All language subtitles for Dance.First.2023.en

King Gustaf: In his novels,
his plays and essays,

this writer has redefined
modern literature.

He has shown us the condition
of modern man,

in all its absurdity
and futility,

with dark humor
and profound insight.

It is our great honor
to recognize this writer today.

The Nobel Prize for Literature
is hereby awarded to...

Samuel Beckett.

Mr. Beckett,
there is no speech?

So, you took the prize money?

I'm gonna give it away.

Do you really think
that's gonna help?

No. Do you?

If anything,
it might make things worse.

I'm still gonna do it.

Hmm.

So, who are the candidates
for this money?

Whose forgiveness
do you need the most?

You know,
I'm spoiled for choice.

You know this is going to be
a journey through your shame?

Isn't everything?

So then...

We shall begin with Mother.

How could we not?

Child Samuel: Had I
The heavens' embroidered cloth

Enwrought with golden
And silver light

The blue and the dim
And the dark cloth

Of night and light
And the half-light

I'd spread the cloth
Under your feet

- But I, being poor...
- "But I."

But I, being poor

He's shifting the focus
of the poem.

You were astray
with your emphasis.

No, thank you.

What did you say?

I'm happy with the delivery.

And I...

am not.

And I have considered
your suggestion,

and find it inferior to my own.

Either will do.

Either will do.

But I, being poor
Have only my dreams...

I spread my dreams
Under your feet

Tread softly
Because you tread on my dreams

Come on, faster, faster!

Let go, let go!

It's time to go.

Child Samuel: Not yet.

Not while the kite still flies.

That's not for you.

What is this obscenity?

This is me!

This me you are demonizing
with your poison!

You could only
ever imagine it as you,

because the whole world is you.

You are a liar!

This will be your last chance
to speak...

to conspire against me.

Fight.

Fight.

Fight.

Did you read my story?

I did not.

If it's good enough
to be published,

it's good enough for you.

Hmm.

There will always be
a call for titillation.

So, you did read it?

What a waste.

I'm going to Paris,
and I hope never to return.

The continent is peopled
almost entirely by homosexuals.

Hmm.

There is, of course,
a central flaw in your theory.

Always so clever.

You assumed
eternal ownership over me.

Like I was yours to control.

It could only ever end
like this.

I gave you everything.

I hope, for your sake,
that's not true.

I could give the money
to the hospital...

where she died.

She...
she didn't exactly go quietly.

No.

You've already paid her all
the repentance you could afford.

You're referring
to what I told her?

As she died.

That I had regrets.

And telling her that became
your greatest regret of all.

I knew that,
even as I was telling her.

You might name
your scars after her?

Hmm. I might name
my joys as well.

Hmm, isn't that always the way
with love?

Suzanne?

No, not yet.

So, it's Lucia?

It is Lucia.

Mr. Joyce?

I am in thought!

Mr. Joyce,
my name is Samuel Beckett.

I'm studying English
at EÉcole Normale Supérieure,

I'm from Dublin,

and I've a great respect
for your work.

"I'm from Dublin"
was wholly superfluous.

And there would have been
no harm in starting out

with the admiration now,
would there?

No harm at all.

You know,
Mr. Beckett,

my great shame,
and how could it not be,

is that I... don't know Greek.

Right.

Of course,
I can handle modern Greek,

and I have spent
a great deal of time with Greeks

of all kinds, from noblemen,
down to onion sellers.

Chiefly the latter.

You know, I'm superstitious
about Greek onion sellers.

Aren't you?

Well, I...

I mean, having not met one,
it would be presumptuous.

Ah, but look,
you show bewilderment.

Never show bewilderment, Beckett,

it surrenders control.

My point is, of course,
that I do not speak Irish.

Right.
And neither do you.

No.

I hope you do not think
that you can learn from me...

that you have come
to seek epiphany

at my broken altar?

No, that... I thought...

I wanted to make
your acquaintance,

perhaps offer my services.

Some reading, or some research.

I know
from my professors at Trinity

that you've offered
similar postings

to students in the past.

You know, Mr. Beckett,

I am not the James Joyce
of Ulysses.

I am the James Joyce
of failed endeavor,

fading glory
and encroaching decay.

My head is full of pebbles,
and rubbish,

and bits of glass,
and broken matches.

Why would you wish to set out
on such a dispiriting journey?

Mr. Joyce,
I'd rather watch you fail

than anyone else succeed.

Do not come early.

I am easily startled
in the mornings.

Don't do it.

What?

Write.

Only something
I was considering.

Ah, good! Well...

stay there... in consideration.

It's safe there.

A book should not be
planned out beforehand,

Mr. Beckett.

As one writes,
the book will form itself,

subject to, and shaped by,

the constant
emotional promptings

of one's personality.

In Ulysses,
I wanted only to give the color

and tone of Dublin,
its hallucinatory vapors, its...

...tattered confusion.

The atmosphere of its bars,
its social immobility.

These could only be conveyed
by the texture of...

Dumplings.

For supper,
we shall be having dumplings.

He is to stay?

Lucia would like him to stay.

Is that wise?

Lucia would like him to stay.

Then he shall stay.

Thank you, sir.

It's very kind.

Whether indeed
this is a kindness, Mr. Beckett,

I suggest you...

save your conclusion
for another day.

Younger Samuel: I was interested
in something you said

in The Paris Review, Mr. Joyce,

that while life
is fundamentally tragic,

that it also must be seen
as humorous.

Ah, yes. Well, what I was
clumsily aiming for there...

Do you know,
the first night I met Jim,

I mistook him
for a Swedish sailor,

what with his cap
and his plimsolls.

I'm sorry, Mr. Joyce,
The Paris Review...

Yeah, the object
of any work of art

is the transference
of emotion...

But when he spoke,
sure I knew him at once

to be just another
Dublin jackeen

chatting up a country girl.

- Did you arrive in Paris alone?
- Uh, I did.

Oh.
- Younger Samuel: Yeah.

I'm sorry, Mr. Joyce,
the, uh, the role of humor...

There must be humor.

For the disparity of what a man
wants to be and what he is,

is... no doubt laughable.

Do you know,
I wish he'd been a musician.

I always said,

Jim's a better singer
than he is a writer.

So sorry, would you let him
finish his thought, please?

Would you take me dancing?

Me?

Tonight?

Now, there's an idea.

- I... I don't think that I...
- Oh, it would be a blessing.

Right.

Not for you.

Then you can return tomorrow,
to work.

Oh, but we are to dance.

And here's me,
without a stitch to wear.

So, you're a writer?

How did you know?

Because you're in Paris,
and because you can't dance.

And you?

- And me?
- Younger Samuel: Yes, Lucia,

what will you do
in this paltry life of ours?

I will dance!

- Why not?
- I'll look after you.

Excuse me?

Well, can you imagine my father
without my mother?

I often do.

We must tell them, Beckett,
of our plans.

The world must know!

Younger Samuel: Lucia is...

Well, one might say,

and I mean this
with no pejorative intention,

that she possesses...
at least to some degree,

a certain giddiness.

Oh, she's mad, Beckett.

Gloriously so.

Right.

I'm sorry,

I'm not sure that I understand
your usage of that term.

My use of it is, uh,
medical, Beckett.

She is medically mad.

- Younger Samuel: I see.
- The worst kind.

Undoubtedly.

Her mother wants
to send her off to live

in some institution or other,
but I... well, I don't know.

Because you see,

if she's here, then we can
always send her there.

But if she's there...

...then there's nowhere
else to send her.

Do you see?

Only too clearly.

Good, then we're squared away.

But perhaps... and... and...
I mean, with hindsight,

perhaps you could
have told me of this condition,

before I'd agreed to escort her.

Oh, I couldn't do that, Beckett.

For then you wouldn't
have agreed. Do you see?

You would have run
for the hills, and rightly so.

Dumplings. For supper,
we shall be having dumplings.

I'm afraid, this evening
I must reluctantly decline

your offer of kindness.

Oh, no, you can't!

Lucia's expecting you to stay,
and then take her dancing.

And Lucia's not a spirit
to unsettle,

as I...
I suspect you have detected.

And we need that time,
young Mr. Beckett.

We need
that blessed tranquility,

we need it.

So, you can have
your hot supper,

and then take Lucia dancing,
or you can leave and not return.

So, what is it now?

Is it banishment...

or is it dumplings?

It is dumplings.

It is dumplings.

You know, Beckett, there's a...

a curious kind of honor code...

among men, which obliges them
to assist one another

and huddle together
for protection.

The result, quite often,
is that they...

wake up the next morning
sitting in the same ditch.

Welcome to the ditch.

♪ I ain't got nobody ♪

♪ And ain't nobody cares
About me ♪

♪ That's why I'm sad ♪

♪ And lonely ♪

♪ Won't some sweet daddy ♪

♪ Take a chance with me? ♪

♪ I ain't ♪

♪ Got nobody ♪

♪ And ain't nobody care ♪

♪ About poor, silly me ♪

You know, Beckett, I have, uh,

found myself
recently considering,

in some depth,

the central conflict
of the writer.

Would you like to hear
my findings?

I would, but I fear
you won't be given

the time to tell me.

The important thing...

is not what we write,
but how we write.

We must write dangerously, Beckett.

What is imaginative
is the contrary

to all that
is concise and clear.

Most people's lives
are made up of jugs,

and pots, and plates, backstreets,

and blousy living rooms,
inhabited by blousy women...

and a thousand
daily sordid incidents

that seep into our minds,

no matter how we strive
to keep them out.

These are the furniture
of our lives.

The greatest secret
of them all, Beckett...

...the biggest key
to the biggest door...

It's time.

Yes, it is. It is time.
- For fuck's sake.

- What? What is it?
- Father, go easy on him.

Don't drag him over the coals.

He will not. He will support
the endeavor, as I do.

This is the most wonderful
moment of my life!

What is?

Our engagement.

This is the end.

Oh, Christ.

I'm sorry,
but this is the end of it.

Would it be so bad?

So bad?

Mother,
this is cause for jubilation!

No, Lucia,
this is cause for revelation.

Shall we move to dessert?
I've risked a trifle.

Younger Samuel:
I've offered you companionship

these past few months
as a kindness and as a favor...

but it's not
what you think it is, Lucia.

And that's troubled me greatly,
because I always assumed

that it would lead
to this outcome.

And... now, here we are.

I am sorry, Lucia...
for my part.

Was this you, Mother?

We simply encouraged the...
Well, I mean, there is a...

there is a wonderful bond.

I mean, you are bonded,
are you not?

There is a bond.

There's more
of an unhappy welding.

They took her away
soon after that.

Inner Sam:
How could they not?

I could help her
with the money...

pay for her... care.

She's been in the same asylum
for 32 years.

You must have a great impression
of yourself

that you can take the blame
for 32 years and counting.

She hung over us, Joyce and I.

Every conversation,
from that day on, there she was.

Dancing behind the words.

Don't you think that applies
to all his conversations,

all his words?
She was his daughter.

He never forgave me.

Oh, he told you he forgave you.

No, he had his revenge.

We'll come to that.

So who deserves
this prize money?

Do we have to go on with this?

You were the one who started it.

I'm ill with regret.

You mean Suzanne?

No, no, not yet.

Alfred?

Alfy.

Alfy.

Do not use Alfy
to sneak in Suzanne.

You have my word, I promise.

Good.

Keep going.

He'll never forgive me, Alfy.

Do you think he would let us
translate his work

if you weren't already forgiven?

I think he'd find
such simplicity insulting.

Thank you, thank you.

I speak not just
for the publishing house,

but for Mr. Joyce himself,
when I say that this work

is a masterpiece
of modern translation.

First, we must thank
two students,

Samuel Beckett and Alfred Péron,

for a valiant first attempt.

A what?
- Here we go.

Which was then
so expertly corrected

by our translators,

Paul Léon, Ivan Gul, and...

- Who the fuck are they?
- ...of course,
Mr. Joyce himself.

Revenge.

Welcome, Paul.

We were working with gold.

All we had to do was polish it.
But let us be clear...

- Why?
- ...this was not work.

Because she's in an asylum now.

This was the greatest fortune...

And you must be punished
for that?

...we could have
ever been granted.

And I must be punished for that?

To learn at the feet
of a master.

I'm sorry, Alfy,
you're collateral damage.

...literary jewels, and to turn
them to catch the light.

What shall we do?

We shall drink.

Yes.

- For a long time.
- Forever.

We should certainly
give it a go.

Well, Alfy, we gave it a go.

Let me leave, while dignity
still remains a possibility.

Nah.

Good evening, Sam.

Lucky for Stalin,
we're drunk.

You've come to take him away...

to drag my friend
from a life of possibility

to the eternal drudgery
of commitment.

No, Sam, we came to join you.

It is Suzanne from the tennis.

Hello, Sam.

You've come to capture me,
to add me to your tribe.

What makes you think
that I want to capture you?

Then let us both avoid the trap.

Hey.
Hey, mon cheri.

Hey.

Hey, Irish, you want a girl?

Hey.

Prudent, your stamina
for this exchange is remarkable,

but I would never want...

Why?

Suzanne.

Yes.

Younger Suzanne:
From the tennis.

Yes.

So, they gave you
a private room.

Younger Samuel: Joyce.

You know, you shouldn't let
a man be your keeper.

Younger Samuel:
Thank you for your advice.

No, this is not advice.

This is instruction.

And... if this is to happen,

I suggest that you
grow accustomed

to taking my instruction.

If what is to happen?

Such coyness.

You do not like attraction.

And neither do I.

Younger Suzanne:
So, I think that this side of it

will be agreeable.

But more importantly, I...

Oui?

Younger Suzanne:

Bien sûr, madame.

Younger Suzanne:
I brought you this.

It's Calvados.

Samuel,
you should write about this...

because it feels
like an experience

a writer should explore.

Especially one like you,
with your great love of death.

I did read your book.

Well,
you were in exclusive company.

No, I must speak
to your publisher

about why I had to work
so hard to find it.

What's more important?

You said there is something
more important than attraction.

What is it?

Well...

you have a great talent...

and I don't think
that you should waste it.

In fact...

I think that you would benefit
from a companion

who would stop you
from doing so.

And I think I would benefit
from being that companion.

Hmm.

Well...

Um...

I will return tomorrow,
if you'd like me to?

Yes, you will return tomorrow.

It is an unlikely match.

It's not a match.

She is so serious. And you?

Well,
you were stabbed by a pimp.

I was a winged bird, Alfy,

and she came to me
with a box of straw.

Well, I'm sure you can
fit in one more.

Tone.

You and your archaic monogamy.

It brings rewards
beyond the carnal, Samuel.

It is a higher state of being.

Well, maybe someday
I'll clamber up from the dirt

and join on you
in that higher state.

Perhaps with Suzanne
from the tennis.

No.

The hand will not be overbid.

Younger Samuel: Are you safe?

Safer than most Jews.

And you?

As long as Ireland
stays neutral.

And you, Sam?
Will you be staying neutral?

You've joined.

I have joined.

Well... you're a soldier now.

And they do not
just need soldiers.

Lucky for you.

Lucky for us.

Take me to them.

Sam.

You should speak
to Suzanne first.

I don't need to.

We are one...

she and I.

Poor Suzanne.

Poor Suzanne.

I cannot let him join
without me.

What now?

We write.

Troop movements
from all over France.

Tips from farmers,
postal workers,

anyone allowed to travel,
they all come through to us,

God knows how.

And then we work through them.

We correlate, cross-reference.

We need two sources,
or it doesn't count.

And then we put it all together,
and we write our story.

Take a photograph.

And, once a week,
the film is sent to Britain.

And how does it get
to the Brits?

I only know how it leaves here.

You will like
that part, just you wait.

This.

You see?

Yeah, this part.

I can do it? Okay, thank you,
that's very kind.

Metaphors, Alfy. Metaphors...

Hmm.

They have taken Alfy.
They are taking everyone.

Who?

[whispers] Gestapo!

Go, go!

The train is cancelled,
rain at Poitiers.

The train is cancelled,
rain at Poitiers.

Sam!

The train is cancelled,
rain at Poitiers.

The train is cancelled,
rain at Poitiers.

Younger Suzanne: Sam!

Younger Suzanne: Sam, now!

Why are you happy?

We spend our days
scratching through the dirt

in hope of a potato,

while Europe falls around us,
and yet...

you're happy.

I mean, being here could be
many things, Sam.

Of course, there's the war,
the fear...

But not for me.

Because, you see, for me,
it's just you and I together

that stepped away from life.

There's no one
who can get to you

or take you away.

And being trapped here
with you...

it's a happiness
I have never known before,

and I will likely
never know again.

You know, I think you could
probably leave the pot

for a little while.

Just for a little while.

You should take that
as a compliment.

How far we have to fall for you
to risk a compliment.

Well, let us fall further still.

Younger Suzanne: Sam.

Are you thinking of Alfy again?

Do you think he's still alive?

He stays alive in you.

Resistance Soldier:

Well, go on then...

my brave soldier.

You know they've given me
a gun now?

I love you.

I love you.

Oh, what a hero.

Like a Boy Scout, with a toy gun
in the wet grass,

waiting for Nazis,

who didn't have the decency
to show up.

They gave you
the Croix de Guerre.

Oh, they give you that
for staying alive.

Is that your guilt,
that you stayed alive?

It was me.

I was the one who filled
Alfy's head full of... nonsense,

of dreams,
and... and... and rainbows,

and... and Baudelaire.

But you were the one
staring at the stars.

Because I knew he'd be staring
at the same ones.

Even in that horrible place,

they couldn't turn off
the stars.

And what did I do?

I went home to a warm bed,
a warm woman, while he...

He...

Hmm.

You know that, in the camp...

they said that he sang
to the others.

Oh, that's just... fairy tales

that we tell each other
about death.

Inner Sam: But you used that...

in Waiting for Godot.

You used your worst fears
about Alfy in your own work.

I... I... I thought
it might resolve something in...

How could it?

You know, there are some men

who need to believe
in a better world,

just like you need to believe
in a world that's worse.

Who betrayed us to the Germans?

Who sent Alfy
to that horrible place?

It was the priest.

Of course, it was.

Oh...

And to think
that I mislaid my faith.

At least Alfy would have
enjoyed that.

Inner Sam: Listen to me.

You cannot blame yourself
for the war.

Oh, I can try.

No. Alfy's been dead.

He's been dead
for a very long time,

and he does not need
your money.

Now...

it's time.

Suzanne.

Properly.

Can...

can she come alone?

No.

Sam?

Sam...

you must go now.

Itinerary and tickets.

Don't sign anything
without speaking to me first.

And don't drink
before the meeting.

Do you really think
the BBC will want to do this?

Yes!

They would not want to meet you
if they did not.

But...

you like it, don't you?

Yes, I do.

Sam?

I love you.

I love you, too.

Hello, sir.
How can I help?

Barbara Bray, please.

Okay.
Take a seat, please.

Mr. Beckett?

I'm Barbara Bray
from the Drama Department.

Sam.

What a bloody miserable day, hmm?

Well then, Sam, if, um,

if I were to sneak you up
to the BBC bar for a whiskey...

and tell you everything
I love about your work,

and beg you to bestow it
upon us,

would that cause you to turn
all Irish and bashful?

That would depend
on the whiskey.

Well, this way.

After you.

So, they want the rights?

Yes.

Good.

We'll do a separate deal
with the BBC

for the translation.

You must keep writing
in French, Sam.

We get paid twice.

Hmm.

Please...

tell me you did not offer him
a translation?

Her.

She will pay.

For the translation.

Yes.

She...

she'll pay for the translation.

Nothing happens.

Twice. Nothing happens, twice.

Don't short-change me.

It is maddening!

I hope so.

It is a masterpiece.

God...

I hope not.

What is this place,
this wasteland where they wait?

It's...

it's the place we all go to,
when life drives us there.

I should probably tell you
that I'm moving.

Hmm.
- Hmm.

And I should certainly tell you

that I'm moving to Paris.

No joy without pain.

Indeed not.

Quite the conundrum.

Mm-hmm.

So, what do you do?

What does escape look like
at that time,

to a man like you?

Why?

Because...

Because I want her
to have the royalties

of my work after I die,

and she deserves it.

She gave me the best days
of her life.

She was the one
who said, "Keep writing,"

when everybody else
said, "Stop."

But all you are doing
is moving pain between us.

No, you are who you are,

and she is who she is.

So...

I'm in Paris...

and nothing has changed?

You're in Paris
and nothing has changed.

So, uh...

they want to produce the play.

In London and Germany and...

No.

I know you don't like the play.

I haven't read it.

- Oh, really?
- No.

If you haven't read it, why...

Germany, London?
It's too much, Sam.

They said it's really good.
Yes, it's good.

You know why?

It's too much, Sam.
It's all getting too much!

"When he came again,
we had it out."

"He went on
about why he had to tell her,

too risky and so on."

"That meant he'd gone
back to her...

back to that."

This is about us.

How could it not be?

- Has she read it?
- Yes.

And what she did she say?

That she hadn't read it.

She can't hide
from this forever.

I wish she could.

I shall review it
for The Observer.

Is there no end
to your sinning?

No, we passed that
a long time ago.

When he came again,
we had it out.
I felt like death.

He went on about
why he had to tell her,

too risky and so on.

That meant he had gone
back to her, back to that.

Pudding face, puffy, spots,
blubber mouth, jowls,

no neck, dugs you could...

Actress 2: He went on and on.
I could hear a mower,
an old hand mower.

I stopped him and said
that whatever I might feel,

I had no silly threats to offer,

but not much stomach
for her leavings either.

He thought that over
for a bit.

Calves like a flunkey.

When I saw her again,
she knew she was looking...

...wretched.

Pardon.

Well?

Were the words
not humiliation enough,

that you had to also put me
in a pot?

It's an urn.

That is your defense, Sam,
that it is an urn?

Sorry, but I have to write
what I s--

- This is, uh...
- The other pot.

I, um...

I thought it was very brave.

Thank you.

It could not possibly have
been more cowardly.

Thank you for coming.

Please, be kind in your review.

We have a tax bill to settle
in November.

Well... it was very nice
to meet you.

Don't be absurd.

Good evening.

She... she shouldn't have come.

Sorry about that.

It is not her.

It is them.

What do you mean?

There are so many of them.

Publishers, theater agents, journalists.

They are talking about you
as if they know you,

as if they own you.

Isn't that what we wanted,

after all these years,
after all the struggle?

All... all the years of you,

running from publisher
to publisher,

living like hermits.
The denial, the sacrifice.

- Isn't the...
- Mr. Beckett?

It's a masterpiece,
you're a genius.

- Thank you.
- Thank you so much.

- So...
- All the years of sacrifice,

of struggle.

This is what we wanted.
We need them.

But you have them.
So, you don't need me.

Oh, so you want us
to stay in obscurity?

You don't want us
to have success?

You want us to be scratching
in the mud for potatoes again?

You and I, Sam,
we're not made for victory.

We won't survive it.

The fight? We need to fight.

So, let us retreat
from these people, from victory.

Please...

don't let us win.

King Gustaf:
The Nobel Prize for Literature

is hereby awarded to...

Samuel Beckett.

I didn't deserve it.

No, you do not.

But the work does.

And for the work...

I'm happy.

Goodnight.

Hard to take a man seriously
in pajamas.

You should wear them more often.

I've decided I'm giving
the money to Trinity College.

Set up a scholarship,

so that some boy like me

doesn't have to rely
on a mother like her.

Hmm.

We've taken a long time
to get to that.

Hmm.
So, now, you can leave me alone.

I wish I could.

- Bonjour, Marie.
- Bonjour, monsieur.

Fight.

Fight.

Fight.

This is yesterday's bread.

Don't you know
they put at the front

yesterday's bread
to trick the likes of you?

These peaches
aren't ripe.

We can barely mark them
with a finger.

It's like sending
a child to the market.

A child!

These olives are Italian.

They'll have called them French,
but they are Italian.

They are too big to be French.

You need to trust your eyes,
not the traders.

What...

a waste.

You are a liar!

You used to tell me
when you were going to her.

Now you just go.

There is none
of the other... business.

Not for a long time.

It's...

just about work.

That makes it worse.

I know.

I notice you have been gilding
her cage.

I can still read a cheque book.

My eyes can go on, Sam...

for the last of your betrayals.

She's a widow.

So am I.

The character slip, Sam.
The voice, well, it...

it comes and goes.

You haven't found it...

because you haven't looked.

Oh, you're so cruel
to an old man.

Sadism is all I have left.

The most worthwhile part

of writing...

the giving up.

If you abandon this one...

there will never be another.

Good.

I never wanted
to be a writer.

Whatever I had, Barbara...

long gone.

I'm sorry for having to drag you
through all this.

It was never
about the work, Sam.

It was about working together.

And I ask you
not to take that from me.

Hmm.

Not yet.

Fight, fight, fight.

Inner Sam:
Oh, don't be so dramatic.

Oh, why don't you go away?

You're like a nomad.

Walking between the two of them
with your life on your back.

Yes, but you see...

the walking is the thing.

It's like a blissful limbo.

The walk is peace...

hope.

You used to walk out here
with Lucia, didn't you?

Oh, yes.

Yes. And Joyce.

And Alfy.

I like to be out here,

alone with them.

The dead are easy companions.

Oh.

Easier than you.

Hmm.

Though anybody is easier
than you.

Well, it won't be long now
for you and me.

Ah.

Does it... does it get worse?

Well, let's put it
this way, Sam.

It doesn't get any better.

That's it.

Okay.

Right.

Right.

Right.

Oh, such a noise.

I'm sorry.

I always got the worst of you.

Sometimes...

I think back to...

Roussillon.

Our days there...

in the war.

Our little room.

You bending over the fire.

The nights.

The warmth of the bed.

The warmth of you.

I remember you said once
that you could never...

imagine...

being happier.

And I thought,

"Oh...

that's a mad thing to say."

But now...

now I think
you're completely right.

I said I...

I had been...

so happy.

And I will never be
so happy again.

And I was right
with both.

Because I knew you,

and I knew the... the life
that was to come.

I knew that I would never
have you again.

Not like that.

I owe everything...

to you.

And I...

owe... everything...

to you.

Hmm?

It's so hard...

to lose you.

But...

to lose you to England...

You never did
like writing endings.

Hmm.

When I was a boy...

the happiest I ever was...

was one day with my father...

flying a kite.

And I stood on the hillside...

and I willed
with everything in me

for it to stay in the sky.

Because... up there,
there was hope...

and breath...

and freedom.

But... when it landed...

there was nothing.

I'm so happy that you're leaving
when the...

when the kite is still
in the air.

What a bloody miserable day.

Welcome to the ditch.

Hey, Irish,
you want a girl?

Well, I'm sure
you can fit in one more.

♪ Take a chance with me! ♪

Younger Suzanne: I love you.

Fight. Fight.

Fight.

What a waste.

Inner Sam: So, then...

Oh, just let me go.

Listen to me...

Oh, you're such a torture.

Listen to me.

There was joy.

For them, for you...

there was joy.

You know
there's nothing interesting...

about joy.

Well, I... I...
I would agree with you there.

Do you remember...

years ago...

a student asked you about life?

And you said...

"Dance first..."

Oh.

"...think later."

Well, it's later now.

Oh, it always was, Sam.

You couldn't wait to get through
the pleasure to the pain.

That's not the way
to talk to a dying man.

Oh, it is the way to talk
to a dying man.

It was some life,
wasn't it, Sam?

It was...

A life.

Well...

then...

There's nothing left...

to say.