Original subtitles

THE GREAT DIVERSION

Attention, this flim is not a flim about cycling.

Thank you for your understanding

Between Australia and South America, in the South Pacific:

the atoll of Pom Pom Galli.

VD calling Captain George Abitbol, VD calling Captain George Abitbol.

- Someone wants you on the bridge. - Who?

- A man called Jos�. - OK, I'm coming, VD.

Ah, finally, the King of Class! The too well dressed man, Abitbol!

Like that you were elected the Classiest Man in the World.

Pardon my laughter! The great play-boy of the ocean depths.

The kind that makes the housewives dream. But I fuck them, the housewives, right?

- Am I right? - Listen well, my little Jos�.

You fuck the housewives, you must have a golden prick. But that's not real class.

- I tell you that as the Classiest Man in the World. - Stop right there.

Class, is to be chic in the way you dress.

There's nothing like going to Azzedine Alaia or even buying

your pullovers from Yoji Yamamoto!

I'm sorry to say this, but you're a bit confused.

You're mixing up coquetry and class.

You're crazy. You spend all your money on fashionable clothes and accessories.

But you're ridiculous.

If it makes you happy...

It's you who wears them. But if you want my opinion, they're a bit...

Has-been.

You swine!

Me, a has-been? I've got medals for wearing this.

So you can fuck off!

You're really not very nice.

But the train of your insults runs on the rails of my indifference.

I'd rather leave than hear that, than go deaf.

Right. In that case we're no longer friends, Abitbol!

Look, the English have landed. I'll be obliged to go behind.

By that dark tunnel That stinky funnel

Oh, George! What a poet, you surprise me.

No one's talked to me like that.

I've known many men, but none like you.

- D'you know who you're talking to? - Yes.

Let's get outta here, I've just let one rip.

- Again? Never mind. - Shift, let me pass.

- VD, what the hell is this? - It's raining piddle, piddle, piddle.

Thanks for the info. It's a good job you're here.

- But, boss... - D'you want everyone to know

your name isn't VD but Sweet'n'sour Pork.

I'll look for the tablecloth with the fancy design.

That's it... No.

This one.

That'll do.

That's alright We're on our way

That's OK Throw it away

And that's going round

What happens if I pull this down?

George...

Oh God, George...

Shitty world.

And a reminder of today's main headline, the sudden death of George Abitbol

who for over 15 years was officially the Classiest Man in the World.

America has lost one of its most prestigious ambassadors.

And now, a little music from Barry Manilow.

Oh no, not him.

Bitch!

American Class

- Hi Boss, can I come in? - You're in luck, I'm preparing a dossier

on George Abitbol. You're on the spot, but not alone.

- You'll be with Peter and Steven. - Peter and Steven?

They're OK, but why can't I work alone?

Because you're crap.

Of course, why didn't I think of that. I'll work with Peter and Steven.

Well?

OK, I'm going.

That bum, I didn't know he was still around.

You better get used to him, 'cos he'll be working with you on the case.

It's an idea of our friend Callaghan. A bright idea.

Stop your bullshitting, Boss. He's my boy, my lad.

He's attached to me, so I help him.

Perhaps he has no one else. But what are we talking about?

I'll tell you. Where are you with the death of George Abitbol?

Getting anywhere?

We've just started, but have a few ideas.

We'll ask loads of people, those who loved him,

hated him, those close to him. That's a lot of work.

- What else? - That's not all.

- We thought of explaining his final words. - Shitty World?

- You're right. - We shit bricks coming up with that.

The Classiest Man in the World dies and his final words are

"Shitty World". Why did he say that?

- That's what I want to know. - It's not easy.

It must be a name. If a woman, which woman,

if a horse, which race.

We, we thought it could be a sleigh.

Hello.

It's me, Orson Welles

and this is my house you see behind me. Not bad,

It's French.

I'm interrupting this film because I'm a bit pissed off.

It's theft and plagiarism.

I don't like thieves and sons of bitches.

In this film the hero dies at the start

and the journalists investigate his final words.

Just like in Citizen Kane. I call that plagiarism.

The journalists will interview people about the hero.

You will see their memories all in flashback.

I see only too well...

Rosebud.

Apart from that?

We're a bit stuck. Kind of lost track.

He spent half his life in Texas.

- Try looking there. - Try looking there.

Don't be so pompous... "Try looking there".

Bravo, what enthusiasm.

Callaghan should be able to help you,

since he's worked here he's been paid to do fuck all.

- The fat pig. - So I'm paid to do fuck all.

But my tips I keep for my lad.

Come on guys, He's my son, the fruit of my loins.

I'd a name and address I gave to him.

- Dumbass. - So you're pissed off, am I wrong?

Bitch.

- Was it you who called me a bitch? - Oh no.

You know it's not very nice.

- I've come to see a Mr. Hughes. - What's that? - Fuck off!

You told me to go fuck off?

What a prick.

Excuse me Sir. Can I help?

You must be Mr. Hughes. I've a letter to show you.

But beforehand, I'd like to ask you a question.

- To whom do I have the honour... - Dave, Callaghan's son.

Let me see, you're investigating George Abitbol, the Classiest

- Man in the World. - You knew him, right?

You know, I knew George from Texas. He was still a cowboy.

At the time, I was too, I lived with Jack, a good friend.

There was nothing sexual between us.

I say that because I was often called Pooftah and Faggot.

It's easy to call two guys gay, just because they live together

on a ranch and wear leather trousers.

One day a horseman arrived going hell-for-leather.

Hey sweetie, I've a French letter for you. Have fun.

- What was in the letter? - Don't know, he gave it to Jack.

- Well, tell me what you do know then. - OK, relax.

I don't know what the letter said, but later we left on horseback for Georgetown.

I'm fed up. Traveling on horseback is really just too much.

What's wrong?

I'm tired of all this moving around.

I'm dreaming of a nice bath in a cosy inn.

You wouldn't believe, the size of my blisters.

- What's with this "Yup" like that? - Just to say "Yup"

That's really something.

Hot and spicy. Specialty of the chef.

Perfect, that smells super good.

Perhaps you'll tell me now why we're here.

You get a mysterious letter and we dash right over.

I'd love to know what's inside.

It's a long letter from my friend Dino

who wants my help, as he couldn't get Ed,

for George who's in trouble.

What do I care if he's in trouble or not.

Anyway I could never stand him.

Thanks for the compliment.

It's always a pleasure to get one, especially from a couple of fags.

Know what you're eating?

That steak is really arsehole rissole. Taste nice?

It's very nice, thank you.

And the sauce is dried snot.

What a mind you've got.

- You'll make them sick. - Mind your own business.

You know Madame Felipe cuts up pieces of tit to make her ravioli.

- Totally disgusting, shit. - Wait, he's the Classiest Man.

- No doubt he going to apologize. - You know...

Stick your apologies up your ass, with the steak,

except the chef has done that already, and then spat on it.

Oh no, the chef doesn't spit on the food.

Even in the best restaurants, they spit on the food. And in this dump,

I don't see why they wouldn't poop on it too. Bon appetit.

I knew a pedo once, with ten times more class.

One more thing...

I'd avoid the chocolate mousse if I were you.

And what happened next?

Take a deep breath.

After, I only know I had an accident. I was wounded.

I lost my memory and woke up remembering nothing.

You've something else to tell me, about George?

I won't eat ravioli.

However I will speak of Madame Felipe.

She's got fantastic tits, and I know what I'm talking about.

- And George? - Once I was with the bilingual Indians.

- Salut Hughes. - Hello.

Nice to see you, to see you, nice.

Hi guys, great to be here.

As I was passing, I thought to stop a while, until you want me

to go.

You can stay. No problem.

I'm even happy for you to be here.

I'd love you to stay. We can eat some chips.

D'you hear? Chips.

Is that all you do when I say: Eat some chips?

What's wrong with you?

What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?

- Do you remember George, politically? - George?

What have I to do with George? Nothing!

Because remember this, I'm a true Democrat...

And George is a shitty fascist, a shitty fascist.

Exactly.

My time has come.

And what happened with this Indian chief?

Afterwards he made Death Wish, but now he's stopped showing off.

One day he was found murdered. His wish came true.

Give me the number of your friend Jack, since he was there too.

I'll give it to my friends, they'll question him.

Peter write this down. The number of a certain Jack.

You can question him.

19, 94, 0, 18, 13, 24, 32,

49, 26, 24, 40, 70933,

16 minus 4

- 16 minus 4, that's 12. - Right, thanks.

Thanks, call you later.

Hello, this is Steven, I'm not here.

You can leave a message after the tone.

- Thanks, goodbye. - Dave's just given me Jack's number.

That's Jack's number, it was on file.

Dave's number's a pile of shit.

Dave's pissing me off.

I'm pissed off with crappy special effects.

- That's a bit harsh. Are you an expert? - Alright, you know the effect

Wow, I'm impressed.

- Hello, Mr. Jack? - Absolutely.

I'm investigating George Abitbol and I'd like to hear your story.

Listen, I've nothing against you, but I've not got

very much time.

But for George Abitbol I'll make an effort.

Just don't take me for a push-over.

Thanks, very nice of you. Wait!

I said nice, not homosexual. I said nice because

Hughes said you left for Georgetown having received a French letter.

- What was in it exactly? - Absolutely.

I think you're referring to the missive we received

one day, Hughes and I. It seemed urgent

from the haste of the Pony Express.

The sender had written on the back of the envelope

"Full speed postman, friendship won't wait"

The letter was from my friend Dino, asking for help.

To put it bluntly we set of on a bumpety ride.

- I'm fed up. - Not again.

- What now, don't you ever stop moaning. - I'm starving.

Listen well, my friend. A few more miles

and we'll be at a cosy inn.

What a killjoy.

Excuse me, we've already heard all this from Hughes.

Perhaps you can tell us what happens after your meal at that cosy inn.

Absolutely.

After dinner, I set to work and went to see my friend Dino.

Dino, my poor friend.

You don't look too good.

How is it you've sunk so low?

You who can write such lovely letters.

That's all gone.

I no longer want to eat nor drink.

I haven't combed my hair. It's my 19th nervous breakdown.

Shit, I don't even want to wash.

Don't tell me this is because of George? - George?

You can't know.

It's unbearable.

But that's no reason not to wash your face, are you ill or what?

I keep sticking myself with my pins. It's just not funny.

You can tell me. You look just awful.

Can't you stop being so clumsy?

Do you mind if I look at your pin?

Shera... Sheraf. You can't spell.

Me too, I spell bad. Because if you spell too well, they call you a faggot.

So I wouldn't worry that you can't spell sheriff.

- One for all, all for one! - Sheriff.

You too can't spell Sheriff?

But I still feel like a bum.

That's no reason to let yourself go and commit self harm.

Look at my hands. Shit!

Look, these fucked up hands that can't spell and stab me with my pins.

We'll I'm going, thanks for the pins. Everything will be fine.

- As we say back home: L'chaim. - L'chaim.

Evening!

Faggot!

Well, I never.

It's getting a bit much this "faggot" business, everybody's at it.

- Even though we aren't. - I know.

Don't worry, I'll go see him tomorrow, George.

- Well then, nighty night. - Sweet dreams.

George, I must have a word.

Just because I'm so nice, people take me for an idiot.

Now you must hear my side of things. We must talk.

- You don't look too good. Let me help you. - Piss off, Jack.

- So you don't want to talk? - Exactly.

This town ain't big enough for the both of us.

You've got till nine o'clock to scram.

But George, come on now, d'you take me for a jerk?

Yes, completely. Now piss off.

George, you disappoint me. I expected more openness on your part.

I'll help you in spite of that.

Staying in town despite George's threats? That's mighty brave for a fag like you.

Enough, it's just a rumour. I was never gay and even less a pooftah.

All those complexes.

- Go on, tell him you're a faggot. - Why don't you come out of the closet.

And even if I was gay, what difference would that make?

You'd look hot in a thong.

- Get ready. - Yes, it's time.

Cigarette?

Alright I'll tell you everything.

It's nine o'clock.

Is it nine yet?

Do I sound like the talking clock?

Other than that, you have class!

I'll show you class.

Man's folly and indiscretion lead to disaster.

- Hey, boss, I've found some dynamite. - That gives me an idea.

Hey, you tosser, it's not me who's gay.

There's another and he's called George.

Blah, blah, blah.

Bastard.

And you, filthy parasite, piss off.

- He'll pay for that. - Yeah.

It's a shame you found him losing it like that.

- D'you want to hear the end of the story? - Yes please.

I assume you called the police. You had every right of course.

- Not at all, we settled it man to man. - Right.

Absolutely.

You see, Hughes was seriously injured. George came to apologize immediately.

- George apologized immediately? - Absolutely.

- What class. - Absolutely.

Hughes...

I knew you were injured. I came to apologize.

You should have thought of that before, instead of blubbing in my room.

Yes, you're right, it's pathetic.

That's just like me.

But I still hoped to make you... happy.

My greatest pleasure would be some peace, you moron.

Of course, I'm on edge.

To round thing off, George had only to apologize.

- Say, you're awfully nice. - Don't say that.

I'm not nice. When I get angry I go completely crazy. You wouldn't know me.

- Sorry. One last question. - Absolutely.

- What would you think if I said: Shitty World?

Goodbye.

Why did you choose this work.

To be a journalist? Obviously to be famous.

I want to be famous. Know why? To fuck chicks.

When you're famous you fuck plenty of chicks. And eat better food too.

As for the chicks, I'm right with you. But with food, you've lost me.

What is it you want to eat exactly?

- I don't know. A quiche lorraine. - A kitsch.

- What? - One says a "kitsch lorraine" - Are you sure?

That's weird, "kitsch lorraine".

- Where now? - To Dino, who wrote the letter to Jack.

- Watch out. - Those asshole pedestrians. - Yeah.

- What did you say there? - Nothing, leave it be.

The mystery deepens.

Allow me to welcome you.

Don't just stand there. Take the weight off your feet.

- Thank you, very kind. - That's a lesson in etiquette.

Of course, but how can I help?

- We're journalists and we'd like to know where you knew... - George Abitbol.

Yes, George Abitbol.

Where I knew George? An excellent question.

- At the farm. - The farm? What farm?

The funny farm where you belong, asshole, cretin!

What d'you want? To do our heads in, poor sod?

Of course I know the farm. We were cowboys there. What's wrong with that?

Ah, yes. Very nice.

Balling me out in front of journos we don't even know.

It's class, bravo.

Fine, you're not pissed off? I must have been dreaming.

You sent a letter to Jack. What was in that letter.

That letter, it's very simple.

I had a problem with George. I wrote to my old friend Jack.

But if you like, I'll start at the beginning.

I arrived in Italy at Turin.

Back then I supported Juventus.

OK, I'm coming, stop shooting at I.

M'yeah. Over here.

What's with the hands? Did I tell you to raise them?

- Lower your hands, it's me who'll raise them. - But it's my turn.

It's my turn, I'll decide.

Don't do what I do. Lower your hands. Grab your rod, and stop copying me.

My rod, with pleasure.

I'm not giving you my rod. Sorry.

I'm leaving with my horse.

No problem, I'll get it ready for you.

I've changed my mind. You take the horse and then scram.

OK.

Shit, I've buggered that up. But I'm not giving in.

Time passed.

I thought I'd never see him again, but one year later,

our paths crossed once more.

I frequented a bar that the landlord, a certain Bazooma, had named

Orlando's

I know you from somewhere. I'm sure I know you.

Sorry, but it's me who knows you.

I saw you first, you saw me second.

- I saw you second, alright. - Lost.

I also saw you second.

- Wow, you're something. - I'm better than that, I'm super-duper.

He does my head in.

It's many times we've met.

Always in the way. What d'you want?

Perhaps you're in my way.

- Not bad the pin on your tie. - That's class.

By the way... where are you from?

- Me, I'm Jewish. - Jewish, you?

Oh, I'm Jewish and if you want to know, I'm even an Arab Jew.

Arab Jew?

I prefer the Sephardim.

An Arab Jew, a bit weird.

- I don't like weirdoes. - Oh shit.

I can't stand Nazis, but let it be.

Spit it out.

Completely exact?

I think you're an oaf. A sick oaf.

Then there's the racism.

It's your personal opinion. That I'm racist.

If you want my advice,

If there's a racist here, you's it.

There's no point discussing it with you, as you're always right.

Let's discuss it. It's you that's always right.

What's this I hear, Frankie? You scoundrel!

It seems you've got intolerable views,

where there's no tolerance.

Don't you know it's not right to be a racist.

It's wrong.

You mustn't racially discriminate. It's wrong.

Judging one by their religion or the colour of their skin

By their social origins, or nationality. It's wrong!

OK, since I see that we can't talk things over...

Let's have a duel.

Fucking spotty face!

I love a nice duel.

And now piss off.

And next time...

I'll shoot you with real bullets.

That'll heat up your ass, French bastard.

I'm not French, I'm American.

You're French. I'm American.

And that's why I called my old friend Jack

I don't like to say it, but he's a really decent guy.

I ask myself if he's not a bit of a jerk.

- Tell us about the contents of that letter. - Yes please.

Unless it's private and you've principals.

It's private and I've principals.

But since you're so nice, I'll tell you the contents.

- Thanks, that's real sweet. - Not at all, for nice guys like you.

One night. I was down, I was blue.

My dear Jack I write because I need you.

It's George who needs help.

He can't bear it in Texas.

No air conditioning, no phone, no TV, no central heating.

In brief, he can't stand life without his creature comforts.

It makes him tetchy. Yesterday...

Hello George, I'd really like a word.

If you want to talk send me a... Fax!

A fax out in the sticks he must be as thick as two bricks.

And it went on like this.

With George we spent whole afternoons in our room

gently squabbling over our memories.

- Shall I go over the old times? - Old times, yes.

- Oh no, you're sick of my voice. - I'm not, not at all.

Then I'll tell you the story of some weirdo who showed up one night in my hotel room.

A fucking nutcase.

Evening. What d'you want in my room?

Is there anything you want?

Love me tender...

- Love me true. - What's all this bullshit?

Love me tender Love me true

In two seconds I'll kick your ass.

You can do what you want

But don't step on my blue suede shoes

- What's that. - Don't be cruel

One for the money

Two for the show

Four to go

The good old days.

If he was looking for trouble

He came to the right place.

Unfortunately today it's over. George isn't the same man.

That's why you must come, dear Jack.

Now I think you know the kind of problem I have with George

and why I wrote that letter.

What are we doing in this flim, Bob?

I'll tell, but suck me off first.

I was only joking, don't worry.

There's nothing happening.

Must be a mistake in the series of flashbacks.

It shouldn't last too long.

It looks like a real cock-up.

Hang on, right turn. One, two, three.

Restabilization.

Now we'll dive.

Immersion of the astronef.

My guts are bad. Must be the hamburger.

I can't digest it. You were right. Should have had the kitsch lorraine.

I'm sure you say "quiche".

Never mind that, I've got the runs, the squits, the shits.

- Excuse me. - Excuse me. Assplosion ahoy.

It's coming, green apple splatters.

Put down my Isometric Exercises mag right now.

Thanks.

Secondly what are you doing in my office.

Nothing. Except I've information that merits one.

The death of George wasn't an accident. He was killed.

- May I ask how you know that? - I was tipped off by Deep Throat.

Shit, Deep Throat? That's incredible, that.

Anyway, I've made some progress with things.

- May I ask what that means. - Nothing.

Except that you and your mate Peter are out of your depths.

You lousy bum.

You think you're the best journalist in the world. Amazing.

Best journalist in the world. Amazing.

Stop it. Because whilst you're talking Peter has the mega-shits.

Some dignity please.

And now I'll tell you something about Deep Throat.

He's my informer. Keep your hands off.

Excuse me.

Peter has just stunk out the bog.

Steven...

You won't believe me. My guts are just fine. I'm cured.

However, don't go in the shitter. It's just everywhere.

Shit. Come on.

Boss, boss. We've got a problem. We have to talk to you, quick.

The George Abitbol case.

No, the bog. Peter's just clogged it all up.

It's not my fault, boss. I was ill.

Must be the burgers.

Hello Peter, it's Steven.

Listen carefully. You must interview a certain Jos�.

Take this down.

Interview... Jos�.

However he can't stand journalists.

- Did you get that down. - I did.

If he knows you're a journo he won't see you.

If... he... knows... journo...

What you must do is disguise yourself.

I... must... disguise.

- Understand. - Sure, but my phone's not working.

- What disguise? - Don't know yet. - Find something good. eh?

- I believe in you. - Don't worry. I'll find something good.

Restaurant Mexican Food.

Can't be true.

- Buenas noches. - You speak Spanish?

Un poquito.

Think you can impress me? I can say

"Go to the beach Mr. Fox" "Vamos a la playa Senor Zorro".

Would you like to scoff a chilli con carne?

No thanks... I...

I'm a bit bloated. I'm not... not feeling too good.

I'm really sorry. No offence?

But the next time, I'd really like...

A nice chilli con carne, usually, yum yum.

Right now I'm on a diet.

Based on... Based on kitsch lorraine.

- Excuse me, based on...? - kitsch lorraine.

- It's a little pie. - What do you take me for?

The cheese shop I've got sells three things.

Cheese, kitsch lorraine and Chinese.

Don't make me laugh with your crappy diet.

You're looking at the specialist of kitsch lorraine.

The specialist of sweet and sour pork.

At 23 I won the prize for the best Asian chef for my preparation of

- A mechoui. - A mechoui?

- You're pulling my plonker. - Pull your plonker Peter?

OK, lets talk of George Abitbol.

George Abitbol is far from being a nobody.

He would never have boasted like me about his success in the kitschen.

He had class.

I'd rather have his class than my own.

- I don't think I'm being unjust. - You loved him well?

Yes.

Now leave me be.

Hey, bouffant, if you fancy a sausage...

It's great fun to dress up.

- Myeah. - No, really.

Abitbol

George Abitbol

Class, man Top of the Pops

Has disappeared

Hairy ass

Of the Port of Valparaiso

Ah, it's fine

But all that leads us away from George

Anguish, false anguish

I've no bench marks

Just right now

Steven, shut up. I could never stand Michel Legrand.

I hate the way you drive. It doesn't inspire confidence.

Shut up, you're spoiling my concentration.

When I'm famous I'll bang the chicks

Their knickers falling

Steven, stop. You're unbearable.

You know, about Steven.

He's into it more than me with my disguise.

He crossed the whole country for an interview.

But he really gets inside the skin of someone.

And it's really brave crossing America, from coast to coast...

On foot.

That's total journalism.

And he went by Alaska, the sod.

Climbing on foot, up there. Fucking idiot.

Me for example...

At first I thought it was stupid to dress up. but now I really like it.

Except for me, no one recognises me. It's like that.

A right little chameleon, Dave.

Don't you think I've got more muscular later?

Want to see my disguise?

I'd know better if you were wearing it.

Have you heard speak of Artemus Gordon?

I think you can do a bit better than just a shirt.

It's hard to believe.

I've found an outfit, super fine.

A shirt of which I'm really proud.

And that is how he looks real slick, our Dave.

Excuse me, but I'm thinking of Steven.

It must be great for him on foot.

He must have some wonderful times.

Dear Peter, here I am, even if my disguise isn't quite ready.

The cap and the boots really don't fit.

I sense grow in me the flame which inspired the great reporters of the century.

I think of John Pilger, Bob Woodward and now me.

Enter.

Good day, I'm a journalist investigating the death of George Abitbol.

I know you lived in Texas, I'd like to hear your story.

Stop right there.

You've the wrong person. I've never set foot in Texas.

Don't give me that crap. I know you were there.

OK, alright. But I must warn you, I don't remember very much.

That's to say I remember, but it's all very confused.

Faces that haunt me from time to time.

I often remember smells.

Sensations, rather than precise things.

However I didn't stay for long in Texas.

In fact, I don't see how what I tell you,

just two or three vague things, could interest you as a journalist.

So one, I don't remember.

Two, I didn't stay long. And finally five. There is no five.

Since you don't want to help, go fuck yourself.

Dear Peter.

Here I am in Alaska, despite the cold, my hopeless mule,

my false beard which itches, I continue to believe in my adventure.

However, I've a couple of doubts.

You see, Dave, not bad there, your disguise.

Only with your French head, I'm not really sure.

There's lots of work to do before you're as good as Steven. He's the best.

I'll metamorphose my French head. Just see, you won't believe.

Me too, I'll go to Texas, collect a couple of witnesses.

But me, I'll take the plane.

Dear Peter, I've lost much time with this blizzard.

I think I've caught cold.

Right, the bumpkins who'll talk to me about George.

Who's here who'll speak to Dave.

Won't speak, huh? You're a wooden cross. I guess you'll stay mum.

Ah, finally someone who can tell me something.

OK, so you won't talk, huh?

You want me to let my guns talk?

D'you take me for a jerk.

You look too young to have known those days.

I know bullocks.

It smells of bullshit to me.

Bullshit.

Dear Peter, I'm in the desert, I've a new friend,

he follows me everywhere, though he's a bit young.

He told me he was 18.

I'm all alone.

Listen, they told me you were engaged to George.

That's what he told everyone.

And then it happened.

You're telling me that he lied? You're calling him a liar? - Ah, yes!

An outstanding liar. And many more faults than that.

You know, he was in love with me.

You don't know how he was always coming on.

And today...

I have regrets.

In retrospect I think I might have done otherwise.

But it was impossible.

There was no woman who wanted him at that time.

He was too awkward, too clumsy. Always after my bush.

Good day Madame.

Madame. I'd like to say: I love you.

You think I don't know? You won't stop repeating it.

- You must know I don't love you George. - Yes, I know.

What do you want?

I love your breasts. Your tits.

You're not far wrong.

Don't you find me attractive?

It's not that George.

It's not that you're not attractive.

It's that with women, you lack tact. Big time.

Look, your glasses, they're icky.

So? I'm not your maid.

Nevertheless, wouldn't you like, just once...

George!

I said not to talk whilst you're drinking. It's bad for the stomach.

Excuse me, Madame.

He was as classy as a buttered ass. How on earth did he get that title.

However I'd hate for his killer to escape.

You know, that's odd. You've no glass in your windows.

My dear Peter, I've finally reached my goal.

What emotions before this so desired shack.

Emotions, but pride too.

It won't be long, now I can see I'll take my place as a star of journalism.

I'm here!

Come in shit-stirrer.

You come here, wanting some morsel on George for your rag.

It's all the same, your gossip, your rumours.

It's my profession, to testify. but not to slag people off.

But I'm a bit surprised.

When you called me, you told me that you'd known George well,

and you had some real information.

Not real information to sell to a paper.

The truth never interests anyone. Take George for example.

The truth, whilst he took it easy on his horse

I was miles away on my boat, busy fishing.

But you must know how to make it exciting, the truth.

Me and my fishing,

him on his horse.

Me and my fishing,

him on his horse.

Ah, yes. It was good like that.

Right, an end to disguises.

It's a load of shit. Total journalism, a load of bollocks.

Come on!

Boss, boss. We have to talk to you, quick!

Is it the bog again? No it's the Abitbol case.

We've finished with our disguises. They really piss us off.

As you wish.

Ah, the lovely Dave's here. And he's wearing his old shirt.

D'you want to be my woman, and after drink a coffee?

You never know.

On second thoughts, it only has a one in a hundred chance of working.

A divorce?

I don't suppose there'll be alimony, cheapskate!

- Sir, can you talk with a Canadian accent? - Well, of course.

I've something to ask. Tell me, George Abitbol...

- Can you speak of him? - Mister Dave...

You know my name?

I saw the start of the flim.

Can you talk like this, whilst pulling a face?

It seems easy, but it's harder than you think.

Let's get back to George Abitbol, dickhead.

You think only of work.

I bet you're not even capable of talking like this.

- M'yeah, that's right. - You've got to, for your own good.

I get on fine without.

Hiya, alright?

I've got something to propose. Really good.

Super duper.

It's completely irresponsible, and paid for by the CIA with a helicopter.

- A helicopter? - A Super helicopter that we shall call

Supercopter.

Yeah.

Sold.

Oh shit!

- Look, over there. - What, the tomato juice?

No, the actor.

Excuse me, can you tell us about George Abitbol.

See if you can find a means of telling your story

- even without opening your mouth. - You can mime.

You're a great actor who knows how to do it. right?

OK. I'll mime it.

I was picking mushrooms...

- Oh, shit, it's the wrong season. There's none here. - Hey, Sir!

Yes, what?

Well? What do you want?

I'll ask you a question. Get it right and I'll let you pass.

- Hurry up then. Ask. - Stop, who am I?

I talk very fast and my pants are held up with wire.

I shit in the woods every evening at 6:30, I eat nothing but mushrooms. I am, I am?

You are a pain in the arse.

That's right, I'm a pain in the arse.

Crikey, I got it right.

Hey, want to come back to my house?

It was after this episode that I met, very furtively, George Abitbol.

Darling we were separated, but now it's fine, we're together again.

You see that man there. He's very well known.

Before that, he was completely unknown.

Crazy, isn't it? What are you thinking?

I think he's a big man.

Yes, but before he was only small.

It's rehearsal time for our musical saw.

Sorry, Maestro, I was greeting my philosophical friends.

Thanks for that. But, it escapes me. What was the name of your greatest film?

- Mime it. - Try to mime the name of your greatest film.

Damn, he's tough, that actor.

Tell me, where'd you buy that jacket?

Along with my pants, from some guy in the Vosges.

Oh yeah, very in vogue.

- So, about George... - If you would...

What I can say is that I've never met George.

I know he's the Classiest Man in the World, but that's all.

Me... I'm a guy who's done a lot for ecology.

I assure you, it's true.

There's nothing I like more than long rides in the wide open spaces.

The ecstasy of the senses. An intimate communication with nature,

Osmosis.

Tell me, regarding George...

Would anyone want to see him dead? D'you know an enemy,

- Or even a rival? - Yes.

I heard talk of a guy, called Joel. He had a one armed friend.

- Abitbol! - I may be armless...

- But I'm not 'armless! - Naturally.

In intellectual prowess we'll see how you do.

- With pleasure. - Very good.

It's a riddle. What has three arms, one hat, two shirts and a jacket.

One neckerchief,

A pistol and four ears?

But it's you and your...

No problem.

A cowboy at Chernobyl.

- Well done. He knew it. - Ladies and gentlemen...

That is intellectual prowess.

One up to me, kiddies.

It smells like rain.

We'll go inside and have a little shag.

Right now I feel real dirty.

I hope that gets you somewhere.

Everything's allowed to catch the killer.

Listen here, boys.

Abitbol is none of your business. And my boss doesn't care for nosey parkers.

Now I'll tell you one thing!

There are some things, it's better not to dig up.

What was that?

I was wondering if you've seen

my expanded polystyrene string vest. It should be here.

- Ask the switchboard. - Thanks. That's really helpful.

Switchboard? Has anything come for me?

You're really bugging me. Wait, a call for you.

Hello, Professor Hammond.

Regarding George Abitbol. I'd like to ask a couple of questions about your father.

Is that alright?

Fine, Actually I've a slight problem with my clothing. I think my tailor hates me.

But it shouldn't take long to sort out. I'm not worried.

Could you come round to my place this afternoon? About five?

Hang on, that's a lot to remember. Your place at five.

- I'll try to remember. - I hope so.

Oh yay!

I love it!

You get here, not even your house.

45 minutes late. No hello, no sorry.

Go straight to the fridge, and take the very last beer.

- You've got no fucking shame. - Thanks.

Stop it, you're embarrassing me.

But really I'd like for you to talk about your father.

Joel Hammond. Is that possible?

Sure, it's possible.

I'll tell you an amazing story.

Once I went to join my father, Joel, in a quarry, where he was with the workers.

Long live the October Revolution!

It seems they've spotted some political dinosaurs round here.

How can you believe in that bullshit?

Just before arriving at the workplace, I stopped to give my horse a drink.

Look!

Don't go, Joel. Stay here.

I'm going. I've got to go!

Oh yeah!

Oh well, we've done it.

I detest those prehistoric right wing dinosaurs.

Fascism is nothing but a shitty capitalist reaction.

Revolutions are always verbose.

Go fuck yourself,

Trotskyite!

That's it. And my father...

You're going to ask me where he was whilst we were fighting?

Tell me, your father...

Where was he when you were fighting?

Joel? But he was the same every time there was trouble. Joel!

Today he's dead, God bless his soul.

I don't wish to speak ill, but, whilst we were fighting the dinosaurs,

he, as usual, went off alone into the mountains.

No one knew what he got up to there.

What a stink!

- Excuse me, can I talk to you, Madame. - Call me Christelle.

My husband's not here. D'you want to see my thighs?

Or like a French kiss?

Thank you Madame, with pleasure. But first, a few questions.

As you wish, but afterwards you could do it with me.

Alright, I know why you're here.

You're looking for someone with a grudge against George... George.

I made love with him from Saturday afternoon to Friday evening.

In those days he was a good companion.

- You wanted to see me, darling? - Yes, I wanted to see you.

I really wanted you to be here, so I could present to you my ex.

- You're putting on weight. - I heard that.

- Excuse me. - Don't start that again.

Yves, this is George, the Classiest Man in the World.

- George, this is Yves, my ex. - That's him, George?

Well, bravo.

I'd like to ask what you're doing with a guy like that.

I've got some dingle berries which stick to the paper.

My dear Yves,

I'll tell you why I'm with George. I love men who have class.

I want to go to the bog.

Although sometimes appearances can be deceptive.

Poor Christelle, your bloke, I'll smash his head in.

But not just now, not right now.

- When he's not expecting it. - That's not very brave.

I don't give a fuck about bravery. All I know is that he'll pay.

Tomorrow or even in twenty years, he's going to die.

And it won't be a natural death, believe me!

Wouldn't you rather make peace?

- Is that it? Do something. - What d'you want me to do?

I don't know. Beat him up. It's our honour at stake.

If it's our honour, you beat him up.

George finally got tired of me and left with some Canadian.

Right saggy tits, she had.

Talking of saggy tits, just now before recounting your story,

you proposed, how shall I put it...

I'd love to have sex with you.

Well, I don't know.

- Listen... - Go on... - I don't have much time.

Me neither.

Then we must take a decision. I can't decide. Is it yes or is it no?

No!

- Hello, Steven. - Don't move, I'll take the other line. Right!

I'm going to see Yves at his restaurant.

- Things are going badly. - You're not dead.

I've been beaten up.

I was pummelled to a pulp by a guy, a real brute.

He wanted me to talk, but I said nothing.

I said nothing about the case, despite the pain.

I'm happy you said nothing about the case because

we've got nowhere and they'd take us for jerks.

Why did Yves send his thugs after seeming to be innocent.

That's it. It's unthinkable, even after thinking about it.

A guy who allows no suspicion to fall on Joel, George's rival, sends his thugs.

- Why? - Yes, why, why, why?

Hey, kids. Listen.

I think I've got to the bottom if things. Listen well.

George Abitbol was murdered by Yves.

The motive: a woman, Christelle.

Sex plus shagging equals

Murder!

Well done, Peter. We're getting there. We'll be famous!

We'll be fucking like rabbits, like rabbits.

Don't forget the condoms.

Deep Throat...

Deep Throat?

Deep Throat, you wanted to see me?

Any revelations?

Yes, revelations, extremely important.

George Abitbol is not dead.

He's still alive and...

But you're drunk, you're pissed.

You don't know what you're saying. Abitbol is dead.

Not at all. George is alive.

And now he's back in town.

I'm telling you, you little shit.

George is alive and well, shit!

He's come back for revenge.

And the killer of George is Yves.

That we know.

Mister know-it-all, since you're so smart

you can sort it out yourself.

I'm going for a top up.

What's this? Cars in the car park now?

I don't know you. I've nothing against you,

But I've got to smack someone.

Tough luck for you, but I just can't bottle it all up inside.

Don't take this the wrong way, but...

- Hey, what's all this racket? - Can't I have a quiet shit?

Abitbol, the so-called Classiest Man in the World.

- Calm down, guys, calm down. - Mop top!

Yeah, I've a mop! Does my frizzy hair upset you?

Does my long hair flip your bourgeois comfort?

You've bad karma, bro if you don't like my hair.

Sorry Pops, but I'm expressing my follicular freedom.

Does that piss you off, eh, George?

Oh, my goolies!

- Gentlemen, George Abitbol. - George...

But you're alive.

Let's not make a fuss. I'm here, no problem.

It's not true, this business.

Whatever will be will be The future's not ours to see.

I'm here for one reason.

The address of the man who wants to kill me.

- Yves? - Yeah.

OK. I imagine the state you're in.

But behave like a good American. Honour your flag.

You must let justice do its work.

Believe us, we'd like to help you, but we've lost his address.

We'd give it to you, but we can't.

D'you take me for a jerk?

I'm the Classiest Man in the World, bunch of wankers.

Relax, Abitbol.

You're not worth the effort. I'll manage without you.

- Thanks for your help. - He's too big for his boots.

Well George, how can I help?

Find me the address of the guy who wanted to kill me. I'd really like that.

You know, I'm starting to get pissed off.

Yes, pissed off. It's true.

I give everyone a good tip so don't I deserve a little love?

You're right. I love you.

You're unbelievable, and get on my nerves.

Did I give you my number so you could tell me that?

He creases me up, your weirdo.

Thanks for the light, sweetie.

And your tip, you can stick it up your ass.

I really need you, please.

Give me Yves' address.

But only if you pay me.

- That'll cost 30 francs. - Yeah.

Payable in two installments. 15 before and 15 after.

Let's go!

Boss, boss! We have to talk to you, quick!

- George has just left my office? - Fuck that, this is more important.

Abitbol is alive. Really alive.

Well done, guys.

Yves, it's me, George.

Don't worry, I won't do anything.

I come to make up, not for vengeance.

I know it was you tried to kill me.

I also know that you've never got over Christelle.

But that's the past.

We must look towards the future.

What I'd like is for you to apologize nicely.

- Yeah, I'm sorry. - Better than that.

Forgive me, I'm really sorry.

Excuse me, My Sweet Lord.

Excuse me, My Sweet Lord?

Put out your smoke.

Mister Peter...

- You've got a message from Dave. - Got a smoke?

He's looking for George at Yves' hotel.

- Thanks for the smoke, fat slag. - Good day.

- Can you tell me the time please? - Yes, one past nine. - That's exact.

- Want to screw my friend and me? - Yes, why not.

What was that you said?

- You said "Yes, why not"? - Exactly. - Follow me.

- What's your first name? - Sophie, but everyone calls me Sosso.

- What am I saying? - I want to introduce you to Steven.

Never mind about that. Victory! Victory!

Look over here!

Madame Sosso, Steven. Steven, Madame Sosso.

- Miss. - Sit down.

Here, have a chair. Tell him what you just told me.

- I said that I'd like to screw you. - Hear that? What d'you think?

What's more, we're not famous. We've yet to publish a single line.

Why?

It's all the same, there's no problem.

It's all happened so suddenly.

You don't know what it means for us.

I'm in love!

Get this, we're engaged on a super hard investigation, but if you'd met us first

you'd screw us anyway, without us being famous?

Well, for me, right now, It seems like a lot of fun.

Come on.

Boss, boss, we have to talk to you, quick.

Is it alright if we take the afternoon off?

We've got a plan.

We still don't know what he meant by "Shitty World".

Shitty World. Ah, yes.

But Dave has left looking for George.

When they come back, ask George to explain "Shitty World".

OK, guys.

OK, Mr. Abitbol, did you have a good night?

- Without being indiscreet. - Just great.

You're not indiscreet. I'm an adult,

and I do what I want with my little body.

Tell me, whilst you're here...

What's it mean exactly, "Shitty World"?

Without being indiscreet.

You wake up at 35 to ask what it means, "Shitty World"?

You're not indiscreet. You're just a jerk.

In saying Shitty World, I'm saying

that the world's gone to hell.

It's a cry of revolt I made to my oppressed brothers.

We've had enough of resignation and indifference.

Open your eyes!

Everywhere injustice, nationalism, exclusion. It disgusts me.

Haven't you heard of the hegemony of capitalism?

- No. - Not interested in politics?

You should be.

We must get to work if we're to defeat fanascism.

It's my own concept. At the same time it denounces fascists and fanatics.

Thanks, Mr. Abitbol.

- You have opened my eyes. - Watch the road.

Oh, Shitty World!

Me too, I'd like to say Shitty World.

Subtitles: Corvusalbus