All language subtitles for Episode 4 - The Enchanters of Montparnasse

[soft music]

1916.

Apollinaire returned to Paris to convalesce.

It was a bitter reunion.

Soutine, Chagall and Modigliani were seeking

a form that would express their internal exile.

Picasso penned the diary of his life with a paintbrush.

Apollinaire put on the anti-militarist play

"The Breasts of Tiresias,"

that sparked the imaginations of young poets

and triggered a scandal.

In November 1918, as Europe was mourning

its 8 million dead, Apollinaire succumbed

to the Spanish Flu.

A year later, Modigliani's death

marked the definitive end of the Bohemian era.

How could one muster the courage to carry

on creating, on their still-warm ashes?

[upbeat music]

The war was over, and life was picking up again.

The past was but a memory.

The crowd from the Bateau-Lavoir,

the fauves and the cubists,

left the streets of Montparnasse.

Picasso deserted.

Max Jacob went to the Saint-Benoit abbey

on the Loire, to pray.

Van Dongen befriended counts and marquises,

and arm in arm with these new friends,

negotiated contracts on the seafront in Deauville.

Still clutching his rifle, Vlaminck,

withdrew to a country home,

cursing his former friends and half of humanity

along with them.

Juan Gris sought treatment for his asthma attacks,

far from the former Bateau-Lavoir tenants.

Braque turned his back on Picasso.

And on all the others.

As the founders of Art Nouveau dwindled away,

the next generation came into focus.

Apollinaire was no longer of this world,

but new poets were up and coming.

They pounded the streets of Paris,

seeking new experiences.

They had returned from the war fueled

with dreams of freedom and a feeling that things

would never be the same again.

A year before the end of the war,

the October Revolution topped the Old World in Moscow.

Would a new sun shine forth there?

For a couple of weeks in 1919, two young poets

would meet every morning, sometimes at la Source

on Boulevard Saint-Michel

and sometimes in a dingy room

at the Hotel des Grands Hommes,

at the Place du Pantheon.

Andre Breton was a 23-year-old medical student.

During the war, he had been a military medical nurse,

looking after soldiers

who had been driven crazy by the war.

His friend was Philippe Soupault,

a doctor's son and an elegant and smartly dressed bourgeois.

The army had used him as a guinea pig to test out

a typhoid vaccination.

Apollinaire had introduced Breton

to Soupault in 1916, and the two young poets

realized they had a great deal in common.

They both hated their time in the Army.

They left the battlegrounds

with an observation shared by many: only a total revolution,

one that permeated all areas

of life, could rid civilization

of this savagery.

And what weapon should they use to fight

the military gangrene?

The pen, of course.

Dipped in the subversive ink of an inner universe.

The two men wrote a work based on automatic

writing, having entered a trance-like state.

They refused to censor any source of inspiration,

and forbade themselves to make any corrections.

They would stop writing at the end of the day

and start all over again the next.

The work was called The Magnetic Fields.

"The neighbors of the solitudes leant down

and the wheezing of the street-lamps could

be heard all night long.

The erratic house loses its blood.

We all love conflagrations;

when the sky changes color,

it is a dead man's passing.

What better could one hope for?"

The Magnetic Fields constituted the founding

act of Surrealism, at a time when the movement

had not yet been given the name.

Because at the time, everything was still Dada.

At the table where Soupault

and Breton wrote, a small, short-sighted,

Romanian gentleman would often come and sit down.

He wore a monocle and had a waxen complexion.

His name was Tristan Tzara.

He too, railed against the war,

and against the civilization that gave

birth to it.

Three years earlier in Zurich, on February 8th 1916,

at 7:00 p.m. to be precise, at the Cabaret Voltaire,

Tzara and his friends had slipped

a paper-knife into a dictionary.

They were trying to come up with a word

to define the artistic movement they had founded

in the middle of the war.

They named it "Dada."

Tzara and his sculptor friends and poets,

who included Jean Arp and Hugo Ball,

put on a new type of show, blending music,

painting, poetry, dance, masks and percussion.

[light music]

[speaking in foreign language]

In his Dada Manifesto 1918,

Tristan Tzara reproached those who sought reasons

in everything, starting with the word "Dada,"

which meant "wooden horse" to some,

and "nurse" to others.

To the Russians, it meant "Yes, yes,"

and to the Kru tribe it meant "the tail of a sacred cow."

In short, it meant whatever one wanted,

or imagined it to mean.

This absence of meaning expressed the absurd

and the grotesque.

It was the only possible route towards the search

for an absolute, freed from the values

that had brought on the First World War: work, family,

country and religion.

For Tzara, Man was a chaos that nothing could

bring order to.

Brains had "drawers" that must be destroyed,

just like the "drawers" of social organization.

Within three years, Dada and its manifesto

had crossed the borders of Europe,

to join the ranks of other publications

such as the SIC and Nord-Sud reviews

that had appeared in France during the war.

Andre Breton, Louis Aragon,

Paul Eluard and Philippe Soupault had already

written in them, dipping their pens in the ink

of a budding surrealism.

One of these musketeers often joined Andre Breton,

Philippe Soupault and Tristan Tzara

at La Source, Louis Aragon.

He was the son of a former deputy,

former prefect, former ambassador and former

senator, who had declared little Louis,

under the name of "Aragon,"

to be of unknown parentage.

The young Louis grew up amidst a lie: he was led

to believe that his maternal grandmother

was his mother, but he then was told she was only

his adoptive mother.

His real father was sometimes presented

as his godfather, and sometimes as a tutor,

and his real mother became his sister.

All these scenarios preserved respectability.

Louis Aragon found out his real identity

on the day he left for the war.

He fought in the war bravely enough to obtain a medal.

He started to write his first novel

at the Chemin des Dames: Anicet ou le panorama.

Also a medical student, he met Andre Breton

at the Val de Grace hospital,

on the mental patient ward.

[gentle music]

In the evenings, once the patients had been locked up,

the two men would recite Rimbaud and Lautreamont,

shouting at the top of their voices to drown

out the insults the patients yelled at them.

[whispering in foreign language]

By day, they discussed literature and painting

with Guillaume Apollinaire,

who was convalescing in the same hospital.

Aragon made a positive impression

on all those who met him, starting with Breton,

who admired his vast culture

and who had a discreet preference for him.

Aragon had read everything.

He was truly brilliant.

[gentle music]

Aragon's lady friend was a tall, eccentric,

brown-haired beauty and was instantly recognizable.

Nancy Cunard wore a collection of ivory bracelets

that clanked together on her wrists and forearms.

Both Nancy and Louis were free.

Nancy followed her own desires,

made possible by a colossal fortune

that she lavished on hotels and transatlantic liners.

Aragon had a reputation for being a dandy,

with an interest in both matters of the mind

and of the senses.

The publication of Con d'Irene,

which was circulated secretly,

and was illustrated by Andre Masson,

added to the controversy surrounding him.

He was a surrealist writer.

She was a generous muse.

The small band of surrealists took part

in the post-war Dada scandals.

On May the 26th 1920, they were all at the Salle Gaveau,

where the Dada Festival took place.

[crowd applauds]

Tzara started the show, displaying Le Sexe de Dada.

[crowd laughs]

Then the illusionist Philippe Soupault introduced himself.

He released five balloons

on which were written the identities

of those that needed bursting:

a pope, Benoit XV; a man of war,

Petain; a statesman, Clemenceau;

a woman of letters, Mme Rachilde; and Cocteau,

the first to die, pierced

by the surrealist poet's blade.

The crowd went wild, hurling tomatoes,

carrots, turnips and oranges.

A year later, in the Salle des Societes Savantes,

on rue Danton, scandal broke out once again.

Against Dada's advice, the surrealists decided

to put on trial the writer Maurice Barres,

who embodied everything they detested:

patriotism, nationalism, and conservatism.

Barres, an anti-Dreyfus academic close

to the far-right Action Française,

was an eminent figure in French political

and intellectual spheres.

Barres stood accused of crimes against the certainty

of the spirit.

The defense, Soupault and Aragon, listened

ecstatically as Breton read out the act of accusation.

As for the witnesses, they testified.

The "unknown soldier" was called to the stand.

His appearance prompted the usual strains

of the Marseillaise and a crowd of people left the room.

The jury, composed of 12 spectators,

sentenced the writer to 20 years forced labor.

Breton had requested the death sentence to be applied.

The Barres trial heralded the beginnings

of a split from Dada.

Breton and his faithful band distanced

themselves from Tzara, who was judged

to be too libertarian.

Instead, they advocated Surrealism,

with its more political leanings.

It was time for action, time to rally the troops.

And when "the Pope of Surrealism" called a meeting,

being absent was not an option.

They would meet at Breton's flat,

on the rue Fontaine, or where Andre Masson

and Joan Miro lived, on the rue Blomet.

They also often had meetings in bistros,

at fixed times, like office hours.

They would play cards, charades,

and question-and-answer games,

personal investigations into matters

of sexuality, which often caused tensions and fights.

They analyzed the press and settled scores, often riotously.

Andre Breton reigned like a grand master over

these gatherings of the faithful.

Heavy and stiff-necked in his bottle-green suits,

he counted those present and made a note of absences.

Apart from the chief's wife,

few women attended, and those that did

were always silent.

[light music]

1921, a sunny day.

At the bar of a bistro, a young painter,

who was also a photographer,

ordered a Chambery Strawberry.

It was Man Ray.

He had just arrived from Brooklyn,

and like numerous other American artists

and writers after the war, quickly made friends

with Tristan Tzara, Marcel Duchamp

and many surrealists.

The regulars, painters, American writers,

Swedish dancers, a whole legion of models,

white emigres from Russia,

Cocteau and a young boyfriend,

had been drinking and dancing there since the armistice.

Two young girls talked loudly at a distant table,

Kiki and her girlfriend Therese.

They wore bright colored makeup,

and were decked out in jewelry from ear to wrist.

But they were not wearing hats.

The waiter repeated the house rules to them:

no drinking without headwear.

"How's that?"

enquired Kiki.

The waiter stammered a reply,

implying that women without hats, if they were not American,

might be, could be...

"Whores," shouted Kiki.

She leapt up.

Placing one bare foot on the chair,

the other on the table, she shrieked

with her inimitable gall, and swore never to go back there.

She then jumped off the table,

skillfully revealing exactly

what she intended to reveal.

"No hat, no shoes, and no knickers!"

"Two drinks for these ladies."

A little later, Man Ray took them to the movies,

to see "La Dame aux Camelias."

Kiki was transfixed by the screen,

like a child.

Man Ray felt for her hand.

He found it and squeezed it.

Although she did not return the gesture,

she did not remove her hand.

As they left the movie theater,

he told her he'd like to paint her.

"I'm used to that," she replied.

"It's my job."

Kisling, the Pole, and Foujita were the first artist

to paint Kiki.

When Kiki first met the Japanese artist,

he was living in the rue Delambre,

a stone's throw from La Rotonde.

The young girl had pinned a piece of red

material inside the opening of her coat,

to create the illusion she was wearing an elegant dress.

But there was no dress, and underneath her coat,

she was stark naked.

Foujita approached her hairless pubic area,

and peering closely at it, exclaimed: "No hair?"

"It grows while I pose."

Kiki gave roughly the same answer to Man Ray

as he prepared his equipment.

He wanted to paint her, but overcome with emotion,

said he would prefer to photograph her instead.

A few prints hanging on a wire impressed Kiki:

there was a stylized funnel,

a black pair of scissors on a white background,

a key, a pencil.

They were Rayographs.

Man Ray had discovered the technique by chance

a few days earlier.

He had forgotten his keys on a sheet

of photographic paper, which he subsequently

dipped in developer.

Kiki admired them.

Then she posed for him.

Man Ray asked her to return the following day

for another session.

[gentle music]

They remained at each other's side for six years.

On the Rue Campagne-Premiere,

in the heart of Montparnasse,

Man Ray found a photographic studio

and moved in with his new girlfriend.

[bell rings]

A staircase led to a small loggia,

where Kiki hid when Man's clients visited.

He photographed Picasso dressed up as a bullfighter.

Tristan Tzara sporting his monocle in countless ways.

Antonin Artaud.

Countess Cassati.

And Marcel Duchamp dressed up as Rose Selavy.

When Kiki got fed up being relegated

to the loggia, she would come down and all hell

would break loose.

"You can't play me like that!"

she yelled at him one day.

A little later, in the bathroom-come-darkroom,

Man Ray was developing his photographs.

He drew two sound-holes on his girlfriend's

freshly photographed back,

then blew up the prints and showed them

to his model.

"See!

I can play you, you're my violin."

Living together was proving a little tricky,

so Man Ray kept the studio and rented

an apartment as well.

It had the ultimate luxury of a bathroom.

Kiki would spend hours in the tub.

She tried to adjust to a life of domesticity.

But it involved a great deal of arguing.

The neighbors complained.

They moved.

They took a room at the Hotel Istria,

not far from the studio.

They had Tzara as a neighbor.

He was Kiki's confidant.

Francis Picabia would use a room on an upper floor

to be with his mistress.

Marcel Duchamp, who was back from America,

would play hide-and-seek there with all the women

who were looking for him.

But these women paled in comparison

to the fascination Duchamp had for chess.

He played from dawn to dusk: at the Dome,

where he beat his opponents in just 10 moves;

against himself; and against grand masters

whose endgames made the papers.

As well as against Man Ray,

on a Parisian rooftop in Rene Clair's

surrealist film Entracte.

The whole gang would flock to the Jockey,

a club that opened in November 1923

and was located at the intersection

of Boulevard du Montparnasse and Rue Campagne-Premiere.

Its façade was well known for the cowboys

and Indians its owner had painted on its black walls,

and above all, for the miracle

of modern technology it proudly featured,

a neon sign.

The atmosphere inside, amidst the bar,

tables and dance floor, was more reminiscent

of the Wild West.

Regulars drank and laughed all night long,

enveloped in music and smoke.

Insults flew in a variety of languages.

Naked girls danced together without causing offense.

Jazz rang out.

People danced the Shimmy and the Foxtrot.

Kiki was the queen of the Jockey.

Her sassy mannerisms went down well there.

When she got drunk, she would sing.

She could never remember the words,

but her friend Therese would join

her on the dance floor and prompt her.

[singing in foreign language]

[crowd applauds]

The audience would break into rapturous applause,

and Therese would grab a hat and pass it round.

"For the artists!"

Kiki did the rounds of the many friends

who waited for her.

One of them was Therese's former lover,

whose lyrics Kiki had refused,

saying they were too difficult for her.

His name was Robert Desnos.

He was a small, dark, shabbily dressed man

with eyes the color of a purplish oyster

surrounded by dark brown rims.

Therese had given him a few boxing lessons,

as he didn't know how to fight.

But he still ended up sustaining black eyes and scratches.

If there was trouble to be had,

he was always the first to enter the fray.

Desnos was a wizard at syllabic inventions

of all sorts, and the great freedom he exercised

in this area, breaking away from grammatical

logic and constraints, echoed the surrealists concerns.

Breton had been right: Desnos was soon one

of the pillars of the movement.

He earned the nickname "The Wakeful Sleeper"

because, more than any other member

of the group, he was tempted by the great surrealist

experiments in sleep.

Soon they were all trying it.

In what resembled a collective trance,

Desnos would always be the first to nod off.

In his sleep, amid much reciting,

singing and sighing, he would tell strange tales

and write them down.

"Sometimes at the moment of sleep strange figures

are born and disappear.

When I shut my eyes phosphorescent blooms

appear and fade and come to life again

like fireworks made of flesh.

I pass through strange lands with creatures for company.

No doubt you are there, my beautiful discreet spy.

And the palpable soul of the vast reach."

Using this method, words erupted

from the surrealists' collective subconscious.

They delighted in the words,

and used them as material

for their works, novels, paintings, poetry,

collages and films.

Through this exploration,

largely attributable to the theories of Freud,

a new world emerged, free from the hidebound

morals the surrealists fought against.

When he woke up again, Robert Desnos

would remember nothing.

Soutine was another Jockey Club regular.

Long gone were the days when,

having to improvise elegance,

he would thrust his arms into a pair of long johns

that served as a shirt.

He now smoked golden-tipped Lucky Strikes,

and wore the suits he had dreamed

of for so long, as well as an overcoat

that was as soft as a second skin.

His jet-black hair gleamed.

This metamorphosis had a name: Doctor Barnes.

The American collector had discovered Soutine

during a visit to see Zborowksi,

Modigliani's former dealer,

and had snapped up everything by the artist.

That day, Soutine got drunk,

hailed a cab and went straight to the south of France.

He couldn't wait to see the sea.

Back in Paris, Soutine left la Ruche

for a studio in rue Saint-Gothard,

not far from Montparnasse.

This new studio was large enough for him

to be able to paint an ox in it.

This was very important to him,

and took precedence over everything else.

He associated an ox with Rembrandt,

for whom he had great admiration.

It also reminded him of the butcher

in Smilovichi, and the cold room he was shut in as a youth,

having been thrashed for painting irreverent images.

Soutine brought an entire ox back

from the slaughterhouse at la Villette and suspended

it in his studio, on hooks.

After a few days, it started to rot.

To revive the colors, he threw fresh blood at it

from time to time.

He also painted the ox's flesh itself using

a paintbrush before painting its image

on the canvas.

[upbeat music]

But flies burrowed in the carcass

and the stench became overpowering.

The neighbors complained.

One morning, he received a visit

from the hygiene department.

After explaining things to Soutine and having

disinfected his studio, the artist was told

he could avoid the stench by simply injecting

ammonia into the carcass.

At the Jockey, Soutine searched his pockets

and pulled out a tin containing a syringe.

He showed it proudly to Kiki.

From now on, whenever he wanted to paint

a carcass, he would inject it before carrying it away.

Andre Breton used to sit near the piano.

From time to time, he would invite Kiki

to his table.

Kiki did not love Breton.

She preferred Aragon, especially

when he was in a melancholic mood, which she thought made

him seem rather romantic and fragile.

Aragon was indeed melancholic.

Time had taught him that Nancy Cunard

was not just free: she was a truly independent spirit.

When she wanted a man, she would help herself

and then discard him.

Aragon stayed with her, consumed with anxiety.

Whatever she did, insult him,

look on indifferently as he burnt the 1,500 pages

of the "The Defense of the Infinite,"

or reproach him for his jealousy,

he always had one knee to the ground,

paralyzed by his passion for her.

But Aragon's life was about to take a turn

for the better.

He moved to 54 rue du Chateau,

to a one-storied house, where the painter Yves Tanguy lived

as well as a young man

in a flat-cap, Jacques Prevert,

who wrote film scripts, which were unsuccessful

at the time.

The neighbors suspected number 54 rue du Chateau

of being a brothel.

What else could explain all the comings and goings?

There were always crowds of people there.

Only three of them rented the place,

but about 15 slept there.

Late at night, they listened to American jazz records.

They drank, smoked and played strange games.

They would sit round a table,

with pieces of paper in front of them.

They passed them round and wrote on them,

hiding what they were writing

from everyone else.

Then they folded the papers, passed them on,

and started all over again.

Tristan Tzara invented the game,

and Jacques Prevert developed it.

Prevert created the beginnings of a sentence

that gave its name to the game: exquisite corpse.

The exquisite corpse shall drink the new wine.

On November 6th 1928, in this literary commune

that had become a hotbed of surrealism,

Aragon arranged a party in honor of Mayakovsky,

the greatest living Russian poet.

Mayakovsky was staying at the Hotel Istria.

He was invited by the writer and poetess Elsa Triolet.

She had known Mayakovsky since childhood,

and had been in love with him.

But it was her sister who had won his heart

in the end.

[bell rings]

Mayakovsky arrived at the rue du Chateau,

accompanied by Elsa.

The place was packed.

The two poets had heard of each other.

One of them didn't speak a word of French,

the other not a word of Russian.

Fortunately Elsa was there to translate.

During the party, Aragon climbed the ladder to a mezzanine.

Elsa climbed up after him.

Half an hour later, the lovers returned

to the guests, smiling.

They danced to records by Duke Ellington

and Louis Armstrong.

At first, Elsa's eyes did not have the shine

that Aragon would later celebrate.

He still preferred Nancy Cunard's eyes,

and found Elsa clinging and indiscreet.

But she was head-over-heels in love with him.

And having missed out on becoming Madame Mayakovsky,

she was determined to one day become Madame Aragon.

One morning in 1929, as Man Ray was leaving

his studio on rue Campagne-Premiere,

a young woman who had just arrived in Paris

came up to him.

She was a stunning, headstrong,

American model, who had come to France to study photography.

"Hello," she said.

"My name's Lee Miller.

I'm your pupil."

"I don't have any pupils."

"You do," corrected the young lady: "Me."

He looked into her blue eyes,

and then excused himself: he was leaving for Biarritz.

Smiling, she asked: "What time is our train?"

A few days later, Man Ray returned to La Coupole,

a bar, restaurant, nightclub and boules pitch all rolled

into one that had opened a couple of years earlier.

Four hundred employees worked there under

the orders of a man nicknamed "The Citroen of soft drinks."

Montparnasse was undergoing a revival.

Behind the bar, Kiki was waiting for Man Ray.

Man Ray sneaked under the tables to flee.

But he didn't need to be on the run for long.

Kiki fell in love with a journalist who also drew

from time to time.

He launched newspapers in Paris,

and his new girlfriend into the wider world.

Kiki became a painter.

Enthusiasts snapped up her naive works

and she became a star.

She was crowned Queen of Montparnasse.

Sometimes a chauffeur-driven limousine

drove down the Boulevard that was illuminated

by the bright lights of La Couple.

In the back, buttoned up in a superbly elegant

suit and tie, Picasso would look out at the window

at the places he hardly ever frequented now.

He had gone back to live on the Right Bank.

Olga Khoklova, now Madame Picasso, ran the army of nurses,

cooks and housekeepers

that kept their large bourgeois apartment

on rue de la Boetie in ship shape.

Picasso had become a father in 1921.

And a bigamist in 1927.

Her name was Marie-Therese Walter.

He had met her outside the Galeries Lafayette

department store when she was 17 years old.

Fascinated by her face, he approached her.

She was still living with her mother.

Picasso asked permission to paint her.

Six months later, she had become his mistress.

His secret, long-term mistress.

She was as devoted and tolerant as Olga

was jealous, bossy and possessive.

Two different worlds.

And two different addresses.

Olga refused to entertain talk

of a separation, so Picasso installed Marie-Therese

10 doors from his home.

When rows blazed at number 23,

rue de la Boetie, the apartment Picasso shared

with Olga, he popped over to number 41

to lament: how could he go about getting a divorce

without abandoning half his works

to his official wife, who ranted,

raved and made threats?

[bell rings]

One morning, the doorbell rang at the Picassos.

A Spanish painter introduced himself.

He had just arrived in Paris.

At the age of six, he had wanted to be a cook,

at the age of eight, he had dreamed of being Napoleon;

and at the age of 12

he saw himself as Salvador Dali.

He was Salvador Dali.

"I've come here before visiting the Louvre"

he said to Picasso.

"You've done the right thing" replied Picasso.

In a comparison of their painting,

Dali awarded marks to himself and his fellow

countryman for technique, inspiration,

color, subject matter, genius, composition,

originality, mystery and authenticity.

The final score was 107 for Picasso,

and 148 for Dali.

Dali turned his back on impressionist painting

and moved closer to the cubists,

to Juan Gris in particular,

whom he considered the greatest of them all.

He held Giorgio De Chirico in high esteem,

but was not overly impressed with Matisse.

Still, his taste for avant-garde artists did

not prevent him from appreciating

the classics, particularly Vermeer,

whom he placed above them all.

He was not influenced by them, however:

"I swallow it and modify it,

and the exact opposite is born" he said.

Picasso gave Dali money and prompted a few

commissions that helped his young fellow

Spaniard to take his first steps in Paris.

These led the Spaniard first to a brothel,

then to the Bal Tabarin, where he met a great

friend of Picasso's and Breton's,

who was soon to become his friend too: Paul Eluard.

Eluard was just 30 years old.

Close to Breton, he had taken part

in all the Dada scandals.

He published a few collections of poetry,

including Capital of Pain.

"The curve of your eyes goes

all around my heart, A circle of dance and softness,

Halo of time, safe cradle for the night,

And if I no longer remember my life

It is because your eyes were not always there to see me."

Eluard was deeply in love with his wife,

a determined looking Russian woman,

whom he called Gala, and whom he shared

very amicably, and very erotically,

with the painter Max Ernst.

The trio then disbanded, but continued to exert

themselves with total abandon.

Until the divine Dali stepped in.

In the summer of 1929, in Cadaques,

Dali initiated a new way of painting:

he would stand in front of his canvas and wait,

sometimes for hours on end,

until images rose up out of his subconscious.

These were the beginnings

of the Paranoiac-critical method that he was soon

to develop into a theory.

Its underlying principal

was that the associations and interpretations

of delirious phenomena born from paranoia

were conducive to creation.

The artist was supposed to interpret them

in his own language and impose that language

on the world.

But on one particular day,

Dali laid aside his paintbrushes to play

host to his guests Paul and Gala Eluard.

Gala's cold and contemptuous charm

captivated him instantly,

and he decided to make a play for her,

in his own inimitable way.

He took a razor and shaved his armpits,

drawing blood, which started to drip down his body.

He then smeared it all over himself,

waited for it to dry, and cocked a geranium

behind his ear.

He sniffed the air.

The situation called for some perfume.

Fish glue mixed with a lump of goat excrement

to get that billy-goat smell would do the trick!

Or perhaps not.

When he came face to face with the woman

he so desperately wanted to seduce,

he tried to speak but no words came out

of his mouth.

He could only laugh, like someone crazed,

a madman, but a brilliant madman.

At the end of the couple's stay,

Paul Eluard headed back to Paris alone.

In the 1920s, at the Bellas-Artes in Madrid,

Dali made friends with two men

who were to become major Spanish artists,

the poet Federico Garcia Lorca

and the filmmaker Luis Bunuel.

In 1929, Bunuel and Dali got together to make

a film from dreams they had had one night:

Bunuel had seen a razor slicing an eye,

and Dali, a hand holding some ants.

The film's basic principle consisted

of refusing all rational representations,

only transcribing those that came naturally,

without seeking a reason behind their appearance.

The screenplay was finished within a week

of starting working on it.

It was called "Un chien Andalou."

Bunuel headed back to Spain to borrow money

from his mother and to draw out his personal savings.

He then returned to Paris,

hired a few actors, and shot the film

in the space of two weeks.

[upbeat music]

The seventeen minute-film

sparked a scandal and made its director Bunuel

the first Surrealist filmmaker.

It also made Dali, in his own words,

"a more surreal surrealist than any other,

if not the absolute personification

of the purist form of surrealism."

Naturally, Andre Breton did not see things

the same way.

Having previously praised the Spanish painter,

he now relegated him

to the fringes of the movement on the grounds

of his toilet humor, his irreverence

for the movement's icons, and for being guilty

of becoming attracted to scandalous ideologies.

Because Hitler had risen to power in Germany

and Dali was displaying a strange fascination

for the new Chancellor.

[speaking in foreign language]

Worse still, at the Salon des Independants

in 1934, he exhibited The Enigma of William Tell.

William Tell wore a cap.

His bear bottom featured an oversized buttock,

and he had Lenin's face.

It was too much for Breton.

Dali's paranoiac-critical method had gone too far!

He suggested excluding the Spanish artist

from the movement altogether.

A tribunal was held at Andre Breton's home,

and a court of surrealists deliberated,

but failed to come to a clear-cut verdict.

As a result, Dali continued to flirt

with surrealism for some time to come: the movement

needed him on account of his growing fame,

and he was aware of the fact that the movement

provided him with first-rate credentials.

Psychoanalysis, culture, revolution

and anti-militarism, these battles bound

the surrealists together, like fingers on the same hand.

But they were also sources of differences

of opinion that came between them,

before splitting them apart forever.

They still supported each other, however,

in the mid-1920s, throughout the era's

various combats, scandals,

and newly invented games and magazines.

And the rise of Hitlerism reinforced

what appeared to many to be the first line

of defense against Nazism: communism.

The movement became embroiled in painful splits,

multiple exclusions, and definitive excommunications.

Louis Aragon and Andre Breton,

who had enjoyed a brotherly bond

for some 20 years, were soon to separate for a reason

even more unbearable than desertion, betrayal.

[dramatic music]

[gentle music]