Original subtitles

AN UNEVENTFUL STORY

starring

written by W. J. Has based on a short story by A. Czekhov

set design

interiors

costumes

make-up artist

music

performed by

sound

edited by

camera

produced by

production manager

photography

directed by

If I were asked

to name the essential element of my existence,

I would answer without hesitation:

sleeplessness.

I remain motionless for hours

attempting not to think not to feel

any desires.

I observe all too familiar objects and

despite myself, begin reminiscing.

I can see things and hear words that

I would have never suspected to find still tucked away

in my memory.

We speak two different languages.

I wrote to you

about conmen who pass for artists only by dint of their impertinence;

not a talent among them, but mediocrities and busybodies.

I cannot tell you how much it pains me

that art

fell into their hands.

My heart is heavy

that the best people

observe the evil from afar,

and rather than defend art

write banalities and useless morals in a tortuous style.

There is a certain distinguished gentleman - a professor,

privy counselor, and chevalier.

He is a household name, often mentioned

as "renowned" and "esteemed."

At present he has no friends.

As for the past,

he used to know many who considered him a friend.

My name is as illustrious

as I myself am unremarkable.

At times a peculiar look comes over my face,

and provokes the grim thought:

"This man will soon be dead."

I write more and more poorly.

That bit of the brain which presides over the faculty of authorship

has refused to function.

My memory has grown weak;

there is a lack of order in my ideas.

Often I write what I do not mean;

when I am writing the end, I've already forgotten the beginning.

All this is an unmistakable proof of a decline in mental activity.

The day begins

with the entrance of my wife.

Excuse me, I'll just be a minute.

You had another bad night?

I'm no prophet, but I know what she will say next:

Every morning it is the same thing.

There is no one I feel as sorry for as our Lisa.

The girl studies, mixes with good society,

but goodness knows how she's dressed.

Her fur coat is a disgrace in the street.

If she were someone else's daughter, it wouldn't matter,

but everyone knows who her father is.

I listen,

and probably because I've had a bad night,

strange thoughts intrude upon my mind.

Could this ageing woman, who can talk of nothing

but her worries and expenses,

be no other than the Veronica with whom I fell in love

for her kindness and her fine intelligence?

Did you know we owe him five months wages?

Of her past self nothing is left but her concern for my health,

and her manner of calling my salary "our salary,"

my university - "our university. "

You mustn't

let the servants' wages run on.

How many times have I told you!

It's much easier to pay each month than twice a year.

It is painful for me to look at her.

And so I let her say what she likes,

even when she passes unjust criticisms on people

or nags me

for not having a private practice.

Did she come to see you yesterday?

She didn't say hello to us. That's rather strange.

Say what you may,

but that's disrespectful:

to spend three hours in your study, and not even a word to us.

Well, she has a mind of her own.

I have a favor to ask of you.

I know you will be angry

but it's my duty

to warn you:

all our friends have begun talking about you visiting her so often.

At your age, and with your social position,

it seems rather strange...

that you should find pleasure

in her society.

Besides, she has a bad reputation...

After all, she grew up in this house.

We loved her like our own daughter.

That was long ago.

She got lost,

she was gravely ill,

she tried to poison herself,

she buried her child.

Of course.

Illegitimate pregnancy, a child out of wedlock.

Veronica!

You dislike her for being an actress,

for her pride...

For her ingratitude.

For her eccentricity.

And for all the countless flaws

every woman knows

how to find in another.

When she wrote me

about her love,

when she fell prey

to extravagance,

in answer to her pleas, I would send her

from time to time a thousand, two thousand roubles...

When she wrote of her attempted suicide,

and then of her child's death,

every time,

I was shattered.

However, all that time,

my interest in her life found no other expression

than the long and boring letters

I wrote after prolonged reflection.

And yet I had been a father to her and loved her

like my own daughter.

I lost track of time.

The samovar is on the table, and here I am talking...

...and talking.

Good morning, papa. Are you well?

And how are you, Lisa?

Pistachio... lemon... raspberry...

She was fond of ice-cream,

and I used to often take her to the confectioner's.

Ice-cream was the yardstick she used to measure all delight.

A question has been nagging at me for some time:

How is it that, seeing

how hard I try to conceal my poverty,

my daughter does not give up

the expensive pleasure of music lessons?

Of course I would not accept such sacrifice.

That's not what I want, but...

such reflections make me bitter.

The street I've known

for thirty years.

Since I was a student, its appearance

has changed neither for the better nor for the worse.

I don't like it.

The same bar with rooms for rent.

This is where I worked on my dissertation,

and wrote my first love letter.

Just as I was back then, I am now interested only in science.

And I will continue to believe that science is

the most essential thing in the life of man;

that it always has been and will be

the highest manifestation of love;

and that only by means of it

will man overcome himself.

This faith is perhaps naive and unfounded,

but it is not my fault

that I believe this and nothing else,

and that I cannot eradicate in myself this belief.

The keeper of the university�s legends.

If you wish, he will tell you many

stories and anecdotes.

The weather has finally turned for the better.

But for how long?!

Dear Nicholas, for how long?

In his stories, good vanquishes evil,

the weak triumph over the strong,

the stupid � over the wise, the young � over the old.

This is Peter, my assistant,

modest and industrious,

but devoid of talent.

He possesses a narrow outlook,

strictly limited to his specialty;

slavish reverence for authority;

and lack of desire for independent thought.

In the course of his life he will prepare hundreds of chemicals,

dozens of conscientious translations,

but he won't invent the gunpowder.

I would give much to know

how this fossil makes love to his wife.

Well, time to go.

The patient's waiting.

I know what I am going to lecture about

but I don't know where to begin

or where to end.

I will endeavor to

give my lecture a literary form;

keep my definitions brief and precise;

and make my sentences simple and eloquent.

I have to play all at once the part

of savant and teacher and orator,

and beware lest the orator has the upper hand

of the savant and of the teacher.

And vice versa.

Please take the lecture over for me.

The topic of today's lecture is the nervous system.

The nervous system is divided into central,

peripheral, and enteric nervous system.

The nerve cell is called a neuron.

We distinguish sensory neurons, which respond

to touch, temperature, and pain,

and motor neurons.

My conscience and reason tell me

that I should deliver

a farewell lecture,

my last word,

and let someone else take my place.

Something strange is happening to me.

My eyes smart with tears

and I am overcome

by a passionate, hysterical desire

to stretch out my arms and cry out loud

in lamentation

that fate

has sentenced me

to death.

Thoughts previously unknown to me

have poisoned my last days.

...the surface of the brain, the thickness of the cerebral cortex,

and so on...

When we cut open the brain, we will see that

it is composed of two different substances:

the grey matter

and the white matter.

Grey matter makes up the surface of the brain,

known as the cerebral cortex.

The cerebral cortex is the locus of our consciousness.

We now move on to the dissection.

Watch closely.

Please excuse me, professor...

I would have never presumed

to trouble you if not...

What is it then?

What is it you�d like to tell me?

I've attempted your examination

five times, and have failed...

And now what?

Would you be so kind, professor,

as to let me pass?

I did well on all my other exams,

whereas I had studied this subject

with particular interest and I know it very well.

You will pardon me, my friend,

but I cannot give you a passing grade.

Go ahead, review your notes, and come back.

We will see then.

In my opinion,

the best thing you can do now

is to give up medicine altogether.

If, with your abilities,

you're unable to pass an exam,

it's clear you don't have a vocation to be a doctor.

Pardon me, professor, but

wouldn't it be rather strange for me to quit suddenly

- after five years? - Precisely:

better to waste five years than

to devote a life to a profession you don't care for.

In any case, do as you wish.

Study some more, and come again.

When?

Whenever you want.

Let's say tomorrow.

Of course, even fifteen attempted exams

won't turn you into a scholar.

However, they might strengthen your character.

And that counts for something.

Professor... I solemnly swear,

if you let me pass, I will...

You will... what?

In that case...

farewell, professor.

Please excuse me.

Farewell, my friend.

Best of luck!

He probably could have told me many interesting things

about the opera, or his petty love affairs...

Unfortunately, one doesn't talk about that sort of thing.

That's too bad - I would have been glad to listen.

You can be a privy counselor

a hundred times over

but if you have a daughter,

nothing will save you

from the air of petty bourgeoisie that matchmaking, courtship,

and a wedding often bring into the domestic atmosphere.

He comes daily,

but no one knows anything about his origin, his education,

or how he earns his living.

And the worst of it is that my daughter

whom I was accustomed to think of as a child,

loves those bulging eyes,

this necktie

like a crab's neck...

Describing our dinner is just as unpalatable

as digesting it.

Some time ago, my family found it fit

to completely change our dinner menu.

Fame

has for ever deprived me of cabbage soup,

goose with apple stuffing,

and dumplings...

Now they feed me creamy soups

with lumps floating about,

and kidneys stewed in Madeira sauce,

served by a white-gloved,

dull and pompous fellow.

You can't imagine

what you have missed, professor;

you shouldn�t have left Androtti's soir�e so soon!

Let me tell you, professor,

the butterfly aria...

His performance was simply divine...

He gave the aria a divine rank and status.

Mainly thanks to the remarkable mellifluence

with which he imbues his final appoggiaturas.

He is simply a master of melismas.

He is simply an unparalleled

master of melismas.

And, please excuse me for saying this,

none of our tenors comes even close!

Especially with regards to the exceptional ease

with which he moves in the upper register.

Starting with C sharp!

And, to finish off, my dear friends,

perfect fifth!

He neither plays nor sings,

but has connections

with both music and singing.

He sells somewhere someone's pianos.

He is acquainted with all musical celebrities,

and lends a hand at organizing concerts.

This creature

inspires in me aversion and astonishment.

We awaken on the Parnassus.

That's right, professor.

We awaken on the Parnassus.

I'm not a musician, and perhaps

I am wrong about Mr Gnekker

whom I hardly know,

but I find the pathos

with which he speaks of music and singing

highly suspicious.

Your student is here.

Take him to my study.

Your musical genius, dear Lisa,

does wonders to help us understand his art.

You don't like the roast?

You don't like it?

Do you?

You needn't worry, darling,

the roast is delicious.

You're always very understanding.

And never tell me the truth.

Why won't you eat more, Alexander?

But, Madam, the roast is excellent.

An eagle may at times

descend to the coop,

but never will a chicken

rise up to the clouds.

I don't like it.

What can I do for you?

This year, I have passed my qualifying exams.

All I need to do now is to write my dissertation.

I would be...

...very much obliged...

I mean, I would like to

work under your supervision.

If you could

give me

a dissertation topic...

I understand.

I would like to help you, my friend.

But

let's first establish what a dissertation is.

The word is used to describe the product

of independent creative work,

isn't it?

On the other hand, a paper written

on an assigned topic

and under someone's supervision

goes by a different name.

Why do you all come to me?

I don't deal in dissertation topics.

Please pardon my bluntness, but I'm sick of all this.

For the thousandth time, please leave me alone.

Please forgive me,

but I'm not a shop keeper.

Tell me,

why don't you want to be independent?

It's astounding.

Why do you show such aversion for freedom?

I will calm down and give in.

I will assign the student a worthless topic.

Under my supervision, he'll write a useless dissertation.

He'll defend it with tedious dignity,

and receive a degree he doesn't really need.

Ladies, you know this piece.

In a nutshell, Haydn,

Quartet no. 2, op. 76.

Go on, let's tune our instruments.

Please pick up from the beginning, second violin.

Once more.

Comprenez-vous?

Take your places.

Attention, dear ladies...

Oh, no, no, dear ladies,

this is Haydn, a little effort!

From the beginning, please.

Again.

Her eyes used to say

"everything in this world

is beautiful and wise."

I now notice that

she has lost her former curiosity,

and no longer asks me questions,

as if she'd already experienced everything in life

and didn't expect to hear anything new.

You should find some occupation.

Like what?

Get married, for instance.

There's no one to marry.

And no reason to, either.

You can't live like this.

Without a husband?

Men are a dime a dozen, as long as I�m willing.

That's unbecoming, Katya.

What's unbecoming?

Precisely what you've just said.

How are you going to support yourself

when you've spent your father's fortune?

We'll see.

My dear,

this money deserves a more sober treatment:

it was earned through hard work

by an honest man.

Your father told me before he died...

You already told me about this. I know.

That must be Michael.

Good afternoon!

I see we're having tea.

Splendid idea, because it's cold like hell.

I attended our colleague's

public lecture yesterday.

I'm amazed our alma mater shows off such fools.

He spoke, picture this, as if he were sucking on

a piece of candy.

He lost his head and his place in the notes.

Tiny little thoughts were crawling across his brain

with the speed of a friar riding a bicycle.

And you couldn't even tell what he was talking about.

Deadly boredom.

Even flies were dropping dead.

Science is a thing of the past.

Thank God.

It's song has been sung.

It grew out of the soil of superstition,

it fed on superstition,

and now it's the essence of superstition

just like its senile predecessors:

metaphysics, alchemy,

philosophy...

And what did science give people?

The Chinese have no science.

- And are they any worse for it? - Flies have no science, either.

And so what?

You shouldn't be offended.

After all, I'm just talking among friends.

I won't declare this in public.

God forbid.

The masses believe superstitiously

that science and art are above

agriculture or trade.

Our class thrives on this superstition,

and we won't try to abolish it.

I like reminiscing about my student days,

when I dreamt of getting into the university;

when, as I strolled through our garden,

sounds of music and singing

would float up...

sending a rush of happiness

not just to my heart

but to my stomach, arms, and legs.

In my mind's eye I saw myself as a doctor,

and pictured scenes,

one more beautiful than the other.

Details

I had not suspected could still be

tucked away in my memory.

Let's go.

I have something to show you.

He's becoming more boring every day.

Please leave all of this.

You're not making any sense.

You don't love them any more.

Why force your feelings?

- What about the university? - That, too.

To educate doctors who prey on ignorance,

you don't need to be a good, talented man.

You are a rare exemplar.

There is no actor you could play your part.

Me,

or him, for instance,

could be played even by a second-rate actor.

You � by no one.

Here,

I've prepared it for you...

Please come here every day.

You are going to work here.

Aren't you?

You see, my dear, the highest

and the holiest

prerogative of the kings

is the right of mercy.

I have always exercised this right without constraint.

I have never judged anyone,

and forgave willingly.

I'm no longer a king.

Something is happening to me that befits only a slave.

Feelings, such as I had never known before

are brooding in my soul.

I feel hatred, contempt,

fear, and dread.

What does this mean?

I'm irritable,

impolite, suspicious.

Perhaps the world has grown worse,

and I better?

Perhaps I used to be blind.

You have just opened your eyes.

You can see that which, who knows why,

you used to refuse to see.

I've been a professor for thirty years.

I had colleagues,

enjoyed renown;

I loved, got married.

In a word, if you look back,

my whole life seems one beautiful composition.

All I have to do now

is not to spoil the denouement.

But

I am spoiling it.

I'm drowning.

I run to you

and you tell me, "go ahead and drown. "

"That's how it should be."

You, my dear, have too much time.

You must occupy yourself somehow.

I can't.

You behave as if you were a victim.

You yourself are to blame.

You're angry with people, but haven't

done anything to change them.

You haven't fought against evil.

And now you're a victim: not of your struggle,

but of your helplessness.

You should work.

In the service of art.

I beg you,

let's agree, once and for all,

that we can chat about actors, actresses, writers,

but that we leave art alone.

You are a wonderful man, but

you've no ear

or sensibility. You've worked so hard

that you had no time...

In general, I don't like talking about art.

I don't like it.

It's been trivialized and defiled enough.

Who defiled it?

People.

They defiled it by drunkenness.

Fools, philosophers...

Philosophy has nothing to do with it.

But it does.

If someone philosophizes,

it's because he doesn't understand.

But you still haven't told me

why you don't want to return to the stage?

Oh, no, this is pure cruelty.

You want to force me to say the truth out loud?

Here you go, then, if it pleases you:

I have no talent!

I have no talent.

Only a lot of ambition.

I must be going.

It's after ten.

I will stay a little while longer,

if you allow me.

- I will. - Bene. In that case...

why don't you ask for another bottle.

"O you who are within your little bark,

eager to listen, following behind

my ship that, singing, crosses the deep seas,

turn back to see your shores again: do not

attempt to sail the seas I sail; you may

be losing sight of me, be left astray. "

Please tell me, over the past years,

have you had at least one talented pupil?

Our youth is stunted intellectually.

I'm not talking about ideals, but if they

could at least think properly.

Stunted, that's quite right.

That's it precisely.

I look upon our generation

with great sadness...

I won't be able to come by tomorrow.

I'm going to be busy.

You have grown old lately.

Yes, I haven't been too well.

And you are not being treated.

Why won't you let yourself

be examined?

No, there's no need.

"For the moment, there is no danger,

dear colleague, but it wouldn't hurt... "

And that would kill my last hope.

- What's new? - Professor!

I'll be damned!

Never in the world!

Go home, Nicholas, it's getting late.

I've told you so many times!

I'll be damned!

Whether the sky is clouded,

or stars and the moon are shining,

I always look up on way back home

and think that

death is going to come for me soon.

One would expect my thoughts to be

deep as the sky, clear, and dazzling.

Alas, my view of life can be expressed in these words:

"Nothing good in the world

can exist without evil,

and there is always more evil than good. "

That is,

there is no reason to live.

And the years I have already lived

are as good as wasted.

You're awake?

What's wrong?

It's Lisa...

She's in the dining room, go to her.

All right, I'm coming.

For God's sake!

I can't take it!

Lisa, my child, what's the matter?

Help her.

Do something.

What can I do?

Daddy, please help me, I'm so miserable.

Now, now, don't cry.

I'm miserable, too, but it'll be all right.

It will pass.

Darling...

It's all right.

Come along, you'll get some sleep,

and tomorrow everything will be all right.

I can't take it...

What's happened?

Please forgive me. I don't know...

Fear came over me, and I ran here,

I saw the light, and dared to knock.

I'm sorry...

What are you going to do now?

Nothing...

I can't sleep.

I had a premonition...

Let's forget it,

my dear.

I beg you

please hear me out.

What is it?

Please take my money.

What an idea. Why would I need your money?

You'll go away to a sanatorium,

you must get better, my dear,

you will take it, won't you?

My dear, I can't.

I thank you, but I can't accept it.

Go home now, perhaps we can meet tomorrow.

So you don't consider me

your friend?

That's not what I meant.

But I don't need your money.

I'm sorry.

I understand.

To be indebted to someone like me,

a failed actress...

We need to talk.

I'm concerned about Lisa.

You don't give a damn.

What precisely?

Do you just pretend you don't see anything?

How can you be so carefree?

Alexander�

Mr. Gnekker intends to propose.

What do you think about it?

I can't say he's a bad man because

I hardly know him.

But that I don't like him I've told you a hundred times.

You can't behave this way.

You can't take lightly such a serious decision.

When it comes to your daughter's happiness,

you should rise above your personal prejudice.

I know you don't like him � that's too bad.

But there aren't many other suitors,

and she may not find another match.

He loves Lisa very much.

Clearly, she likes him, too.

Although he lacks social status,

but, with God's help, he may obtain a higher post.

He comes from a good family.

He's well-to-do.

How do you know?

He told me himself.

His father has a house in Kalisz, and

some property outside the city.

In short, you must go there.

What for?

To gather information.

You have friends, they will help you.

I'd go myself, but I'm a woman.

I'm not going to Kalisz.

For God's sake!

Take this burden away from me.

I'm suffering.

Very well, Veronica, I'll go.

And I'll do whatever you wish.

Thank you.

When?

Tomorrow.

We have no bed sheets.

Apparently not.

You don't have many guests?

None whatsoever.

There's a new inn by the train station.

I'll make your bed.

The owner is away, I'll give you a room

on the first floor.

I used to stay here.

Very long ago.

- On the third floor. - The 3rd floor is being renovated.

Should I serve breakfast upstairs?

No. Please tell me

what time is the train to Kalisz?

You're from Kalisz?

I know that town like the back of my hand.

A very nice town.

Do you know the Gnekkers?

They have a house there.

I know the town,

but I don't recall anyone by that name.

Has he been there long?

He was born there, and has property outside the city.

What does he look like...?

He's old.

Like me.

Taller and fatter?

Yes.

He has a house and a shop in the market?

But that's not his name!

His name is...

I can't remember.

Are you sure you've got the right name?

How about some breakfast?

I already said no, thank you.

What's his name again, your friend's?

Gnek-ker, with double K.

And remember: he is not my friend.

I brought your dinner.

Couldn't you have come later?

I won't be able to fall asleep again.

I'm sorry.

I thought you were up.

You didn't like it

on the first floor?

I did, but I'll stay here.

I wonder if you'll like the cooking.

Today we have only cabbage soup

and dumplings.

And how do you like our city?

- I don't like it. - Neither do I.

It's strangely grey around here.

Grey city.

Good afternoon.

You seem surprised.

I'm very happy to see you.

But I am rather astonished.

You appeared as if out of the blue.

I saw you come in here.

And I followed.

Just like that.

Let's sit down and have some dinner, Katherine.

You were a father to me, my only friend.

You're wise.

You have lived long.

Please tell me what I am to do

next.

What can I tell you?

I have nothing to say.

I swear...

I can't go on like this.

I can't live like this.

I've no more strength.

I can't.

Please help me.

Save me.

I can't help you, Katherine.

Just one word.

When I wanted to understand

someone else

or myself,

I would consider not their actions

but their desires.

Tell me what you want, and I'll tell you who you are.

What do I want?

I want our wives, children, friends to love us

and not our names.

I would like to have successors.

I would like to live a few more years.

And then what?

Nothing more.

I think, reflect at length,

and nothing more comes to mind.

My desires are devoid

of something essential,

of something very important.

In my passion for science,

my desire to live,

in my sitting here on a strange bed,

in my attempts to know myself,

in all my feelings, all my thoughts,

there is no common bond,

nothing that would connect it all into a whole.

Every feeling and every thought

are each present in me separately.

In all my opinions on science, on people

on life; in all my thoughts;

in all the images drawn up by my imagination,

no one would be able to find

what they call an overarching idea,

that is, the idol of the living man.

And since that's a fact, since it doesn't exist,

it means that there is nothing.

In such a state of destitution

brought about by illness and fear of death,

everything that used to constitute my worldview,

everything that gave life its meaning

and brought joy, has been turned upside down.

When something loftier and stronger than

any external impressions is absent in a man,

a bad cold is enough

to upset his inner equilibrium.

I've been defeated.

And if that's true,

there is no use thinking.

I will just go on sitting

and waiting in silence

for what is to come.

I am looking at you and I am ashamed

that I used to be happy.

I had not realized that I lacked what they call

an overarching idea until now.

But you will never know peace.

Never in your whole life.

I don't like it here.

Yes, it's strangely grey around here.

Such a grey city.

Ugly.

I am leaving today.

Where to?

I don't know.

For long?

Yes.

She hasn't looked back.

She knows I'm watching her.

And she probably won't look back.

That's right.

She didn't look back.

Farewell,

my precious.

Subtitles by aileverte kinematografika. blogspot. com