All language subtitles for Eden and After .720p.BlueRay.SbR.en

- Headlines.
- Writing.

- Eden.
- Architecture.

Composition.

- Make-up.
- Catherine Jourdan.

- Performance.
- Sharp objects.

- Games.
- Viscous substances.

- Mise-en-sc�ne.
- Flowing blood.

Catherine Jourdan-
Richard Leduc.

- Pierre Zirnmer.
- Sexual violence.

Juraj Kukura.

- In the labyrinth.
- Sylvaih Corfhay.

- Murder.
- Lorraine Rainer.

- Sex.
- Jarmila Kolenicova.

- Playing cards.
- Distance.

- Chess games.
- Ludwik Kroner.

Theatricality.

- Phantasm.
- Fran�ois Gervai.

Laboratory.
Catherine Robbe-Grillet.

EDEN AND AFTER

Eden and After.

- Eden and After.
- Objective.

- Eden.
- Subjective.

Injective.

Surjective.

Bijective.

Images and lights.

Editing.

Score.

Objects. Pictures.

To imagine.

Imagination.

Ghost.

Phantom.

Haunted house.

Mirror.

Rotary mirror.

Parallel mirror.

Distorting mirror.

Cinema.

Reality.

My life.

Two girls to hold her arms.

Hurt her if she moves too much.

Spread her legs.

Make her stay like that.

Lambda to the power of N
over factorial N.

Multiplied by

sum from V equals zero

up to the infinite of -1 to the power of V.

Factorial N plus 2V
over factorial 3V plus 2.

T to the power of 3V plus 2.

The image of an application F
is a part of the arrival of F

formed by the images of first F elements.

A relation of equivalence
in an entirety E

is a reflexive, transitive
and symmetrical relation.

Number of degrees of freedom
is synonymous with size.

If V is size N

N vector of V constitutes a basis only -

When looking for a geometric spot,

if you have three dots not in a line,

don't think the result is a circle.

For nothing looks more like
a circle than two circles.

And nothing looks more like two circles

than a lemniscate
to a Pascal's snail.

The image of a sum is
the sum of the images.

Here you are.

Six shots.
Just one bullet.

A one in six chance of being killed.

Five.

Four shots in the air,
the fifth a success.

There remains one chance in five.

One in four.

One in three.

One chance in two of dying.

Come on, shoot!

Of course, this is stupid.

Not more stupid than anything else.

He's dead.

How was it?

Average.

It'd be better with real bullets.

There is always the risk
of a splinter in one eye.

Let's go to bed.

- I'm bored!
- Fucking, always fucking.

- Sell that thing.
- What thing?

That daub's
worth a fortune.

- What would we do with the money?
- A voyage.

- Where to?
- Anywhere. Somewhere else.

What does it mean?

It's called Composition No. 234.

Your uncle had some imagination!

We'll go on a trip
to a warm and dry country.

A naked and gleaming country.

- Hard.
- With vigor.

Tough, transparent, rigid.

Et cetera.

The desert.

In order to get money,

we're going to sell the blue square
No. 234 to an American museum:

bequeathed to eternal culture
by the deceased uncle of Violette.

And to obtain the picture
we'll treacherously murder

his niece!

Now comes the scene of the poison.

DRINK BLOOD

BLOOD = LIFE

If this story bores you,
then you're heartless.

Me, I have heart.

So big I'm fed up.

Death march for our friend Boris.

Just across the university,

there is a big cafe',
all glass and steel,

called Eden.

We go there after class,
or before, or instead of.

In there, we invent our stories,

we act our parts.

In there,
we pretend to be happy or sad,

to be in love, to break up,
to have adventures,

since in our studious and useless life

nothing ever actually happens.

The waiter who brings the lemonades
mixed with quinine or cocaine

is called Franz.

That Franz pretends
to be bizarre and ominous.

He's said to deal in mythological goods:

drugs, white trafficking
for the Middle East,

armored cars,

tanks camouflaged as baskets of flowers,

ingots of gold,
mirages.

His name isn't likely Franz,
but rather Francois Gervai,

Daniel Dupont, Jean Robin
or anything else.

Newspapers say our generation
has lost faith, the notion of values.

That we take refuge in false paradises,

that our favorite games
are homosexual prostitution

and group raping-

After reading all that
we've tried everything just to see.

We've played seriously,
with steadiness.

It's amused us... moderately.

Marie-Eve is jealous.

She pretends to pretend to be jealous.

But she fools no one.
She says she'll commit suicide.

Who knows why.

My room is empty too.

Just a large bed
and the blue-and-white picture,

my uncle's last souvenir.

I liked it in the past.

I liked my uncle too,
in the photos.

I've never known my father either.

He died in Indochina.

I'm lying, of course.

That running boy is Marc-Antoine.

He plays the hunted man
looking for an outlet,

knowing too well he'll be caught.

It's then that we saw the stranger
watching us through the window.

Red wine.

I can show you something similar.

Give me two empty bottles.

Take them.

You stand beside her.

Drop one.

Now the other.

Pick up the pieces.

Give me your hand.

I learned that trick in Africa.

I spent 30 years of my life there.

Ghosts of horsemen
against the sunsets.

Africa is another ancient continent.

Matter becomes magic.

The black spirit, the obscure
conscience of our reason.

Dead matter that is no longer rigid.

Dead matter becomes magic.

The blue water, the white sand,

and the hidden barrier
that reveals itself to you.

Eyes full of reflections of the desert.

The young prisoners
are now locked in cells

where no light gets in.

The wizards prepare powders
of poisonous plants

capable of changing people suddenly,

while priestesses

continue to do their sacred dances.

Meanwhile, women have to suffer

a long series

of initiation trials.

The mage dances around large fires
until collapsing.

If one of you wishes to try the experiment,

I have here some of the �powder of fear.�

Suddenly, everything was normal again:

faces, objects, gestures.

At least, in appearance.

As if Eden and its patrons
tried to appear reassuring.

From then on,
it's all a bit blurred.

Or rather, it's more
confused in my memory.

During the rest of the evening
we played improvised scenes...

directed by that stranger.

He said our games were too abstract.

He told us:

Before I came in
I watched you through the window.

The gestures were stiff,

as though you were ill at ease
in new clothes.

Or afraid to get dirty or to leave prints.

Break it.

You juggle ideas but you
won't get involved with living matter,

as if you weren't born yet.

You smile.
You're sheltered.

Outside, there are rain, snow and sun.

And the night.

Here, everything is air-conditioned.

It's never cold nor warm.

Whoever draws the shortest straw
will have to break his own shell

in front of everyone.

Bend her on the table.

I can teach you another game.

Give me a key.

It would be better if it were her key.

Hers.

- Tonight.
- Yes. Where?

You choose.

The channel in front of the factory.

What's your name?

Violette. And yours?

They call me Duchemin.

- I have to go. I have an appointment.
- Is it important?

I'll know soon.

- Are you coming with me?
- No, I have to work.

- You'll come?
- I will.

My uncle's last souvenir.

I liked it in the past.

I liked my uncle too,
in the photos.

That picture is empty and dull.
I used to look at it for hours.

Now, I know it's worth a lot of money
and I like it less.

I've never known my father either.

He died in Indochina.

We've often played at war.

Resistance,
heroism, treason,

interrogations with torture...

- Please, on which side is the water?
- The water?

- The channel with the barges.
- That way.

Or this way. it's the same.

You're in the middle of an eight.

Two immense cylinders side by side.

Let me explain.

Or else you could get lost
and might never get out.

Not to be.

Or else, play.

That's the dilemma.

No feelings.

None of my feelings exists...

except those I'm playing to test out.

Come in my arms,
my Ophelia

Or else I drown instead of you

Shit! That's Macbeth now.

After the last door,

I'm surprised to see it's becoming light.

How could such a long time
have elapsed

since those cries chased me
away from the spot of my date

and forced me to hide in the factory?

I feel I awake out of a confused sleep

with the fear of being late for school.

Anyway, I go back to the channel.

Now it's broad daylight
and I easily find the bridge.

No one there, of course.

The stranger must've
grown weary of waiting.

Marc-Antoine!

Marie-Eve!

Boris!

Jean-Pierre!

Jean-Pierre!

- Come quickly. Come!
- What's up?

- I think he's dead.
- Who is dead?

- Duchemin.
- Who is Duchemin?

Last night

you all went into that new factory
near the channel.

No, we stayed here.

He was there.

- Who was?
- The stranger.

The crabs ate him!

Haven't you smoked a bit?

And my bag?

My bag.

- You left your bag here?
- No.

- Where was it?
- I don't know. Lost.

Elementary, my dear Watson.

The bag came here and ate the corpse.

- My key.
- Must be at the cafe.

What will I do without my key?

Come and sleep at my place.

Nobody believed my story of a corpse.

After all, there was no trace of it.

You don't believe me either.

- Are you sure he was dead?
- Yes.

- Sure it was him?
- Yes, here's the proof.

I found it in his jacket
when I pulled him out.

IN JERBA, AS AGREED.
CLAUDE

He was called Eric.

- He only gave his last name.
- Dutchman.

Yes, something like that.
I thought it was Duchemin.

Jerba is the land he spoke about.

It really looks like blood.
Was he wounded?

I don't remember.

- Isn't Franz here?
- Who is Franz?

- The waiter here.
- So the former waiter was named Franz?

Why �the former�?

Because he stopped
working here last night.

So suddenly?

Surely not.
My arrival was decided some while ago.

Really?

When you arrived here,
did you find a key?

There's one on the piano.

I feel at once something's changed.

The blue-and-white picture has vanished.

Stolen without the lock being forced.

I discover I've known it for a long while.

That absurd game with my key,

last night' is accident',
which was surely a crime,

and Franz's abrupt departure.

Only the red-stained postcard
is left to me.

The image, a plain wall of a house,

reminds me of a short film about Tunisia,

which we saw last week
at Cinema Eden.

The whitewashed walls of the house

against which the blue geometry
of the doors and windows stands out.

The balustrade seems like a still photo

as the sun flattens out the surfaces

and removes every effect of death.

The sand too from the early hours,

deprived of shadows and perspective,

abolishes distances,
making them impassable.

Are the famous oases only mirages that
have never been reached by any visitor?

And yet no one Wants
to erase them from the maps

because they seem close,
scintillating and real.

Water,

a mirror created by the contact
of the air with the burning sun,

but deceptive because one could go
for hours towards the open sea

without penetrating it.

- A fine house.
- Yes. Is it far?

Not much. By that road.

The second or third block.

You can walk there.

Thank you.

What shall we do now she's arrived?

We must kill her at once.

No, not at once.

After she's talked.

- I decide right now!
- And the picture?

Is it you who'll find it?

You know this house?

This house isn't special.

They're all alike.
Could be this one.

That's the day I met Dutchman
for the first time.

He was a sculptor or something like that.

He collected cast-out things,

rather big ones
which he painted in vivid colors

with naked models.

They were still or frozen
in strange and awkward poses

among frames and metal structures.

He pronounced only rare words.

Maybe he wasn't talking at all.

His face, his stature,
his pale eyes and gray temples

reminded me of someone violently.

But that impression vanished at once.

Maybe it was that well-known
phenomenon called immediate memory

or �memory of the future.�

When I came into that house,

there was another girl

whom I seemed to recognize too.

She sat for Dutchman,

but she was probably his mistress too.

He still had the same slow gestures

of a ploughman accustomed to clay,
or of a stone cutter,

with his motionless eyes,
his absent look.

What are you looking for?

Nothing.
But I've found it.

What? The picture?

What picture?

No.

I found what I didn't know
I was looking for.

You found it?

- No, nothing.
- You searched poorly.

- No, it's not here.
- Franz is making fun of us.

I'll see to it.

Let me go!

They shut me up
in a cellar or a kind of cell,

my hands chained behind my back
and a blindfold over my eyes.

The first day, I made the blindfold slip

by rubbing my face against the straw.

But they struck me so hard
that they tore my clothes to shreds.

And they blindfolded me again.

I don't know when
as I can't tell days from nights.

They want to know where the picture is.
What picture?

I told them the truth:
that I didn't know and didn't care.

But they didn't believe me.

You haven't found that picture yet?

Why?

Because I found out where you hid it.

Let me go, please.

You're hurting me.

Wait. I'll explain everything.

Don't move so much.

Now you'll remain quite still...

and tell me where the picture is hidden.

And if you won't tell me -

Where's the picture?

Where's the picture?

Where's the picture?

Check. Nothing doing with Duchemin.

He won't swap the picture for Violette.

So what will we do with that girl?

I've already said:
We'll make her talk.

When we know where the picture is,
we'll take it ourselves.

You'll never find it.

How do you know?

Why isn't Sonia here?

I'm not Sonia's guardian.

Violette, listen to me.

They'll kill you anyway.

Swallow this powder,
and it'll be over.

Who are you?

Nobody.

Stand up.

Take off my chains.
It'll be easier.

Want to know if I like you?

Drink this and you'll know my thoughts.

Marc-Antoine?

The small picture.
I no longer liked it.

I had already forgotten it.

They could do what they wanted with it.
I didn't care.

Boris was dead.
Sonia was dead.

Maybe Marc-Antoine and Marie-Eve too.

And I didn't care.

Dutchman was dead.
I didn't care about that either.

And now, it was Jean-Pierre's turn.
What for?

For that absurd little painting.

A few million francs.

It's impossible.

Or then, for what other reason?

I walked at random
without thinking of anything.

I found the sea again.

Now I'm again alone in my room.

Nothing has happened yet.

Presently, I'll go and meet
my friends at Eden.

They'll all look tired as if they'd gone far.

Franz will still look like a villain in a play.

We'll drink lemonade
with quinine or cocaine.

To get rid of our boredom we'll have
games of hide-and-seek and such.

At the end of the evening,
when the game reaches its climax,

suddenly there'll be a great silence.

Slowly, one after the other,

we'll turn our heads
towards the windows.

On the other side of the glass
we'll see the stranger, just arrived,

looking at us with his pale eyes

and already pushing the door.