All language subtitles for At.Eternitys.Gate.2018.720p.BluRay.x264-SiNNERS

I just want to be one of them.

I would like to sit down
with them and have a drink,

and talk about anything.

I'd like for them
to give me some tobacco,

a glass of wine, or even just ask me,
"How are you today?"

And I would answer,
and we would talk.

And from time to time,

I'd make a sketch
of one of them as a gift.

They would accept it, maybe,
and keep it somewhere.

And a woman
would smile at me and ask,

"Are you hungry? Would you
like something to eat?

A piece of ham, some cheese,
or maybe a fruit?"

Look at me.

Please.

Oui.

Some of them were going to be
in my group show. They let me down.

You know him, don't you?

Yes, I have some of
his paintings in the gallery.

- I'm Paul Gauguin, by the way.
- I know.

- You're Vincent, Theo's brother.
- Yes.

I saw your paintings at the cafeteria.

- You did? You must've been the only one.
- Yes.

But if you did, it was worth it.

There were a couple good ones in there,
but it was hard to see.

It was a difficult space.
And too many works.

My idea was a group show.

I thought it could be a community
of artists, like a family.

When the other artists didn't participate,
I had to do it by myself.

I filled it with everything I had
in my studio.

Yeah, it looked like it.

Those people, you don't
want them to be your family.

Who needs a family like that?

You can't pick your family,
but you can pick your friends.

I love my brother.

Then you're lucky.
But more importantly, he loves you.

I know he's very good to you.

I want to get as far away
from these people as possible.

I'm going to Madagascar.

Madagascar? But what about Japan?

No, no, Madagascar.

It's an island, a big one.
In between Africa and India.

Or even further, some remote island

where they've never heard about painting,
about Paris or schools.

Somewhere where I can create a new vision,
a new way of painting,

far away from all systems and theories.
Real freedom.

I'd like to be calm
and take my time, alone,

forget about the rest
of the world, and just...

Paint this. Here.

Slowly.

What comes to me, nothing else.

That sounds good.

I hate the fog. I'm tired
of this gray light.

I'd like to find a new light,

for paintings that we haven't yet seen.

Bright paintings, painted in sunlight.

Go south, Vincent.

What are you reading today? The Bible?

Uh, no, Shakespeare.

- How did you say?
- Shakespeare. William Shakespeare.

He's an English writer.

Do you know him?

No, he lived a long time ago.

- Is he any good?
- Oh, yes.

- What does he write about?
- About everything.

About men and women,
gods and kings, about love and hate.

What are you reading right now?

It's a, uh, theater play
called Richard Ill.

- Who is that, Richard?
- A king, a king of England.

- A good king?
- Oh, no,

he was considered a real bastard.

- Did he kill people?
- Oh, yes, a lot.

- You shouldn't read a bastard's story.
- Why not?

- Does he write well at least?
- Oh, yes, very well.

Some of the lines
aren't very clear, but...

- I like that.
- Why?

Because I like mystery,

and Shakespeare is more mysterious
than any other writer.

Well, when I read a book,
I like to understand what's written.

What kind of books do you read?

Mmm...

Mostly novels. Modern novels.

And short stories in the papers.
Sad stories.

I don't know why,
I like a story to be sad.

If I had more free time, I would...

Wait a minute. I'll be right back.

- I have a book for you.
- Thank you.

There's nothing written in it.
In fact, it's blank.

But I thought you could use the paper.

Thank you.

Excuse me, I've been meaning to ask you...

Is there a place,
or do you have a storeroom,

or a room where I could paint? It's...

It's sometimes difficult
with this weather, the mistral.

The yellow house next door
has been empty for months.

Maybe he could use it?

Yes... Perhaps we could make
an arrangement with your brother?

It is a bit run down,
but Gaby can help you clean it up.

That would be perfect for me.

Maybe I can...

uh, make a painting... of you someday.

Me?

Yes.

If you want, sir, thank you.

Have you received
the money for this month?

You still owe me for last month.

When it arrives... I'll pay you.

Your brother, he must be rich.

Well, he... He's not.

He's a merchant. He sells paintings.

Your paintings?

Not yet.

You should wash yourself sometimes.
At least once a week.

- Do I look dirty?
- You smell terrible.

You're not bad looking.

If you just cleaned up a little,
you might even be handsome.

If I was clean,
would you find me attractive?

Maybe.

Would you stay with me here
if I gave you 50 francs?

You don't have 50 francs.

See you tomorrow, Vincent.

- Why do you paint this?
- What?

- These flowers. Why do you paint them?
- Don't you find them beautiful?

Well, they are beautiful flowers,
no doubt.

More beautiful than what you paint.

- You think so?
- Oh, yes.

Maybe you're right.

But these flowers will wither
and fade. All flowers do.

I know, everybody knows that.

But mine will resist.

Are you sure?

At least they'll have a chance.

You should make a painting of me.

Why not?

If you paint me,
I would stay young forever, maybe.

I can even make you look younger.

No, it wouldn't be fair.

When facing a flat landscape,
I see nothing but eternity.

Am I the only one to see it?

Existence can't be without reason.

Oh.

Go away! Go away!

Go away! Leave me alone!
Leave me alone!

Go away!

Go away!

Theo.

Theo, come here.

They told me what happened. Please...

Tell me, how do you feel?

I feel so well with you next to me.

So well... I'd like to die like this.

When we were little, I used to climb
into bed with you, remember?

Yes, you did.

When it was getting cold.

How long will you stay?

Just today, I'm sorry.

I have to get back to Paris.
So many things to do.

And they told me you were in a hospital,
and I took the first train.

Can't you stay any longer?

I can't, I'm sorry.

It took one day and a night to get here.

- And I'm a married man now.
- I know you are.

I'm very happy for Jo and you.

Vincent...

Why did they put you here?

I have no idea, Theo. I swear to you.

There must be a reason.

From time to time, I...

I feel like I'm losing my mind.

Yes, my mind goes out of me,
I'm telling you. It goes out of me.

What do you mean?

They say that I scream
in the streets, that I cry,

that I put black paint on my face
to scare the children.

But... I don't remember anything.

Anything except...

the darkness and anxiety,

so they sent me here.

With really insane people.

Do you drink a lot?

I must tell you...

Don't-don't tell it to the doctors...

Theo, sometimes I have visions.

- What do you see?
- It's hard to say.

- Ghosts?
- I don't know.

Flowers, sometimes...

and also angels, human beings.

It's confusing.

Sometimes they talk to me.

- What do they say?
- I don't understand them.

But it's frightening.
They aren't always very nice.

I will talk to the doctors
and see what can be done.

When I get like this...

I don't know what I'm capable of.

Maybe I could kill...

and throw myself off a cliff.

Dear Paul,

I know you've been in correspondence
with my brother Vincent,

and he is very much looking forward
to your arrival in Arles,

which I know has been postponed
due to financial concerns.

I am prepared and committed to sending
250 francs each month

in exchange for one painting
a month of yours, at your discretion.

It would benefit Vincent greatly
to see you as soon as possible.

A warm handshake.

Enthusiastically, Theo van Gogh.

P.S. Looking forward to your response
and to seeing your latest works.

Of all the miseries that afflict humanity,

nothing maddens me more
than the lack of money.

But not tonight.

Another round, madame.

Gaby.

Some days, I feel like a beggar,
but not today.

It's so good to see you, Vincent,
and this fine group.

I'm happy to see you, Paul.

But really, no one around here
really likes me,

except Madame and Monsieur Ginoux.

Sometimes... it's days
before I speak to someone.

I've been waiting for this moment.

But you were so indecisive!
I'm glad you made up your mind.

Is your brother still sending you money?

- Two hundred and fifty francs a month.
- Not much.

He does what he can.

- Did you make an arrangement with him?
- Yeah.

He pays my expenses here,
and I send him a canvas a month.

- And you're happy with that?
- It's all right.

It's acceptable.

You have such a compelling face.

Maybe you'd come over to the yellow house
and, uh, pose for me.

Maybe.

I'll take that as a yes.

Why do you always
have to paint from nature?

I feel lost if I don't have
something to look at.

I need something to see.
There's so much to see.

Every time I look, I see something
I've never seen before.

Yes, but what you paint,
what you do belongs to you.

- You don't need to copy anything.
- I don't copy.

I know, but why don't you paint
just what's in your mind?

What your brain sees?

Because the essence of nature is beauty.

What do you mean?

What do you mean, what do I mean?
Why did you want to go to Madagascar?

To get away from society, from people.

That may have been part of it,
but you went there in search of beauty,

and nature was definitely there.

And it was different
than what you knew before,

and it made your paintings look different.

When I look at nature...

I see more clearly...

the tie that unites us all.

A vibrating energy...

speaking in God's voice.

Sometimes it's so intense,
I lose consciousness.

- Come on.
- I swear to you.

After a while, I wake up and I don't know
where I am or what I'm doing.

It takes me some minutes
to even remember my name.

Listen, Vincent, the time is coming
when painters won't need anymore

to look at models and sit down
in front of nature.

You know why?

Because nature is what we see here
in our heads. Nothing else!

Without our eyes, there's no nature.

And none of us sees the world
around us the same way.

We sit, you and I,
in front of the same landscape,

we don't see the same
mountains, the same trees.

Well, that's what I'm saying.
The trees that I paint are mine.

Even the faces you paint are yours.

And they'll stay because of you.

People will be known
because you painted them,

and how you painted them,
not because of who they are.

- That's good.
- And people will go to museums

to see paintings of people,
not to see people who were painted.

You know, people don't always like
the way they look in my paintings.

We have to start a revolution.
Do you understand?

Yes, we do. Us, our generation.

We have to change entirely

the relation between painting
and what you call nature.

Between painting and reality,

because painted reality
is its own reality.

You're right about that.

The impressionists,
they're out of it, do you agree?

- Uh...
- Come on.

They only paint their babies
in their gardens.

They'll never go any further.

Seurat confounds painting with science.

He's lost himself in optical experiments.

There's nothing more to expect
from Renoir, Degas, Monet...

They repeat themselves.
They've given everything they could give.

You don't mean that.
You like Degas.

You have to say thank you
for the paintings you like.

- Monet's pretty good.
- It's our turn.

We have a huge responsibility.

I still think
Monet's pretty good.

You want to go to Martinique?

It's good to have you here.

Could you put your hand
back how it was?

Thank you.

- Can I go?
- You can go.

You have to plan your paintings slowly.

What's the rush?

Work calmly, slowly.

You're indoors, you're not outside
in the wind and the noise.

Paintings have to be done
in one clear gesture.

Think about the surface
that you're painting on

and how the paint will sit on it.

You're changing things so fast,
you can't even see what you've done.

Paintings have to be painted fast.

The painters I look at...

Frans Hals,

Goya,

Velazquez,

Veronese,

Delacroix.

The painters I like all paint fast
in one clear gesture, each stroke.

You've heard of "a stroke of genius"?
Well, that's what it means.

You don't even paint that way.
You paint fast and you overpaint.

Your surface looks
like it's made out of clay.

It's more like sculpture than painting.

You don't even paint like that.

You paint fast and then you overpaint.

Your surface looks
like it's made out of clay.

It's more like sculpture than painting.

I'm telling you,
you have to look inside.

You keep saying "look inside."
I get it, I do.

You keep repeating yourself.

What do you think I'm doing?

I don't invent the picture.

I don't need to invent the picture.

I find it already in nature.
I just have to free it.

All right, I'm just saying,
first think about your surface

and how the paint will sit on it.

Get control over what you're doing.

Maybe you should work inside more.

I've spent all my life alone, in a room.

I need to go out and work
to forget myself.

I want to be out of control.

I need to be in a feverish state.

It's called the act
of painting for a reason.

- All right, calm down.
- I don't want to calm down.

The faster I paint, the better I feel.

- I can't stay here, Vincent.
- What are you saying?

I can't stay in Arles.

I'll go soon.

What?

I've sold some paintings lately.
Maybe your brother told you?

And I have to get back to Paris.

Where are you going?

Vincent!

I've spent
all my life alone, in a room.

- I need to go out and work...
- What are you doing?

...to forget myself.

- I want to be out of control.
- What?

I need to be in a feverish state.

It's called the act of painting
for a reason.

All right, calm down.

I don't want to calm down.
The faster I paint, the better I feel.

Why are you crying?

What did I do? Where did I go wrong?

Nothing. You have nothing to do
with this decision.

Vincent, we can't live side by side.

Our temperaments are incompatible,
you must admit that.

And you have to understand,

my reputation is established now.

I can't live in a country town anymore.

I have to be around people, for now.

Besides, I don't like it here.

You're surrounded by stupid,
wicked, ignorant people.

Come on, why are you
being so dramatic?

Please don't go.

It's great having you here.

I've sold some paintings lately.

Maybe your brother told you?

Don't do it to me! I beg you.

- No!
- Nothing.

You have nothing to do with this decision.

Where are you going?

- Vincent, we can't live side by side.
- Vincent!

Our temperaments are incompatible,
you must admit that.

And you have to understand,
my reputation is established now.

I can't live in a country town anymore.

I have to be around people, for now.

What?

Besides, I don't like it here.

You're surrounded by stupid,
wicked, ignorant people.

Come on,
why are you being so dramatic?

What are you saying?

I can't stay in Arles.

There's something strange about me.

Sometimes I don't know
what I've done or what I've said.

About Gauguin, for instance,
what happened right before he left.

We had some fights...

I...

Maybe I hurt him. I don't know how.

I do know...

that I took a razor...

and I cut off one of my ears, yes.

I cut it off, one of my ears.
Blood all over the place.

No one else did it, I did it.

I wanted to give it to Gauguin
with my apologies.

Why?

God knows.

And I thought
she would know where Paul was,

so I gave my ear to the girl
at the bar, to Gaby.

She was scared, all the blood...

I think she thought
I was going to kill her.

So, she called the police
and they put me here.

And what would you have done,
as a police officer?

You can leave. It's all right.

I...

This is a small town, Vincent.

Everybody's watching what you're doing,
even more in a small town.

You're a stranger here.

You drink too much.
Much too much.

Then you get hysterical, out of control,

and yes, one night you cut off
one of your ears.

Can you tell me why?

My friend was about to leave me.

He was about to leave.

And cutting one of your ears
was a way to keep him next to you?

That doesn't make sense.

Was it a kind of gift,
or a sacrifice or what?

- What were you trying to achieve?
- I don't know.

It might help to talk about it.

Try to tell me. I...

I've never seen anything like this before.

But I'd like to help you.

There's something inside me.
I don't know what it is.

What I see, nobody else sees
and sometimes it frightens me.

I think I'm losing my mind.

But then I say to myself,

"I'll show what I see
to my human brothers who can't see it."

It's a privilege.
I can give them hope and consolation.

You're confusing people.

You're confusing yourself
with your paintings.

I am my paintings.

What do you mean
by consolation and hope?

You might be asking too much of people.

I'd like to share my vision with people
who can't see what I see the way I see.

Yes, but why?

Because my vision is closer
to the reality of the world.

I can make people feel
what it's like to be alive.

- Do you feel like they don't feel alive?
- Yes, I do.

And you think you can make them
feel that through painting?

Yes. Yes, absolutely.

Yes.

Gaby said your ear
was wrapped in this,

and she was supposed to give it to Paul.

"Remember me,"
what did you mean by that?

Maybe you were trying to show him
what he meant to you through that act,

but that was something you couldn't see.

I didn't want him to leave.
It was a way to get him back.

Jesus said, "If thy hand offend thee,
cut it off."

So you cut off your ear

because you couldn't bear
to hear what Paul was saying?

I believe I have
a menacing spirit around me.

An invisible being.

I feel it, I don't see it.

He speaks to me and threatens me.

And all he wants to do
is plunge a knife into my heart.

I saw him and I tried to cut him
out of myself.

So that's the reason
why you cut off your ear.

Your vision of the world, as you say,
is quite frightening.

- Isn't it?
- Yes.

I'm terrified he'll come back.

I see.

So, listen to me.

We'll send you to Saint-Remy.

- Where?
- Saint-Remy.

A very nice place.

The best we have around here.
You'll be very well-treated.

- Is it a jail?
- No, not at all.

It's a voluntary asylum.

It's your choice, but you'll be subjected
to their rules and methods of care.

I do think you can find
some peace there.

And when you're less overexcited,
you can even paint there.

Without painting, I can't live.

I believe you.

Will you... will you come and see me?

Of course.
At least once a week.

And you're sure that, um, I'll be allowed
to paint there? You're sure?

Yes.

But first, when you get there, you'll have
to stop drinking and take some medicine.

For how long?

That will depend on you.

Will you do as I say?
May I count on you?

Can you stay for a minute?

I promised your brother I'd send him
a drawing of what you've done.

Don't move, please.
I'm going to take your bandage off.

No, I can do it.

Beneath skies
that sometimes dazzle

like faceted sapphires or turquoises,

beneath the incessant
and formidable streaming

of every conceivable effect of light.

In heavy, flaming,
burning atmospheres,

there is the disquieting
and disturbing display of strange nature

that is at once entirely realistic,
and yet almost supernatural.

Often excessive nature
where everything,

beings and things, shadows
and lights, forms and colors,

rears and rises up with a raging will

to howl its own essential song

in the most intense and fiercely
high-pitched timbre.

It is matter and all of nature,
frenetically contorted.

It is form becoming nightmare,
color becoming flames,

light turning
into conflagration,

life into burning fever.

Such is the impression
left upon the retina

when it first views the strange, intense
and feverish work of Vincent van Gogh.

How far are we, are we not,

from the beautiful,
great tradition of art?

Never has there been a painter

whose art appeals so directly
to the senses,

from the indefinable aroma
of his sincerity to flesh

and the matter of his paint.

This robust and true artist,
Vincent van Gogh,

towers above the rest.

Cafe. Cafe.

- Cafe.
- Put water on him!

You are the painter?

Uh, yes.

Cafe. Cafe.

- Are all the painters crazy?
- Cafe.

Maybe just the good ones.
I really don't know.

- Hmm.
- Cafe.

I'm an army man. I was a soldier.

Are all soldiers crazy?

Oh, no, soldiers are
not crazy, but officers are.

All the officers are insane.

When they made me a sergeant,
I started to feel different.

Cafe. Cafe. Cafe.

And when I became secretary
to the general,

I had all the keys. Can you see it?

- The keys.
- Yes.

The keys to all the dossiers
of all the officers.

And I can tell you, they are all crazy.

They've all killed,
tortured, mutilated, raped.

Cafe. Cafe. Cafe.

Where were you stationed?

Oh, it's a faraway place.
It's called Tonkin.

And years ago, during the war...

there were many...
many tunnels were dug.

And I knew a Tonkinese girl
who was born in a tunnel.

Cafe. Cafe.

She didn't see the daylight
for the first 12 years of her life.

Twelve years, gone.

Can you imagine
that you were a painter...

not seeing the snow...

not knowing what it was,
what it meant?

Twelve years.

Cafe. Cafe. Cafe.

Oh...

Hey, shut up, shut up. Shut up!

What do you paint?

Sunlight.

Look at me.

Please.

Oui.

Oui.

No...

My dear Vincent,

I've looked most attentively
at your works since we parted.

First at your brother's place,
and then at Independence Exhibition.

It's above all at this latter place
that one can properly judge what you do.

Either because of things
positioned beside each other,

or because of neighboring works.

I offer you my sincere compliments.

And for many artists, you are
the most remarkable in the exhibition.

With things from nature,
you're the only one there who thinks.

I've talked about it with your brother,

and there's one that I would like
to exchange with you

for one thing of your choice.

I hesitated greatly to write to you,

knowing that you had just had
a rather long crisis.

So, please don't reply to me
until you feel completely strong.

Let's hope that, with the warm weather
that will return,

you're going to get well at last.

"The winter
is always dangerous to you.

Cordially, ever yours, Paul Gauguin."

Van Gogh!

Van Gogh!

Not here, there.

There. There.

Follow me.

- Here he is.
- Thank you.

Please help me take it off.

Thank you.

- Better?
- Yes.

Come, sit with me. Talk to me.

Please.

I suppose you know why you're here.

Talking to you now?

To get better.

Or because I walked out of the asylum.

What happened on the road to Arles?

I don't remember.

You did walk out of the asylum.

I wanted to go out.

The townspeople of Arles have signed
a petition against you.

- They don't want you to come back there.
- Yes, I know.

- Did you ever molest a child?
- No. Never.

Did you cut off one of your ears
to give it to a prostitute? Is that true?

Yes, I did. But Gaby's not a prostitute.

Why did you do that?

I wanted her to give it
to a friend of mine.

And she did?

I don't know.

And that was a strange offer, wasn't it?

Do you feel angry sometimes?

Yes.

And what do you do then?

I go out and look at a blade of grass
or a branch of a fig tree

in order to calm down.

- And it works?
- Yes.

I feel God is nature
and nature is beauty.

I've seen you in the garden, painting.

And I've heard from others
that you say you were a painter.

Yes, that's what I am.

Why do you say that?

- Do you have a gift for painting?
- Yes.

Where does this gift come from?

Would you say that God gave you
the gift of painting?

Yes, He did. It's the only gift
He gave me.

- Did you paint this?
- Yes, I did.

- And you call it a painting?
- Yes, of course.

Tell me frankly,
because I'd like to understand.

Why do you say you're a painter?

Because I paint.
I love painting. I have to paint.

I've always been a painter.
That, I know.

- A born painter?
- Yes.

How do you know?

Because I can't do anything else.
And believe me, I've tried.

So, God gave you a gift
so you could paint this?

Yes.

But don't you see...

Now look, carefully. Please.

I don't want to hurt your feelings,
but don't you see that this painting is...

How can I say...

Unpleasant. It's ugly.

Why would God give me a gift to paint
ugly and disturbing things?

Sometimes I...

feel so far away from everything.

- Does anybody buy your paintings?
- No.

- So, you're poor?
- Yes, rather poor.

How do you live?

Well, my brother, Theo,
pays for me to be here.

But he's not a rich man either.

So, you believe
that God gave you this gift

because He wants to keep you in misery?

Huh.

I never thought about it that way.

And which way do you think?

Sometimes I think...

- Yes?
- Maybe, maybe...

- Go on.
- Maybe He chose the wrong time.

What do you mean the wrong time?

Maybe God made me a painter for people
who aren't born yet.

Possibly.

It is said, "Life is for sowing.
The harvest is not here."

I paint with my qualities and faults.

So, you think
God could've been mistaken?

I think of myself as an exile,
a pilgrim on this earth.

Jesus said, "Turn your heart away
from things visible

and turn yourself to things invisible."

- Indeed. But...
- And Jesus also

was totally unknown
when He was alive.

- How do you know that?
- My father was a pastor.

I've been around religion all my life.

Really? A pastor?

Yes, and before I realized
I was a painter...

I tried myself to be a man of God,
so I learned quite a bit about the topic.

So you know the Gospels?

Not only the Gospels,

I can tell you that Jesus
wasn't discovered

until 30 or 40 years after he died.

When he was alive,
nobody talked about him.

There's not even a letter from a Roman
centurion to his wife in Rome

saying that a man named Jeshua

was crucified in Jerusalem
with some other criminals.

Not a word, nothing.

You know, this is my job to decide
if you're well enough to leave this place.

This reminds me of Jesus on the terrace.

Which terrace?

Speaking to Pilate,

who definitively, if you
believe what was written,

didn't want to crucify him.
It was the people.

Yes. We could have a real discussion
about this theory some other time.

Pilate didn't want to crucify Jesus,

but everything Christ said
incriminated him, so...

I, too...

have to be careful
with what I say to you.

I can understand that.

Listen, come see me again
if you feel like.

And share some other ideas with me.

In the meantime, Dr. Rey
is here waiting for you.

- He came to take you home.
- I'm free to go?

I think we've done
all we can for you here.

I hope I'm ready.

I hope so, too.

Please return these things

to Madame and Monsieur Ginoux.

- They've been real friends.
- Sure, I will.

And give them that book.
Tell them thank you.

- Hello.
- Bonjour.

This is very important.

Make sure Madame Ginoux receives it.

It is from the painter Vincent van Gogh.
He apologizes for the delay.

A bundle of towels,

a ledger,
and two empty olive boxes.

My work's all here.
You didn't sell anything.

Not yet, but Aurier's review
was excellent, really wonderful.

That review was absurd. I don't deserve
anything that man said.

- Far from it.
- Yes, you do.

The review will help.

I think...

I'm beyond caring
what anyone thinks, but...

I care what you think, Theo.

Tell me, I want to know the truth.

Am I a good painter?

You're not a good painter,
Vincent. You're a great painter.

Are you sure?

Of course, I'm sure.
Why would I lie to you?

I mean, you're my brother.
You're my brother.

Just to please me.

- I wouldn't do that.
- No, Theo would never do that.

People say that I don't know how to draw,
how to paint.

They say my paintings are clumsy, ugly.

I used to care what people thought.

But not anymore.

I have no choice.

If I couldn't paint,
I would murder someone.

That's why I send you
money for your paintings

because I really believe
you are a great painter.

And I'm a businessman.
I'm a business man, after all.

So, you paint,
and leave the rest to us.

You paint
and let us do the rest.

Gauguin sent me this letter.

- Yes, I knew he wrote to you.
- Did you see him?

No.

- Gauguin...
- He hasn't asked for me?

...sent me this letter.

Is he here?

I really don't know.
Yes, I knew he wrote to you.

What about Aurier or Bernard?

Do you want to see them?
I know they're in town.

He hasn't asked
for me? Is he here?

I...

Anywhere. Out of Paris.

I want to go somewhere.
I can't stand it here. It's not my place.

I find everything too complicated.
I can't see anybody.

I can't stand it here.
It's not my place.

It's worse since Aurier's article.

Anywhere. Out of Paris.
I can't stand it here.

A little village.

There's a lovely little inn
in Auvers-sur-Oise.

Pissarro knows a doctor there
who knows your work, loves art,

and maybe he can help you
without getting in the way.

- And we could come and see you.
- I'll go there tomorrow?

Let me look into it.

- Pissarro...
- I need to go, Theo.

- I need to go.
- I'll take care of it.

- May I talk?
- Yes, but don't move too much.

Why do you paint?

I paint...

as a matter of fact, to stop thinking.

A sort of meditation.

- When I paint, I stop thinking.
- About what?

I stop thinking...

and I feel...

that I'm a part of everything
outside and inside of me.

I wanted...

so much to share what I see.

An artist...

Yes?

I thought an artist...

had to teach how to look at the world.
But I don't think that anymore.

Now I just think
about my relationship to eternity.

What do you call eternity?

- Time to come.
- Hmm.

Maybe what you are saying is
that your gift to the world is painting.

If not, what good is an artist?

You're happy
when you're painting?

Most of the time, except when I fail.

You look sad sometimes.

There's a lot of destruction and failure
at the door of a successful picture.

I find joy in sorrow.

And sorrow is greater than laughter.

You know...

an angel is not far
from those who are sad.

And illness
can sometimes heal us.

It's the normal state...

that gives birth to painting.

You feel that way?

Sometimes I hate the idea
of regaining my health.

In that case,
you don't need a doctor.

Stop laughing. Stop smiling.

- Please.
- Excuse me.

Go back to your pose.

- Excuse me.
- It's all right.

Sometimes they say I'm mad...

but a grain of madness
is the best of art.

You're not a mad man.

It's good to have a doctor as a friend.

I feel a pain in my stomach.

He was dressed like Buffalo Bill.

Hey, Vincent!

One of them was nicer.

Please! Don't tell our parents.

What happened?

What did you do?

You have a bullet hole in your stomach.

I don't know.

- Did you shoot yourself?
- Maybe.

I don't remember.
Don't blame anyone.

Don't blame anyone.

Do you have a gun?

No. Never.

So how did you do that?

I don't know.

Tell...

Yes?

- Tell my brother to come.
- Oh, I did. He'll be here soon.

Oh, God,
will you receive your son?