All language subtitles for Le Brio Compress(1)

Provided by explosiveskull
https://twitter.com/kaboomskull

What I notice
are the ongoing calamities.

I'm referring to the present.

And...

to the world
in which I'm finishing my days.

It's not a world I like.

You wrote: "Graphic writing,
the word for the word.

Word as vehicle of idea,
not idea as vehicle of word."

Here's a quatrain that floors me.

Champagne,

pure brut.

No pain,

to boot.

See?
The words are the vehicle of the idea.

The idea isn't the vehicle of the words.

I feel I've erred
because I'm being attacked.

When you live abroad,

six thousand miles from France,

it's so wonderful

to see that at this moment in history,

in these difficult times,

it's wonderful to see that a novel

can provoke such controversy.

Such animosity,
such hatred and rancor.

So many threats.

Only in France is this possible,

and it's what makes it
the most beautiful.

Stupidity is a guy who thinks:
"My life is enough.

This is enough.
I'm happy, I don't need more."

He never thinks "This isn't enough,

I don't know enough,
see enough, do enough."

Stupidity is laziness.

Fat around the heart and the brain.

Student ID?

WELCOME TO THE UNIVERSITY OF PARIS

I could have mentioned the Carolingians,
the Merovingians, the Napoleonic code.

Instead, we'll attack
the great defense speeches of history,

starting with the marvels of Roman law,

the Babylonian code,

up through the Dreyfus affair,

Maurice Papon,

The Flowers of Evil, Ravachol.

Sublime monuments of rhetoric

that should be considered
world heritage landmarks.

Miss?

Excuse me, miss. Who are you?

A first-year student.

Pardon me?

A first-year law student.

You don't understand.
I asked your name.

I'm sorry. Neila Salah.

And your first name?

Neila.

First name Neila, last name Salah.
Any clearer?

I find it interesting,

reacting aggressively
to incomprehension.

Judging by your civility,

by your punctuality and elegance,

I see you've decided,
on your first day of law school,

to honor the institution
and its professors.

This is a lecture hall,
not a gym class.

You're late.

Yes.

Yes, sir.

You come in the middle of class
and have nothing to say?

Yes... excuse me.

- Is that an order?
- What?

"Whaaat"?

I don't understand.

I can see that.

In French we say
"Please excuse me, sir."

Are you serious?

Am I serious?

I'm 5 minutes late.
Why jump down my throat?

Here comes
the good old persecution complex.

Typical. Back to work.

Typical?

Typical of what?

Time for controversy?

I don't know, miss. Let me ask you.

Typical of what?

This is racism! You can't!

Calm down! Please calm down!

You're jumping to conclusions.

You're jumping to conclusions.

I meant typical of first-year students.

If I'd said typical of students
from "culturally diverse backgrounds"

who come here for 3 months

before dropping out

because their professors are too mean

and French people too racist,
then you could have called me racist.

But it's not the case.
Your libelous accusations

are good for the trash!

Same nonsense as last year.

Forget that.
I'll last more than 3 months.

Coming late on day one,
dressed in rags,

says a lot about your motivation
and aspiration.

I can't consecrate
my entire class to you.

Need I remind you,
some people here want to study?

So, back to work.

Son of a bitch!

Excuse me, I'm sorry.

I was discussing Roman law.

It's very ancient

and has continued evolving,
like French law.

Unlike Sharia law, for example,

one of the most archaic types of law
in the history of mankind

and which evolves minimally,

distinguishing it from French law,
which evolves.

Until the 60s, we couldn't
name our children as we pleased.

We had to choose
among the Saints' names.

Now you can name your kids
"Bar Stool", "Food Voucher"

or Adburhaman.

It's possible!

We can distinguish

several periods
in the evolution of Roman law.

The oldest strata are still
subject to speculation.

In the beginning,

they were indistinguishable
from cults and religion...

My dear children!

No need to introduce
the world-famous Grégoire Viviani,

our beloved president.

Look how splendid he is!

You always play the surprise card
with first-year students.

Alas, your charm fades

as your students grow
into better thinkers.

You're irresistible!

I'd love to have listened to you
for hours,

but let's get to the point.

Every year we organize
a rhetoric competition

for first-year students.

I won't insult you by explaining

the prestige of this contest,
or by enumerating

the names of its previous winners

who are among the best and brightest
in our small field.

I'll leave application forms
on the desk of my eminent colleague.

Fill them out as quickly as possible.

Our university hasn't won in 4 years.

Now it is time.

I count on you
to restore the prestige

of our hallowed institution.

He really got you good.

He didn't go easy.

Got any more synonyms
or paraphrases?

Honestly... you should file a complaint.

Against what?

He attacked you!

It's too easy.
You're the perfect target.

What do you mean by that?

But...

Go on, say it.
Follow your idea through.

- Know what I mean?
- No, I don't.

Stop it.

That I didn't study piano

or go land-sailing in Biarritz
as a kid?

Not at all.

Beat it, Trump,
with your big hair and smile.

Keep your distance, okay?

"Trump"... what a lame joke.

You'd need a functioning brain

to claim the status of "privileged".

What's more,

Mother Nature favored you so much,

she magnanimously gave you

toilet-bowl colored skin
so you know where to sit.

Not bad.

So? Did it go well?

Okay...

What's for dinner?

Filet mignon
and potatoes with truffles.

I just got back from work.
The fridge is full.

You're leaving?

- I'm going out.
- Again!

Nachos.

Can you hear?

Anissa, they're delicious.

You're working. So am I.

No, I know.

I know.

Take care, girl.

Look who it is.

Wassup, Perfect Frenchy?

My teacher dissed me
in front of everyone.

Your fault for persisting with school.

I'm an Uber driver.

My own boss.
No one to piss me off.

Get your license first.

Sorry, Munir, but footballer at 8,
rapper at 14, Uber at 18,

cliché-wise, I've seen better.

Yeah? You're the cliché!

You'll end up unemployed,

with the right diploma
but the wrong last name.

- Franck!
- I'm coming!

On the double.

I'm off.

Good evening.

Already?

What?

Nothing.

I think I'll be going too.

You need rest to watch TV tomorrow.

What do you want to do?

Yeah, there's nothing to do.
I'll go to bed too.

Not even "Goodnight, Munir"?

Goodnight, Munir.

I'm such a loser.

...one of the most archaic types of law
in the history of mankind

and which evolves minimally,

distinguishing it from French law,
which evolves.

Until the 60s, we couldn't name children
as we pleased.

We had to choose among the Saints.

Now you can name your kid
"Bar Stool", "Food Voucher"

or Adburhaman.

It's possible!

You're out of control, Pierre.

Not to mention the Sharia stuff.

You'd prefer politically correct?

That I spend all day
shouting "Je suis Charlie"?

I gave you this job
to pull you out of your mess,

not incite things
by taunting kids with faces you dislike.

No mocking smiles.

This time it's serious.

Your silly boasting
hasn't amused anyone in ages.

I got complaints about your comments
after your first hour of class!

You do as you please.

You ignore the curriculum,
humiliate students, rile professors.

Even the security guard complained.

He's a prick.

He says you're racist.

Maybe, but not as much as him.

3 Facebook pages,
an online petition

asking for you to be fired
or sanctioned.

They want your head.

Don't exaggerate!

Not just students. The school board!

I can't cover for you anymore.

You'll go before the disciplinary board.

I have no choice.

If not,
the faculty is in the hot seat.

We've sunk so low?

We can build your case
to get you more votes.

I'm all ears.

These racist remarks...

Neila Salah.

What da Salah?

Train her
for the debate competition.

Prepare her.

For a round or two.

The institution isn't ready.

That's the beauty of it.

With all the buzz,
the disciplinary board will shut up.

Win or lose, we don't care.

People must stop associating
our school with the hard right.

Imagine the photo-op: Arab girl

in a contest reserved for the elite

mentored by Pierre Mazard.

My salvation is in the hands
of Neila Salah.

What a nightmare.

Still here?

It's not 3 months yet.

Wait for me after class.

Did you sign up for the competition?

That must be typical too.

I see.

Upset with me
for my paralipsis the other day?

Paralipsis is pretending
not to be saying

what you're in fact saying.

"Not to mention their odor."

You see,

I say I'm not mentioning it,
but I mention it anyway.

It was an example.

The other day too?

You didn't mean it?

Of course not.

Or maybe yes.

It's of no importance.

What matters is to be right.
The truth doesn't count.

I want to teach you that.

To always be right.

Understand?

I want to train you.

To help you with the competition.

I want nothing from you.
Thanks.

Obviously.

Easier to try nothing,
to stay a victim the rest of your life.

Until you realize
your failure was programmed.

Not by me or the university,
but by you.

I'm sure it will be very comforting.

If earning the arms of emancipation
doesn't interest you,

you deserve every barrage,

every pitfall in store for you.

Not to mention humiliations.

You see? Paralipsis again.

It's a game for you.

9 o'clock tomorrow,
amphitheater 4.

Fuck off.

Stupid idiot.

Ready?

Eloquence.

Rhetoric.

The art of speaking.

To persuade
we must master dialectic.

A series of rigorous arguments
meant to sway those listening.

Because in reality,
this is all that matters.

To persuade. To be right.

The truth doesn't count.
Remember?

So we'll start with the basics.

Schopenhauer.

A funny German guy
who lived in the early 19th century.

He wrote a very funny book:
"The Art of Always Being Right."

38 stratagems to win an argument.

Let's begin.

For example,
if my proposition is:

"The death penalty
must be reinstated"

and you must prove me wrong,
what do you say?

The death penalty was abolished

to humanize justice
in the French Republic.

It's crazy.
You sound like an Uber driver.

"Do you have a radio station
specific for your choice

that you'd like to hear
in the vehicle for your pleasure?"

All these long, complicated sentences

dripping with adjectives!

The clock will be ticking.

Be efficient, rapid and natural.

"You want the death penalty?

You're pro-death. I'm pro-life."
End of debate.

The stratagem of homonymy.

Take any of my words

and attach
an irrelevant moral judgment to them.

"I've always adored potatoes."

"Adoration?
That sounds fishy and fallacious."

Not bad.

We'll examine all 38, one by one.

We'll also study Cicero and Aristotle.

In sum, lots of work.
Tomorrow at 9.

You're lying.

Look, bro. She's obviously lying.

No. She wouldn't have killed Abdé.

It's a smoke screen.

Make up your minds, guys.

Prove you're no werewolf
and we shouldn't eliminate.

Grammatically
that makes no sense at all!

Perfect Frenchy, just answer.

Statistically, my having already
been werewolf 3 times

makes it tough.

But it's your call.

Let me draw your attention,
ladies and gentlemen,

to Munir's insistence
in wanting to eliminate me.

So we don't suspect him.
So we forget him.

Attack before being attacked.

When you're guilty!

The technique is very common,
but second-rate.

If you ask me, it's fishy.

But it's up to you all.

- She's bullshitting you.
- Not way. You asked.

You look guilty, Munir.

Like all Arabs.

I'm killing you.

Seriously?
I was saving your life.

I said I'm a wizard.

I agree. She's not guilty.
I kill you too.

You too?

You're traitors. I've taken note.

Take note!
Never forget what I told you.

Nothing to say, Anissa?

- Say what?
- Yeah, what?

It's not her.

"Say what? It's not her."
Best friends forever!

BBFs have die-hard friendships!

That's real values, coward!

I'm not your friend?

Stop, you exhaust me.

You too!
Who's for eliminating Munir? Me!

1, 2, 3, 4!

Die! Die!

1, 2, 3, 4, you're dead.

Turn over your card
and death by popular vote!

Show it and die.

Know what? Let it serve as a lesson.
Assholes...

What is this? What?
Is it a werewolf?

A wizard, idiots!
I said she's the werewolf!

Werewolf.

You killed me. One more round.

Accept defeat, bro.

Can't beat
the best lawyer in France.

That's me.

Best in France? And Middle Earth!

What?

She can be werewolf and lawyer
at the same time?

Come on, guys.
My mom's coming home.

Know what you call me soon?
"Counselor".

"Guidance counselor, get me out of gym."

Dream on...

You'll hear me in court.

I'm going to rock.

Go revel in your defeat.

Yes, Your Honor
of the Court of Appeals...

You laugh at her bad jokes.
You're a lapdog!

I'm her lapdog, really?

You're the one in love.

See how he attacks me?

Tough love...

Bye, hon.

Good luck.

- For?
- Tomorrow.

Take care.

- Night, Pierre.
- See you tomorrow.

Good evening.

Evening, ma'am.

Pug... 6 years old.

I don't get it.

How did you get to this point?

Meaning?

Picking up dog excrement,
I really don't get it...

Do you procure pleasure from it?

That must be it... It's beyond me.

Butt out.

You realize that for a little affection,
you abase yourself?

Listen, mind your own business...

React! You're acting as worthless
as what's in your hands.

Let's go home, Vanilla.

Go on home, Vanilla.

She is unfuckable!

Unfuckable?
Have you seen your face?

Pervert!
You didn't fuck since Mitterrand!

Loser!

Vanilla!

Let's go home.

Dumb bitch!

Hello.

Read me what I wrote.

Logos, Ethos, Pathos.

Are you sure?

Yes.

So you can read?

"Yield Admissions through Questions."

Stratagem 7.

If you can read, you know
there's a university dress code.

Okay...

When will you stop dressing
like a shapeless blob from the projects?

It's unbearable.

The clothing case was closed.

Why look like those savages

who set cars afire
on Christmas and New Years?

Next is "our noise and odors"?

You're not in a burka
so why not dress nicely?

Know what?

I don't like you.

Don't say "I don't like you".
No power, no breadth.

Say "You're unlikeable"
or it sounds like a demonstration.

It's definitive.

Say "I tried to like you,
but it's impossible."

Find the emotion.

Create expectation, then thwart it.
Much stronger!

Fatima!

What was that?

Bad joke. I'm sorry.

I'm out.
I'll file a complaint.

Hold on, hold on! Forgive me.

Why do you do it?

Do what?

Private classes?
Why are you helping me?

Why do you think?

I'm asking you.

You know why.

No!

You must have a hypothesis.

Maybe I saw something special in you.

A worthy talent,
more than the shapeless blob

lets on.

Wallah.

What do you think?

Looks don't matter?

The image we give is of no importance?

Our outfits express our alienation.

They're enemies of reflection,
of language.

You're right. Don't stand out.
Stay in the pack.

- Your Panurgism prevents you...
- My what?

"Panurgism".
Whip out your phone and look it up.

On the double!

Go on!

From "Panurge",
a character in Rabelais.

Passive, sheep-like behavior.

Synonym: conformism.

See you tomorrow
at the same time.

Good evening, Latifa.

Stir it around.

It has to cook.

I'll do it...

Let me do it.

- Not too much.
- I know!

You taught me. I know.

Not too much...
Now do like this.

We'll have 6 months of leftovers.

It's nice to eat something
not microwaved.

Take note.

So I'm the target?

Next it'll be:
"Find yourself a nice husband

"to help pay the bills.

A single mother, at your age.
Neighbors talk!"

Did I say anything?

Not yet.

So I'll say it.

A single mother, honestly,

at your age!

Find yourself an old man!

Your late father was enough.

What neighbors?

They're all married but you.

Stop it! Mom, that's enough.

Please.

- He's a real racist.
- Stop.

He calls me Fatima.

"Fatima" is pretty.

I can't tell you anything.

No, I can't tell you anything.

Your generation. Always protesting!

But we're forced to!

- And why?
- Why?

- I'm asking.
- So am I.

No one's looking at my socks.

Did I bring you up like that?

She looks like a bum!

I wish I had time
to darn my daughter's socks,

to make her princess dresses,
but I honestly don't.

Did I raise you filthy?

Filthy?
You may be overdoing it!

You go to school like that?

What about her mustache?

What mustache?

Your mustache!

Did you see yours?

"I know my fate.

My name'll be associated..."

"My name'll be"?
Start by learning to speak.

Can't you articulate?

Half of what you say
is incomprehensible.

"Name'll" doesn't exist.

"Name will."

Start over.

"I know my fate.

My name will be associated
with the memory of something great."

Why the rush?

Take your time.

Eloquence is also about using pauses.

Again.

"I know my fate. My name'll..."

"Name will".
Dammit, it's not complicated!

Is your brain made of couscous?

I'm not looking to provoke.
It's a true French expression

meaning your brain is mush.

All right?

Again.

Put this pen in your mouth, like this.

And articulate.

Go on.

Don't worry. It's halal.

That was to provoke.

"Zhi zho my fate..."

Don't laugh stupidly.

Stand up.

Again.

Straighten up.

- Shut up.
- You touched me!

Be proud of yourself.
Stand strong.

And breathe. Breathing...

That's the secret.

Again.

Good. Get up on the table.

Occupy the space.
I want to hear you.

I want your voice to fill the room
and understand every word.

"Zhi zho my fate.

"My name will be assozhiated
wizh the memory of zhomething great.

"Zhe memory of a crisis
like never on Earth,

of zhe most profound
collision of conscience..."

It's a disaster.

We'll try with this.

Let's go.

Where to?

I can't.

If I'm seen, my name'll be mud.

What?

"Name will be".

Problem, bro?

She thinks she's a Saudi princess,
all stuck up.

"Friends, Romans, countrymen,
lend me your ears.

I come to bury Caesar..."

Louder!

I can't hear.

"Friends, Romans, countrymen..."

Articulate!

"...lend me an ear.

I come to bury Caesar,
not to praise him..."

Loony Tunes!

"The good is oft
interred with their bones."

She's the old guy
in Lord of the Rings.

It's Lord of the Rings, huh?

"The noble Brutus
told you Caesar was ambitious.

"If it were so,
it was a grievous fault.

And grievously he answered it."

Go chase the dragon of Mordor,

Madame forest elf!

Shut up.

What do you mean, shut up?

Don't stare!

You being disrespectful,
my precious?

Where's your coach?

Come climb in my coach.

I won't even answer that.

You won't answer me?

I find her hot, bro.

Lady from the hood.

I can do Romeo.
You can be my Juliet.

Using stratagem 5, "False Propositions",

prove to me that euthanasia
is good for society.

A nice mass euthanasia can help

because, as we know,
there's no more room on the planet.

Otherwise we're... lacking...
in natural resources.

So...

Ecologically, it's a great plus.

Fewer carbon footprints.

And otherwise economically...

In Belgium, where people
are particularly well-euthanized,

the GDP reached a 157% profit margin
in petrodollars

as per the CAC 40 Index,
and with a marginal cost of 5.

You've understood instinctively
you must blend the various stratagems.

You just mixed number 5,
"False Propositions"

with stratagem 15,
"Use Seemingly Absurd Arguments".

Let's move onto stratagem 6.

"Make Unsubstantiated Claims".

Go ahead.

How are you?

What do you want?

How's it going?

Isn't Mazard coaching you?

You're into me, right?

Whenever I see you,
you hit on me big-time.

I just wanted to wish you luck
for round one.

You too.

The jury has decided
the winner of this round

is Benjamin De Segonzac.

Please, we now call...

We now call to the lectern
Neila Salah and Jean Proutot.

Quiet, please.

You'll be arguing the subject:
"Do clothes make the man?"

Remember you're being timed.

Be clear and precise.

You'll start by showing
why clothes don't make the man.

Miss Salah, you'll show us

why this is the case.

Mr. Proutot, begin.

Mr. President,

ladies and gentlemen
of the jury and public.

As the Greeks said,
a monkey is a monkey,

even dressed in crimson robes.

Yet we can notice
the world is full of them,

of these monkeys,

wretched people who clumsily attempt

to hide what they are.

They are not to blame.

Such is life.

The poor want to dress like the rich

to better blend into the dominant class,

and, oddly enough,

the epitome of chic
among the rich now

is to dress
like homeless people.

So we buy faux leather Chinese shoes

and jeans with holes from Chanel.

Fortunately,

the sham never lasts long.

Instinctively, a child
can differentiate rags from towels.

Instinctively, like attracts like.

Social codes.

Take, for example,
terrorists who practice taqiyya,

the art of dissimulation.

Vile barbarians who shave their beards,

drink champagne, sleep with hookers,

eat "haloof".

Is that it?

They dress like you and me.

So it's obvious.
Clothes do not make the man.

Miniskirts don't make the whore.

And veils don't make the saint.

Is this a KKK rally?

Calm down.

Why the smirk?

Shouldn't I feel insulted?

Miss, calm down.

Control yourself
or pass your turn.

Your turn, Miss Salah.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury
and the public,

if clothes don't make the man,

how do we become a man of God?

When men become priests,
don't we say they take the cloth?

If clothes don't make the man,
then men are born priests.

But you know men are not born priests,
but become them.

Simone de Beauvoir!

Mr. Proutot, please.

You may resume.

Clothes make the priest
and open the door to priesthood.

Indeed,

things are never truly what they are
as when they appear to be so.

The way we show ourselves to the world
tells who we are.

So allow me to show you that

clothes make the man

because...

to become a man of God,
you must take the cloth.

Well put.

Wise-ass!

To conclude,

aren't you wearing the robes
of your profession?

Don't the robes of law
make you stand straighter?

Your emotions took over again.

You should have been eliminated.
You can't control yourself!

You heard him insult me.

So what?
You seized the opportunity.

That's why he was disqualified.

Learn to take nothing personally.

Keep distance. Step back.

Forget what others think.

To win over a public, stop caring
about what they expect of you!

Practical exercise. Let's go.

Not here.

Pains in the ass...

"Friends, Romans, countrymen,

"lend me an ear!

I come to bury Caesar,
not to praise him."

"Friends, Romans, countrymen,

"lend me an ear!

"I come to bury Caesar,

"not to praise him!

"The evil that men do
lives after them.

"The good is oft interred
with their bones!"

"So let it be with Caesar."

"So let it be with Caesar!"

I really had a blast!

What are you doing?

What?

Who said you could do that?

Sending a little picture to Mommy?

Those phones
are the asshole of science.

Clothing, now phones?

Selfies, phonetic texts, little hearts,

"LOL", "TTYL", pathetic!

Live with the times!

What if the times are wrong?

Idiots on social media
expressing themselves!

We hear them more than Nobel laureates!

Pierre...

"Mr. Mazard".

Mr. Mazard,
I have no money.

Try stratagem 12.

Get pity from the waiter,
like a slum-girl Cosette.

It goes with your skin color.

Pierre!

Hello sir, hello again.

I have a small problem.

It's on Mr. Mazard's tab,
as usual.

The asshole of science?

Why wait 25 minutes
for a taxi to come by?

I can get one in 5 minutes
with this jewel of technology.

I even bagged a babe on Facebook
with this thing.

So anything's permitted?

I'm not talking about convictions.

I'm talking about being able to argue.

Fuck the truth, just be right.

It got inside!
I had to hammer, but it's in.

I'll drop you somewhere.

No, come, please.

Hello, sir...

You have a favorite route
that you prefer?

Thanks for your confidence.
Refreshment-wise, there's bottled water.

Of course, young man.
You have all our confidence.

Thanks, Ali.

See you tomorrow.

The lady's been shopping!

You okay, Munir?

What's up?

- Come eat a gyro with us.
- I have work.

So go work.

What's your problem?

You've become a snob
since you wear heels.

- I wear heels?
- You know what I mean.

In fact I don't.

- Yes, I get it.
- Get what?

You all hate me now.

What?

I betrayed all of you.

School has made me dumb.

I never say that!

Of course you did.

All I care about is my competition,
my teachers.

- Hey, Neila.
- What's up?

Just a sec.

Kick me the ball.

It's sickening. I'm so self-centered.

I drink coffee
at Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

The only time I see you
is to blame you for not changing.

Truth is... I'm the cliché.

What the hell
are you talking about?

I see it in you. You hate me.

I don't hate you.

If you liked me, you'd say so.
Do me a favor. Say you don't.

Not at all.

Admit you don't like me.

- Sure we like you.
- We do!

They still feel something for me.

But you and I were close.
You saw me change. You dislike me!

What do you mean?
Sure I love you.

- And you miss me.
- I miss you.

- This is embarrassing.
- What?

See how good I am?

- At what?
- The stratagem of antiphrasis.

What?

Using irony or euphemism

to describe
the exact opposite of reality.

- She stratagemed you!
- Stratagem yourself!

She's teasing you!
Belt her!

Listen to you! You're only 8!

And a half, prick.

Little brat.

Check it out, bro!

Look at them. I want to puke.

Friends since they're 2!
It's incest!

I swear, I'm shocked.

Let's go eat.

Let them suck face.

"And her arm, and her leg,

"and her thigh, and her loins,
shiny as oil,

"sinuous as a swan,

"passed before my eyes,
clear-sighted and serene.

"And her belly, her breasts,

"grapes of my vine,

"advanced, more cajoling
than angels of evil

"to trouble the quiet
that had possessed my soul,

"to dislodge her
from the crag of crystal,

"where calm and alone,

she had taken her seat."

Do you hear the beauty,
the sensuality, of this text?

Far more exciting, more debauched,
than your Internet

and your YouPorn.

Baudelaire was attacked
for his Flowers of Evil.

Offending public morals,
offending religious morals.

We're not talking
cartoons of Mohammed.

We're talking poetry.

Back then, words had the power
to conjure up anything.

They could stir up such fear

that writers were brought to trial.

They were censured,

muzzled,

silenced.

With words,
Baudelaire offended morality.

His trial was motivated by indignation.

"Indignation" has become a cliché,
thanks to old man Hessel,

misinterpreted by your selfish
generation of non-combatants.

We're indignant!

The refugee crisis is awful!

- Global warming!
- Capri pants!

What makes you indignant
is not getting into nightclubs,

or being served
carrot-ginger soup that's lukewarm.

You don't smoke?

You breathe well.

You like to breathe.

That means that you like oxygen,
air and nature.

If you like nature,
you like Africa, wide-open spaces.

If you like wide-open spaces,
you like elephants.

Yes, and?

So what's more beautiful
than an elephant?

Which means that you like beauty.

And the epitome of beauty is...
I don't know...

women!
What's more beautiful than women?

Don't you like women?

So you're a dyke.

The preamble of the 1946 constitution

consists of two categories of norms:
the FPRLR,

Fundamental Principles Recognized
by Laws of the Republic

and principles specifically
necessary to our times.

I miss you.

I miss you two.

With another O!!!

I miss you toO.

Okay, Perfect Frenchy!

Do you know "verlan" slang?

When we were kids,

we'd switch the order of syllables.
It's nothing new!

A "beur"?

"Beur" now refers
to 2nd generation Arab immigrants.

That is, they're French.

Many haven't found their place

in a society
that should do it for them.

You okay?

Yeah, and you?

- He's not torturing you?
- It turns you on.

That won't stop the gossip.

What gossip?

- That you're "doing it".
- What?

Are you crazy or what?

Whatever.

I think he's bored.
I'm a distraction.

I got left back.

I was his whipping boy last year.

- He made my life shit.
- Really?

All year long!

In every class, a tirade about
how I'd die young from inbreeding,

about my blue blood.

He said I'm lucky
to be my mother's brother.

That I lived in Versailles,
blew my nose in the curtains...

What a bastard.

Okay...

See you tomorrow, Benjamin.

The ultimate stratagem:

insult.

If you realize
your opponent is superior,

out-arguing you,

you must attack him personally,

with insults.

Let's begin.

You mean I can...

Yes, you can. Now do it.

For real?

I won't repeat myself.

Are you sure?

Son of a bitch.

Urine from Ur-anus.

Meh.

Degenerate racist.

Motherless motherfucker.

Stray dog.

Eat shit and die, toilet scum!

All right...

It's a bit anecdotic.

Be more personal.
Attack me... personally!

You have a huge nose.

You're fat.

Bad breath!
A rotting rodent behind your tonsils!

If you like.

I'm sure of it.

Your classes, your photocopies,

your halal pencils...

you can stick them...

Enough now. Monday is Lille.

Round two.

10:46 train, Gare du Nord.

Shit!

- My mom's back.
- I'll stay. She's cool.

Move it! She's here!

Move it!

I'll meet you on the other side.

Here.

I wanted to ask...
You want to have dinner one night?

If you want,
when you come back.

And not a gyro.

A real restaurant, just me and you.

If you is into it.

- "If you are into it".
- Sure I am. I asked!

What?

If you "are into it", not "is into it".

- That's all you have to say?
- Munir...

Bye, Perfect Frenchy.

The way you speak is amusing.

"Amusing"?

Munir, wait!

Don't be an ass.
Sure I want to have dinner!

Come back!

I don't say it well,
but I mean what I say.

Munir!

Fuck.

Lille, round 2

Miss Neila Salah...

to the lectern.

Sir, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,

I'll tell the truth, the whole truth,
nothing but the truth,

even if I lie while doing so.

Marseille, round 3

If masters had
to systematically choose students,

determining in advance whom to give
intelligence and support,

this would give way
to unbearable fatalism.

Bordeaux, round 4

And my truth may not be yours.

Is all truth worth telling?

Would you tell a wide-eyed child
on Christmas Eve

that Santa doesn't exist?

Would you tell a man
on his deathbed

that there is no heaven?

"Does love make one happy?"

Miss Salah,
defend the statement.

Does love make one happy?

Love?

What love?

Love of others?

Of oneself?

And which happiness?

Doesn't a proverb say
we can live on love and cold water?

What is being in love?

Barthes says love is measured
by the waiting it causes.

Yes.

I'm in love because I'm waiting.

The Other - pirate, adventurer,

mountain climber - never waits.

He climbs Kilimanjaro,

traverses the South Seas.

It's unbearable.

So,

sometimes,

when you're in love,

you try to act brazen.

"I'll be late.

Just to one-up
my jet-setting adventurer."

But alas,

we always lose that game.

We stay on the outskirts.

Whatever we do, we end up idle,

exact,
precise like a sad alarm clock,

and sometimes worse:

We arrive early.

Early!

But when we understand that we're loved,
and that, on the pier,

we start accepting
that fathomless waiting,

accepting the giddiness
of going in the water over our head,

then those sad, motionless waves

become an ocean
of enchanting euphoria,

a tender, sweet bosom

within which we wait,

confidently, invincibly,

for the return of our beloved.

And this waiting

becomes the most exquisite

and happiest condition.

The winner is Neila Salah.

We got to finals.
Don't rest on your laurels.

Keep working.

New exercise:

adapt to your public.

Hello, ma'am.

How are you?

Is life treating you well?

Do you like it here? Is it nice?

Do you play bridge? Do you have friends?

Do you have family?
Children, maybe?

Do you have a son?

My son?

Let him go fuck himself.
Put hair on his chest!

You hear me, bitch?

So now you've met my mother.

I understand better now.

I left Nantes for university.

Time went by.
I have nothing to say to her now.

You, with all your words,
nothing to say?

When we speak well,
we forget how to say things simply.

Excuse me.

When we speak well,
we forget how to say things simply.

Sending emojis
full of diamonds and hearts?

Send some to your mother.
She'd like it.

Who's the lucky man?

Jealous?

Why do you think
I introduced you to Mother?

So who is it?

Munir.

He's a prince.

He doesn't know it yet,
but he is.

With a heart of gold.

And sword-like thoughts.

Straight.

Pertinent.

Luminous.

Sharp.

Nothing scares him.

So with him, nothing scares me.

And he cracks me up.

He's handsome as hell.

What does he do?

Uber driver.

Good evening, ma'am, sir.

Have you made up your minds?

Yes.

Demoiselle de Mekong Thermidor
and scallops gratin.

Or pan-roasted wild sea bass
of "known parents".

I'll go for the "known parents", please.

For my appetizer,
oysters in aspic and its trilogy

of cucumber chutney,
red caviar and wasabi cream.

And you, sir?

The same thing.

Still upset?

Not even "Goodnight, Neila"?

Today is a great day
for our university.

A warm round of applause
for Neila Salah...

representing us in the final!

You know I have no talent for speeches.

Living proof.

I'd like to thank Grégoire Viviani,
our president,

for letting me represent our school
in the final.

It's hard for me to admit it,

but I have
the most extraordinary professor.

God knows
we didn't get off to a good start.

He made me suffer
in the worst way possible.

But I'd never have wanted
anyone else.

When we speak well,
we forget how to say things simply.

So I'll say it simply.

Thank you, Pierre.

So? I almost believed you.

"I distract Mazard,
make him enjoy life."

What do you mean?

Stop, enough. I got it.

Got what?

- Your deal.
- What deal?

The disciplinary board meets next week
and you thank him in public?

Just a coincidence?

You're his good deed.

Good job. You become a star

and he goes on being a racist.

You're his shield.

Such cynicism
makes me lose faith in humanity.

But I'm pretty impressed.

Here's our young prodigy.

I'll never be your good deed.

Rhetoric competition final

Munir!

Sorry, Munir.

Take me in your arms.

I was an ass.

You're right, I screwed up bad.

I gave it all up now.
I don't care.

You were right from day one.

I was out of my depth.

I didn't realize that...

it wasn't where I belonged.

You won't speak?

Raise your head.

Stand up straight.

The girl I know doesn't give up.

This isn't the one I love.

After all you've done,

all you've put up with,

you just give up?

Because of a mean teacher?

You think we're all good
and they're all bad?

We're in the same boat.

He used you,
but you didn't use him too?

Answer me, Neila.

He taught you nothing?

Gave you nothing?

He didn't make you better?

It's too late, Munir.

It's not too late.

Who let you in?

I let myself in.

Especially because I think...

what you're discussing concerns me
more than anyone else.

This is about Food Voucher,
Bar Stool and Adburhaman,

isn't it?

You've all gathered here today

to debate the obscenity,
real or supposed,

and the violence,
real or supposed,

of the word "bar stool".

I have my two cents worth.

So tell us.

I've come to confirm

he's the most abject creature
in the world.

Thanks, but...

Let her speak.

Get a chair and take a seat.

Pierre Mazard is a cynic

in the coldest and most deplorable way.

He believes in nothing,
certainly not in himself.

He hates the times.

Respects nothing and no one.

And no institutions of any sort.

So yes,

he put his trust in me,
armed himself with patience,

but he's ambitious above all.

He makes
behind-the-scenes arrangements

in his own self-interest.

So Pierre Mazard is a cynic.

Despite showing me intelligence

and generosity
that I'd never expected here.

Despite being devotion
and passion incarnate.

Despite my hoping every student
encounters someone like him.

And not to mention...

that with him,

everything becomes possible.

A girl from the projects
who can't channel her emotions

just represented our university
in the finals,

less than a year
after crossing his path.

Because in the end,

what we'll remember of him

is the mediocrity and vulgarity
of his classroom antics.

We'll remember Bar Stool.

Let me also say
he's a master of pedagogy,

a shit-stirrer, a complainer,

a man of paradoxes, not prejudices.

He gave me the hunger to succeed,
the desire to dare.

He gave me weapons of peace,
without judging.

Thanks to him, I'll be bulletproof,
yet always tender.

I remember a man who has only words,

too many words.

Words that dull his heart,

choking his last vestiges of humanity.

And what words!

"Bar Stool".

So slay the vile beast.

Burn him at the stake.
Let students dance on his embers.

Thanks to his teaching,

I know my fate.

I know that one day

my name will be associated
with the memory of something great.

Pierre Mazard gave that to me.

To me,

Neila Salah,

born in Créteil

on July 13th, 1997.

daughter of Buzian and Khadija Salah.

His sins are unpardonable.

You'd have to be crazy
to forgive him.

Thanks for listening.

Excuse me.

I wanted to say that...

To quote a future great lawyer...

"We must know how
to say things simply".

So thank you.

Thank you, Neila.

Did you mean what you said?

Since when must we believe
what we say?

What matters isn't being truthful...

but being persuasive.

Urine from Ur-anus!

Degenerate racist.

Motherfucker!

Motherless motherfucker!

Eat scum and die in the toilet.

Eat shit and die, toilet scum!

That's it.

Stray dog.

Desert jackal
dying at the bottom of a dry well!

Sand-covered camel!

Ouarda of the desert.

Rotting jackal.

I was just given your case.

I'm awfully late.

You're just awful.

Why are you staring?

I don't want a bitch.
A want a man, with big balls.

You'll fuck up.

- Dressed like a whore.
- Shut up.

Watch your mouth.

You forget you work for me.

Shut up now and take off your hat.

When my mom becomes a whore.

You're the whore. Take it off.

How's that?

You find me hot?

I'm innocent.
It's a miscarriageofjustice.

Excuse me? I didn't get that.
Articulate.

This is a miscarriage of justice, ma'am.

Counselor.

- Call me counselor.
- Is this summer camp?

You try to look so French
with your hairdo.

- I am French.
- Me too.

You robbed a supermarket.
Repeat offender. Witnesses.

Your pals turned you in.

- Cool.
- You can get a nice sentence.

Either you listen up
and get off on a procedural error,

or act like a wise-ass
and get 10 years.

You need to present yourself in court.

The sweat suit is a deal-breaker.
Stand up.

Now!

"Your Honor,
ladies and gentlemen of the jury."

"Yo Honor, gents of the jury."

"Your Honor."

Stand up.

That's a sin. Hands off.

Your crap is a sin. Stand straight.

"Your Honor,
ladies and gentlemen of the jury."

"Your Honor,
ladies and gents of the jury."

Take out your hands.

Stand up.

Again.

Provided by explosiveskull
https://twitter.com/kaboomskull