...

"Tonight, I can write the saddest lines

"To think that I do not have her...

They don't know what it is
to sleep on the floor,

but they are all reds.

"To hear the immense night

"Still more immense without her...

If we had a Bolshevik revolution,

they would be the first to run away.

"Like dew upon the grass."

They say that Neruda is the most
important communist in the world.

He must firmly believe in unity
of workers and peasants,

in the dignity and historical lucidity
of the Chilean Bolshevik party.

We'll have some water.

These gentlemen are working.

Just take it away, please.

Thank you.

We've come from an emergency meeting
of the Party steering committee.

Enough!

They've sent us here to inform you

that the government
is ostracizing union leaders.

They've asked us to inform you that

we're going into hiding.

Me, too?

Yes. You, too.

- No?
- No.

I am absolutely certain

that sooner or later,

sooner rather than later,

the unfair political process
to which I've been subjected

shall be appropriately judged,

and instigators and perpetrators
shall all be called by their name.

Thank you very much.

Silence!

Silence in the room, please.

In Chile, there's no freedom of speech.
There's no freedom from terror.

Today, January 6th, 1948,

I'm being persecuted for remaining
faithful to lofty human aspirations,

and for the first time, I had to face a tribunal

for reporting despicable violations
of those freedoms to the Americas

occurring in the last place on earth
I would have wished,

here in Chile.

Why do they do this?

Well, communists hate to work.

They'd rather bum churches.

It makes them feel more alive.

The Chilean aristocracy
likes to flaunt its wealth,

but that shouldn't impress the poet.

He's been to Parisian salons,

and this provincial imitation
makes him laugh.

Still, he likes it.

Alessandri has been
the president of the Republic twice,

and now he's the president of the Senate.

In his desk drawer,
there is a key labeled "Chile."

Al'! of us Chileans are merely his servants.

I was with the president of the Republic.
He's very sad.

Really? Why?

He says you insulted him
with slanderous remarks.

It's possible. My intention has always been
to harm him as much as possible.

You should write a book
when you get out of jail.

Call it "Prison Poems,"
or something like that.

That's an awful title, Alessandri.
Don't talk about things you don't know.

In politics, insolence is a way
of expressing admiration.

I'm asking you to close the Pisagua
concentration camp and free my comrades.

Why ask me to do something
I don't want to do?

I thought you didn't take orders,

but you're a González Videla lackey.

That language, Senator!
That's what gets you in trouble.

Being a communist got me in trouble.

That and inciting union uprisings.

I don't regret that.

What do you regret? Becoming a bourgeois?

I regret I campaigned for a traitor.

Yes, you wrote a poem for him.

That's funny now, isn't it?
But during the campaign...

Well, these traitors have their charm, too.

No, I disagree.

You and your communist comrades
were so thirsty for power

that you let yourself be fooled
by a three-penny populist.

What's wrong with having
ambitions of power?

It's our turn now. We are entitled
to aspire to La Moneda.

How will you govern?

With a democracy of Soviets,

of soldiers, workers and peasants.

God help us all.

The palace will be covered

in peanut shells and broken bottles.

They'll write laws with spelling mistakes.

Perhaps.

But the cemeteries won't be filled
with executed political prisoners.

Senator, please.

You think the way to defeat communism
is to push us into exile,

to put us in jail,
but allow me to offer some advice.

The solution is to kill us all.

Kill us.

That will solve your problem.

Don't say that again,
some may be tempted to try.

Who? You?

I'll consider it.

The Supreme Court
is confirming your impeachment.

You have to leave the country.

Please, listen to me.

If you leave the country
without authorization,

your legal situation will worsen.

But I'm getting impeached anyway.

Don Pablo, this is the Party's position.

Pablo should let them arrest him.

Absolutely not.

Am I more dangerous in hiding or in prison?

- In prison.
- What are you doing?

A fugitive.

- Do you really think so?
- Sure.

Then we'll have to run away.

Pablo can't be regarded
as a mere political leader.

He's a writer. His obligation is to write.

Dead or in jail, he won't be able to do that.

Who's going to kill me?

Do you want to go down in history?

He wants to go down in history.

Watch the birdie! Look at me.

Perfect.

We're done now.

Well, what do you say?

Pablo, turn yourself in.
They'll catch you anyway.

No.

Disappear.

Perhaps.

But I'm not going to hide under a bed.

This has to be a wild goose chase.

This is where I come in.

I must enter.

I come from a blank page.

I come for my black ink.

This is where the cop enters, full of life,

with his chest filled with air.

This way.

My president has a boss.

The President of the United States.

And when he tells us to kill
our local communists,

this trained monkey must obey.

- Good afternoon, Mr. President.
- Good afternoon.

- Is this the prefect?
- Yes, sir.

Pleasure.

The pleasure is mine.

The Director of Investigations

was upset with me
because I wanted to speak to you.

I don't think he was upset.

He was upset.

Was he or wasn't he upset with me?

What do you think?

Yes, I think he was a little upset.

Do you know Neruda?

Yes, I do.

Do you read poetry?

Not much.

You know this country is full
of intelligent communists.

They speak French.
They like building bridges.

We're speaking of a fat man
who got his first pair of shoes at 12.

During my campaign, this man would pull
a piece of paper out of his pocket,

and 10,000 workers would go silent

to hear him recite poetry in that voice of his.

It's also true

that the Chilean people forgive prisoners.

Yes, sir.

Can I breathe easy?

Absolutely, sir.

Catch him and humiliate him.

Then we'll celebrate.

Now the president will dance the waltz,

or spend the evening playing the piano.

Excuse me.

Crying with rage.

Thank you, Mr. President.

I'm a great police officer,

but I can also be a great artist.

You tell me.

Excuse me.

Is that me?

No.

It should be me.

But it's a horse.

Let's buy two horses and escape.

Sure.

- Know how to ride?
- Yes.

- I'm from the south, remember?
- Me, too.

Let's go.

Do you dare?

Together.

Of course.

We'll leave together.

Then you'll go off on your own,

as always.

Let's leave.

Let's leave.

People say Chile is an island,

and that the Andes are like a second sea,

a gigantic wave that never breaks.

on the other side, there's a strange flat land

called "Argentina."

It's a green country, a real country,
with agriculture

and with war.

- Good afternoon.
- Good afternoon.

Passports, please.

Yes.

Here you go.

It says here your name is
Ricardo Reyes Basoalto.

And my passport reads "Pablo Neruda."

But it says "Reyes" here.

Because "Neruda" is his artistic name.

It's my war name.

If you have two names,
you can't leave the country.

Someone's waiting for me there.

I can walk across.

Sorry.

It's the law.

Turn back around.

Good afternoon.

The first house is the first prison.

Neruda is a man of mountains and eagles,

not of bare mattresses or cleaning toilets.

Come in.

Perfect.

- It's marvelous.
- Thank you for lying.

The good part is
we must eat lying down, like Nero.

Exactly.

Well, we can put the grand piano here.

The pool table can go by the windows.

This will be the ballroom.

Know the problem with this place, Víctor?

What is it?

They'll never find me here.

- Want them to find you?
- No.

But I'd like to feel them closer.

Nobody touch a thing!

The shrewd inspector Peluchonneau

leads the operation
as if it were the conquest of Egypt.

This house is full of beautiful objects,

the only thing Neruda truly loves.

Nobody here.

But there's nobody here.

Naturally, the warrant came too late.

So I imagine that by now,

the poet must be chopping onions
for his repugnant fish stew.

THE WOMAN AT THE ZOO

Rise and be born with me,
policeman brother.

Nothing special.

I've seen all of this before in Callao,
the seaport of brothels.

It's a pretty house.

It's horrible!

It's pretty.

A woman goes to the zoo
and never comes back.

Men in gray investigate.

Dirty men, like me.

Why am I reading this?

These writers have never been
policemen with hearts of copper.

They've never kicked a body
with the weight of the law.

They can't imagine how wonderful
the criminal mind can be.

But that doesn't matter.

I'm here, and Neruda is there.

He must be writing those words
in unexpected sequences.

That three-penny poetry.

He must be enclosed
by four walls and a roof.

Like me.

- Pablo.
- I need air.

You can't be here!

Pablo! They've ordered your arrest.

Not now.

- Look.
- Really? Read it to me.

- Yes.
- Read it.

- Pablo, Pablo!
- Let her read! This is the best part.

- Yes, it's true.
- Read, Delia.

"Pablo Neruda is wanted, nationwide.

"Minister Miguel González Castillo,

"who has ordered the arrest
of Senator Neruda,

"stated that the poet has fled his residence."

- That's for sure.
- It's true.

"The prefect Óscar Peluchonneau

"has dispatched 300 policemen
to search for the poet,

"who could face 541 days in jail."

Three hundred policemen!

"The homes of Neruda's friends
and collaborators are being raided.

"His capture is imminent..."

Three hundred policemen!

Three hundred is a lot, isn't it?

It's a lot, Pablo.

So where are these fucking cops?

No need to be vulgar. Don't shout.

It says they're looking in my friends'
houses, but no one's come for me.

Are you my friend or not?

You drank half a bottle.

I want to know. Listen to my question.

If they're searching my friends' houses,
they'd come here.

Are you my friend or not?

Nobody knows I live here.

Then they won't come.

No one knows where he lives.
They won't come.

Either they won't find me,
or you're not my friend.

Behave yourself. And don't shout.

Olivier,

founder of the police force.

The head jailer.

The best of the best.

My father.

He didn't recognize me,
but I managed to get status as his son.

Now I, too, am Peluchonneau.

Olivier.

Olivier Peluchonneau.

Thanks, Dad.

NERUDA TRAITOR

NERUDA
COMMUNIST

What happened? Was the help off today?

The dishwashing soap dries out my hands.

- Just look at them.
- Delia.

Hygiene is a bourgeois value.

If we don't clean, it's for political reasons.

Senator.

Are these up everywhere?

Yes. Don't worry, we're taking them down.

No!

We have to keep these.
They might have historical value.

If you say so, Senator.

Jara.

Who are you?

Jara is the new protector.

His name is Álvaro.

Álvaro Jara. A sad boy, like me.

You're in charge of my security?

Yes, sir.

He also represents the Party.

Another lost youth.

I need you to run an errand.

Go to the National Library
and get a Quechua dictionary

- and The Fauna of America.
- Of course.

It's for the secret book.

- Do you have a manuscript?
- A draft.

Do you want to see it?

It's not much, but here it is.

El Canto General,

30 copies of 30 poems.

In 30 envelopes.

You've been working.

No, just writing.

Thank you!

Séptimo Circulo Press.

Neruda likes sex, crime and violence.

Police novels help me forget
the police are after me.

No one can forget that.

- I'm leaving.
- Wait.

This is for Picasso.

The blind artist.

Very well. Goodbye.

Now the 30 poems have taken flight.

If I intercept one and bum it,

the other 29 will still reach 29 reds.

One can't fight the historical
cunning of the con man.

Good morning.

How may I help you?

We have an appointment with the president.

Has Neruda been arrested?

No.

Then why are you here?

Have you looked in his house?

Yes, of course.

Was he there?

No.

Where could he be?

We don't know.

He must be somewhere.

You're right.

Find his first wife.

There must always be a wonderful plan.

We'll do that.

- But please tell the president we're working...
- No.

Why not?

Because I'm not your employee, you prick.

I'm your civilian superior.
Find that fucking communist!

And if I catch him?

Excuse me?

What happens if I catch him?

Excuse me.

A civilian superior.

No civilian is superior to me.

Why don't you get dressed?

In what?

I don't know. You have clothing.

There's a dress on the chair.

I'm a lady, Pablo.

I can't get up without clean underwear.

I don't have clean clothes, either.

Then take them off.

Come here.

Give me a child.

The poet makes an effort
to say something romantic.

Delia, please...

Please what?

No.

- What's wrong?
- Nothing!

I want to go out. I'm cooped up here.

All right, go.

But they're going to kill you.

"Let the Duke of Braganza die

"Let the Emperor fall off his horse..."

I'm also a fish. I live in the Pacific Ocean.

Thank you, Max Havelaar!

They're chasing after me!

A Chinese daughter, with wet hair.

Drink.

There's a place where they smoke opium.
You lie down, on your side...

Hidden, warm, in here...

They're chasing me!

Inspector Peluchonneau
is on a secret mission.

The president of the Republic has
a wonderful plan to humiliate Neruda.

This is why he had to meet
a Dutch woman at the station.

Woman...

What?

Are you Neruda's wife?

Yes.

Come here.

Every good cop knows
how and when to sacrifice himself.

Besides, this blonde's got hot teeth.

I would never have left her.

- Do you speak Spanish?
- A little.

Have they treated you well?

More or less.

It would help us

if you gave some interviews
and told us how he abandoned you.

Pablo abandoned you
and your sick daughter, didn't he?

I want Pablo to pay me one million pesos.

Pablo has a lot of money
because he writes very long poems.

Of course. That seems fair.

It's very important that

you must use
the correct words with the press.

Bigamist.

Bigamist.

Bigamist.

Yes. Bigamist.

Pablo likes many women.

This woman will destroy Neruda.

Don't let me down.

Plenty of women like policemen.

They dream of cleaning the house for them
and dressing bullet wounds.

The kiss of a scavenger wolf.

After the lion feeds,

the dogs feed.

I don't care if this woman
still reeks of the poet.

I'm used to that squid sweat.

I want you.

You can't imagine how much I want you.

I even have a truck,

and a zoo in the middle of the desert.

Those who try to escape
turn into pillars of salt.

But no one ever escapes

because the prison captain
is a blue-eyed fox.

His name is Augusto Pinochet.

Are you coming?

No.

I need some time
to think about why I'm helping you.

Goodbye.

In the studio with us today, Maria Hagenaar.
Pablo Neruda's wife is here

to share her experience.

Mrs. Maria, is it true that Pablo Neruda

is a bigamist?

We have posters here

that clearly express the people's opinion.

They say, "Neruda traitor,"
"Neruda communist," and so on.

A traitor to whom?

Ma'am.

That's a lie.

He's a great man.

He owes me a lot of money,

but he's very kind.

I love the way Neruda sleeps.

He's not a traitor.

He's very kind. He's not a traitor.

He's a great...

This is how the strategy
of geniuses falls apart.

Mrs. Maria has run out of the studio...

Hello, Chile.

The poet is a public menace,

and an unforgettable lover.

For information leading to his capture,

there is a reward.

I am Óscar Peluchonneau

of the National Investigations Police of Chile.

Now a musical break. We'll be right back.

The World Congress
of intellectuals for Peace

proudly presents
the great anti-fascist creator,

Pablo Picasso.

Here is a letter sent to me
by my friend Pablo Neruda.

As I speak, he is hiding under a bridge

or in a railway tunnel.

Nevertheless, underground,

the poet is working for the heroic resistance

to Chilean fascism.

This is the testimony
of a Latin American giant

who lights a path toward peace
for the workers of the world.

Little girl

When I die

Don't cry over my grave

Sing me something beautiful

Sing me La Sandunga

Don't cry for me, no

Because if you cry, I die

But if you sing to me

I live forever

And never die

Instead, if you sing to me

I live forever and never die

Hello.

I'm with the senator!

Your senator is here!

Stop fucking around!

Elegance!

Cut your balls off to sing!

Go sing, fat stuff!

I'm singing for the senator!

Keep singing!

This is my art!

So spread some joy!

Instead

If you sing to me

I live forever

And never die

To the poet!

To Senator Pablo Neruda!

Thank you. Cheers.

Sorry about what happened.

Recite a poem for me. Just one.

The one that goes,
"I can say the saddest lines..."

Recite it, please.

"Tonight I can write the saddest lines

"To think that I do not have her

"To feel that I have lost her

"To hear the immense night

"Still more immense without her

"And the verse falls to the soul..."

Let's hear it!

You sent me another
of your police novels, poet.

Why?

Good evening!

Police!

Good evening.

How do you know that
this is my yard and my school?

My mother worked for 30 years
in a house like this.

Where's that fat communist?

Would you like to be serviced?

Would you like to be
with one of the girls, Óscar?

Each of these women is my mother.

I'm the son of a prostitute.

I'm the son of venereal disease.

Turn around.

Let's go!

My mother never knew my real father's name.

When she was drunk, she'd say,
"Munoz, Martínez, Mardones,"

but she'd also close her eyes,

suspecting it was Peluchonneau.

A silent man, chief of the national police.

Did he pay you?

No.

Do you know who he is?

No.

He's a politician.

A communist.

I didn't know he was a communist.

How much longer are you keeping me here?
I have things to do.

Look, I have only one thing to say.

It's not every day you meet
a poet of his stature

in your home, sharing with you.

It was a miracle for me, a miracle.

He was there with me,

and I was there with him.

He told me we were both the same.

He made me sing,
and asked how I felt when I sang.

Imagine.

I shared things with him
that I've never shared.

I told him I really like jazz
and classical music.

In fact, I sang him

a minuet that I love.

By Johann Sebastian Bach.

I sang, and he was really moved.

He told me I was an art worker.

That I was an artist, just like him. An equal.

And then he

recited a poem so beautiful...

A long one.

He put his hand on my knee.
His hand was so warm.

And he recited it here.

Softly.

Artist to artist, you know?

Man to man.

With human respect.

But a fucking dog like you
will never understand.

Where's Víctor?

- I don't know.
- What do you mean?

Mr. Pablo.

What?

Did you go for a walk last night?

No.

- Did you go for a walk?
- No.

Need anything? More whiskey?

Who do you think you are?

Stay here and don't go out.

If you go out, they'll catch you.

They'll strip you,

take pictures, front and back,
then send them to France

and spread them wide.
They'll put them on kites.

They'll destroy you.

Good ideas, all of them.

These reds are familiar
with the language of violence.

No one will catch me! Learn that much.

All of Chile is looking,
and no one will catch me!

Learn to act like a man, little boy!

Dress like a man! Grow a mustache.

Buy a gun. I don't know!

Learn to respect me!

Who does this asshole think he is?

Calm down, baby.

"Here they found people singing

"By duty and love united

"And the slender girl fell with her flag

"And the smiling young man
fell beside her, wounded

"For these dead, our dead..."

"I demand punishment!"
at the end of each line.

"I demand

"punishment!

"For these dead, our dead

"I demand punishment!

"For those whose blood
splattered the country

"I demand punishment!

"For the executioner who ordered this death

"I demand punishment!

"I demand punishment!

"For the traitor who
prospered from this crime

"I demand punishment!

"I demand punishment!

"For the one who ordered agony
I demand punishment!

"I demand punishment!

"For those who defended this crime
I demand punishment!

"I will not take their hand extended
Splattered with our blood

"I demand punishment.

"I will not have them as ambassadors
Those who are unpunished

"I want to see them tried here
In this plaza, in this place

"I want punishment."

Thank you!

Here you go.

Thank you, comrade.

Excuse me.

I don't want to bother you.

What's your name?

Silvia.

Could I have a kiss?

Yes. Of course, Silvia.

Ma'am.

I'm sorry.

Don't tell anyone that the poet
signed your book tonight.

We are not here.

You can trust me.

I've been a Party member since I was 14.

In any case,
the senator shouldn't be worried.

I shouldn't?

Why not?

May I?

If he's here, at this party,
and he starts to recite poetry...

The earth, blah, blah...

Love, blah, blah...

Punishment, blah, blah...

I say that it means

the government doesn't want to arrest him.

If they did,
they'd have an international problem.

- Enough.
- Because it's political.

It's in the government's interest to hunt him,

but not to catch him.

Never.

The senator is a communist,
like you, like me.

Yes, but he has special protection,

and I'll drink to that, because we all need

the poet senator

to keep writing about the people's suffering.

He has the protection of the Party leader.

What I want to know is,

that when communism arrives,

will we all be equal to him

or equal to me?

To me.

I've cleaned the shit of the bourgeoisie

since I was 11.

They'll all be equal to me.

We're going to eat in bed

and fornicate in the kitchen.

That's what we're fighting for, comrade!

"To Bogotá came Morínigo, Trujillo,
González Videla, Somoza and Dutra,

"and they applauded.

"Young American, you don't know them."

Hold on.

What if you read it with a different voice?

What voice?

The voice of the poet.

"Young American, you don't know them.

"They're the dark vampires of our sky.

"Bitter is the shadow of their wings.

"Shackles, martyrdom.

"Death, hatred."

- Did you finish?
- Yes.

Yes.

- Where are we going?
- Valparaíso.

Thank you.

The thing is, the senator is taking

a Chinese merchant ship.

Delia, women aren't allowed on board.

My love.

Don't worry, baby.

Excuse me.

We'll be in touch.

Safe travels.

Thank you, Víctor.

My love.

No tears.

A good policeman would tail him
to the fugitives house.

But I'm a bad policeman.

I like it when suspects confess, in whispers

or cries.

"Rise up to be born with me, my brother.

"Giveme your hand, from the depths
of your diffuse sorrow.

"You shall not return from the rocky bottom.

"You shall not return from subterranean time.

"Your hardened voice shall not return.

"Your drilled-out eyes shall not return.

"Here I was punished

"because the jewel didn't shine,

"or the earth didn't deliver
the stone or the grain on time.

"I come to speak

"through your dead mouth.

"Like a river of buried tigers,

"and let me weep,

"hours, days,

"years,

"blind ages, stellar centuries."

Strangely enough,

I believe you.

I believe you.

I'm glad.

I was the first to tell him

to turn himself in, that he'd win at trial.

Let's look for him together.

Sure, but where? No one tells me anything.

Why not?

They don't trust me. I'm not Chilean.

Of course.

I suggest we stay in touch.
I might find something out.

Wait.

We just learned Neruda has left Chile.

Really?

Yes, he's gone.

That's incredible.

Why?

Because you're watching the borders.

So you think he's still in Chile?

No, I think he must be abroad.

I see.

I'm going to Valparaíso.

No, why?

To find out if anyone saw him leave.

I think that he must still be in Chile.

But you just said he was abroad.

You said that he left on a ship.

This is a good example
of a whispered confession.

The lucid policeman
dominates the stupid Spaniard.

What are you looking at, Pedro?

At the people.

- Is this silk?
- Yes.

No.

What is it, then?

A sailor traded the fabric
for 12 bottles of wine.

A good deal.

The poet always applauds
an unfair transaction.

Should I pretend I'm a sailor?

No. A rich eccentric from Central America,

taking a ship to Ecuador or Mexico.

Does he have to be Chilean?

In that suit? I doubt it.

Don't suck your stomach in. Let it out.

What?

Breathe out.

That's it.

Don't tell anyone my secret.

Don't worry, no one cares.

"He danced in Viña del Mar,
amid jewelry and wine glasses.

"But the black eyes stare
through the black night.

"But the hand caressing you
stops at the desert's edge,

"at the seashore,
in a world scourged by death."

Every nation has its sorrows.

Mr. Pablo.

Mr. Pablo.

Sir.

Sir.

Sorry, I don't have anything.

The expert policeman
picks up an Asian scent.

He's close.

Where have you been?

They found us. Let's go.

Not yet. We're lost.

Where are we?

- I told you it was a bad idea.
- It was interesting anyway.

To write well, one must know how to erase.

This hunt is missing terror.

Why do I read them?

I want to know.

What is your novel about?

The poet has the fever of artistic spirits

who tend to think the world
is something they imagined.

The flies.

Again, a swarm of flies.

What is that?

The last column of the Red Army?

You fucking communist.

There it is.

You vulgar little man.

The president sleeps like a baby
practically every night.

However,

every time he eats escargot before bedtime,

he must dream about Neruda.

Senator!

Let's drive around again.

That's enough, Senator.

Here we are, Gabriel González,
you piece of shit.

- Pablo.
- Jorge, how are you?

Hello.

We have a plan to get you out of Chile.

- Does the Party know?
- Of course.

The Secretary General agrees.

I'm leaving.

What? No, have a drink.

No, thank you.

Want something to eat?

See you tomorrow?

-I don't think so.
- What do you mean?

I'm going to ask the Party to relieve me.

Don't be stupid, Jara.

Come on.

Leaving through the south
is a risky proposition.

- You're not from the country.
- The Party decides.

But that decision depends
on your acceptance.

And I accept it.

Why don't you hear him out?

I know what to do with my life.

They're all in jail, except for me.

Who do you think I am? A king?
What are you waiting for?

In that case, stay.

I can't.

I can't stay. I have to leave.

What you want is a great escape.

I won't play the fascists' game.

I'll become their worst nightmare.

In order to do that,
I need to be a popular giant.

You can't do that.

- I already have.
- No, you can't.

People would say you used this persecution

to become a saint,

that we were never actually oppressed,

that we like to play the victim,
that we like to suffer.

But they're killing us, for real.

Look.

I only ask you to be a bit more humble.

Good luck on your journey.

What's wrong with you?

What do you mean?

What do you mean,
you know what to do with your life?

Delia.

- People are going to notice.
- Notice what?

That I'm the artist.

- No! I'm the artist!
- No, I am.

- I'm the artist here!
- You're nothing, Pablo.

What's this about being a giant?

I'm doing what I'm meant to do.

- Can't you see that?
- Please, Pablo.

If you don't like it, walk out that door.

No one's chasing after you.

What's your problem?

You suffocate me all day long,

one inch away.

Look at me.

I used to be a prince.
Look what you've turned me into.

Of course I'll leave.

I'll leave.

When they catch me,
I'll say you want to be president.

They'll come here for you
and kill you. Will you be happy then?

Then I'll throw myself into a river.

Kill yourself.

Kill yourself, if you want to.

That way, I'll write about you
another 20 years.

Antonio Ruiz Lagorreta.

Ornithologist.

Little ant, I thought I'd die with you.

You've given me everything.

Without you, I wouldn't be me.
I wouldn't even be a communist.

What?

If everything turns out all right, if I survive,

you and I will drift apart.

I don't mind being alone.

But I'm worried about you.

Writing makes you sad. I've seen you
take your head in your hands and...

Being with you is beautiful.

It's like living on a tree-lined street.

My little ant.

The little ant doesn't know what to do.

She thinks she's still strong,
still clear-minded,

and realizes she'll live
at least another 40 years.

For a minute, she only sees red horses.

May I?

Come in.

Thank you.

Out for a stroll?

What's that?

This is an arrest warrant issued
by the Chilean National Police.

No, but...

No.

- No.
- No.

I'm the type of person that would rather die
than go to prison.

Where is he?

- Not here.
- Where?

You don't understand, do you?

You don't understand a thing.

What?

In this fiction,
we all revolve around the protagonist.

- What?
- The books, for instance.

This one.

You've been reading it.

It has a hunter and a fugitive.

A hero and a supporting character.

No.

I'm not a supporting character.

Then why do you think he let you live?

Because he can't kill me.

He could have.
He takes target practice every day.

No, he can't.

Can't he? Of course not.
He wants you to follow him south.

Will you go?

Are you all right?

Did he hurt you?

Did he hit you?

No.

No, he asked me to give you this message.

I can kill him, if that's what you want.

You wouldn't be able to.

Sure I could.

No.

- Yes.
- No.

I could.

He wrote all of this long ago.

Have you ever seen a prisoner who's bored?

In his head, he's writing a fascinating novel.

He wrote you

as the tragic cop.

He wrote me as the absurd woman,

and he wrote himself

as the depraved fugitive.

What you are saying

is a load

of modern garbage.

A golden lamb.

Do you like his writing?

Yes.

Do you believe he thinks only

about earth and love?

He thinks about naked women

and detectives hunting him.

He created you,

thinking of himself,

of you at home,

reading his poems,

of you looking in the mirror.

He created you,

observing our party,

drowned out by music,

caught inside a car, with an empty stare.

A dog in the night,

a bird in the daytime.

He created you spying,

waiting.

He created you, trapped,

a furious spy,

hearing things you will never understand,

despising ideas and words

a hundred meters away from life.

Powerless.

Fragile.

He created you
as the guard of an imaginary border.

He thinks about you

thinking about him.

All detectives are in love,

and all detective stories

have beds.

Fine.

He writes well.

He created me.

But I...

I have him in my embrace,

and in my embrace, I'll bring him to prison.

I'll put him to sleep,

and I'll watch him dream.

And in the end, I'll sit on his chest.

Then go after him.

Go after him,

and catch him.

If you don't, you won't go down in history.

Am I fiction?

Yes.

- Are you fiction?
- No.

I'm real.

And I'm eternal.

Excuse me.

A supporting character?

Me?

No.

No, sir.

Because I'm going to catch you.

I hope you're right.

The landlord is coming.

Thanks.

- Do you know him?
- Yes.

He's my boss, the owner of this land.

We continue on foot.

Does he know everything?

He could call the authorities.

When does the part on horseback begin?

Not yet.

I could eat a pig.

Hello, Ricardo.

Hello, ma'am.

This is Antonio.

How are you, sir?

Good afternoon.

What do you need?

Could I stay here

without telling the landlord?

- Did you kill someone?
- No.

Well, yeah.

In writing.

I'm always writing.

Many years ago,
Neruda ate this same burnt bread.

He must like that bed.

He'd be happy to sleep there,
holding his daughter.

At this moment,
all I want is for you to hug me.

- Hello, sir.
- Good afternoon.

- Are you lost?
- No.

No, I ran out of...

Do you know

where I can...

Look.

I'll sell you the bike.

It's a brand new model, German.

Head over to the house.

The landlord can sell you some gas.

No,

I don't need gas.

I need a horse.

Two horses.

I'm hunting a very dangerous criminal.

If the bike stays here, can I sell it?

Of course.

Provided you both come with me.

This could be very exciting.

Hello? President?

Mr. President?

Yes, it's Peluchonneau.

We caught Senator Neruda.

Come on. Hurry up!

The landlord is coming.

Dominguez.

A feudal lord
who invented capitalism on his land.

He has a secret mountain pass

where he smuggles contraband
from Argentina.

Hello, sir.

This is Mr. Monsalve, a Mapuche chief.

We're afraid of these people.

Are you tired, Mr. Ruiz?

I'm going to call you "Mr. Ruiz."

I'm Pedro Dominguez,
owner of this piece of shitty land.

In the name of our president,
you're under arrest for treason.

You're in my custody.

I'm in your custody?

- You're taking me to jail?
- No, I'm going to help you,

across the Andes.

People die up there. I'm going to help you.

He doesn't want to pay taxes.

I won't give a thing to that
faggot president you elected.

He believes the state
is the enemy of freedom.

That's the only reason you're helping me?

Yes.

It's more fun to help a communist
than to call the cops.

More fun.

Yes, more fun.

Upon his shoulders and his soul,
the future Republic shall be built.

The millionaire is always smarter
than the law of the nation.

Boss.

There's a cop looking for the senator.

He wants to see the pass.

What's he like?

Half moron, half idiot.

Araucanía.

A land without a temple.

Only trees and cold.

They say conquistadors cried
when they heard the Mapuche patrol.

They were more scared of the Indians
than the Moors.

Now it's a land of peace.

A land of mud and work.

The poet writes about this.

The suffering of the poor inspires him.

Pablo!

Hide!

Pablo.

I see you.

I can hear you panting.

The one in the middle.

The fat one.

I'll come in from the left,

and you take them from the right.

I'll shoot the animal in the head,
kill him instantly.

You two come and grab him.

This is going to be impressive.

Don't you think they'll shoot back?

No.

Because the animals will be spooked.

It'll set off a chain reaction.

Meanwhile,

I'll be shooting, straight ahead.

It's nice being a policeman, right?

All right, let's go.

Sorry, sir.

I'm the traitor González Videla's shit.

I've made it this far.

Me. The dry one.

The bony one.

From this white bed,
I toast the past few months.

I have one bullet left, you lovesick boar.

But don't worry,
in this cold, you won't feel it.

Pablo!

Why is he running towards me?

Isn't he afraid?

Pablo, where are you going?

He's curious.

Pablo, let's keep going.

Pablo.

He wants to see me.

He can't miss his ending!

Pablo!

Where you going, man?

He held me.

He spoke to me,

and he danced with me.

I chased the eagle,
but I don't know how to fly.

I'm far away.

Now I can only return to the earth's bottom.

I lived believing I was a Peluchonneau,

child of a police uniform.

But now,

I think perhaps I was a Neruda,

a child of the people.

Perhaps my father lived on his knees

with a dirty face.

Perhaps he scared up a few coins

and paid to sweat over my mother's back.

Perhaps I am a child of wheat.

A black head in a history
of millions of black heads.

But I die white.

Because no one else hunted the poet.

No one else terrorized him in the snow.

No one else made him pant remorsefully.

No one else
accompanied him on his journey.

I don't care that he created me.

That he made me a supporting character.

I created myself, too.

And I did it badly.

I invented myself without life,

alone,

without love.

But the poet invented me as furious,

full of wind.

He even wrote me a fabulous death.

A policeman 's death.

Slow.

Cold.

With red details.

With music.

With animals.

With trees.

With poetry.

Do you know him?

No.

Yes.

Yes, I know him.

He's my inspector.

My persecutor.

My phantom in uniform.

I dream of him, and he dreams of me.

He watches me. He knows my back.

Look at what you wrote, policeman.

You wrote the snow and the horses.

You created me.

Now you can't even feel the cold.

We have to take him.

Let the muleteers take him.

I can feel the horse's heartbeat.

I can feel my own heartbeat, too.

Because they didn't kill me.

They didn't kill me with a blow to the head.

- Is he breathing?
- No.

Mr. Picasso, tell us what happened to him.

For almost two years,

Neruda organized
the Chilean resistance from underground.

The political police hunted him
into the mountains,

but the poet crossed the Andes,

disappeared in the snow and landed here.

Mr. Neruda, did you write

- while in hiding?
- Excuse me?

Mr. Neruda, do you fear your politics

may overshadow your poetry?

No.

I'm not afraid.

The thing is...

Sometimes I feel I am frozen in snow.

I dream. I dream with that.

- Frozen to death?
- No.

Shot dead with a pistol.

There is a man.

A man was about to kill me.

Is he still following you?

It's possible.

Who is he?

He is a policeman.

Perhaps he is close by, watching us.

No one will ever know I existed.

Say my name. Say it.

Say my name.

Say my name.

His name was Óscar.

Óscar Peluchonneau.

You said it!

Peluchonneau.

You said my name.

Write it down. Peluchonneau.

I'm not a supporting character.

Many people in my country are in prison,

tortured, exiled.

I am only one of these.

Because I have always been
a prisoner with them.

Why did he do all of this?

For his people.

The poet gave them words
to talk about their lives,

their harsh lives.

And these words gave meaning
to their nightmares.

That's why he did it,

to give them a voice.

They will quote him
each time history tramples them.

They don't remember the love poems.

They remember the poems of rage.

Unrecognizable poems.

Poems of an imaginary future.

- "Tonight I can write the saddest lines..."
- Wonderful.

"Write, for example
The night is starry..."

Neruda made me eternal.

His art gave me life.

I was made of paper,

and now I'm made of blood.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

THE END.

Translation by: Nikolas Aikin