Original subtitles

The place

far up in the north of Russia, called

Kropkinsk, where in the winter the earth freezes

so hard it is impossible to dig a

grave when a man dies.

So the clever Russians, do you know what

they do?

They simply sharpen his legs and knock him

into the ground with a sledgehammer.

This has absolutely nothing to do with what

you are going to see now, except that

we also have a Russian in our story.

A Russian painter called Soutine who went to

live in France where he died in poverty

in 1943.

I didn't invent Soutine, he was real.

He was a very great painter and today

his pictures fetch enormous sums all over the

world.

That year, 1946, winter was a long time

going.

Although it was April, a freezing wind blew

through the streets of Paris.

The old man was cold and miserable.

When did we last taste chicken, eh?

Hey!

Clear off!

Clear off!

Oh, I'm starving!

Are you deaf or something?

I said clear off!

You dirty, filthy beast!

You dirty,

filthy beast!

It's this picture that's crazy.

Yes, strange and crazy.

But I like it, I always did.

Do you like Soutine?

My dear, one cannot afford to like him.

The prices he fetches, five million francs.

Now don't tell me it's a good investment,

but even I can't afford to spend that

much money.

As much as I desire.

My God!

My little Soutine!

That's who it is!

It's Soutine!

What?

What?

You nearly jumped out of my skin.

Poor Tristan.

Heim Soutine, with a painting in the finest

gallery in Paris.

Imagine, exactly his style.

My little Russian.

After all these years, I loved him because

he could paint.

How he worked in those days.

Next time you'll be nude.

Will I?

You couldn't afford it.

I charge 25 centimes an hour extra, and

I want the stove on.

Besides, what would Rioli say?

Your husband loves my work.

He'd say it was a tremendous idea.

We are rich!

We are stinking rich!

So, I have a tremendous idea.

Tonight we celebrate.

What are we celebrating?

Where's the corkscrew?

You're always celebrating.

Anything, everything.

We'll never be rich.

Have you decided to divorce your wife?

That's what we're celebrating.

So she can marry me.

Can I move?

No.

Tonight we are celebrating money.

Money?

When I haven't got a sou?

Not my money.

The money I made today.

With my work.

My art.

You call what you do art.

Tattooing.

Art.

I agree, my friend.

I'm not on the same level as you.

But a tattoo can be art.

Ask Josie.

Josie?

Stop it, Rioli.

Has Josie got a tattoo?

Where?

Your eyes are red.

You look tired.

Nine tattoos today.

Arms, chest, backs of hands.

Soldiers.

Boozy soldiers.

But nine in one day.

And seven paid in cash.

And a new coat.

That is a bargain that will last for

years.

What can I work with all this?

Oh, you don't work.

Now you stop working.

You drink.

Can I see now?

No.

It's wonderful.

It's terrible.

My friend, next time, you must paint my

wife in the nude.

That would be a magnificent idea.

Didn't I say, Josie?

As a husband, you make a very good

pimp.

Josie, we're talking about art.

Don't you understand?

But I can't eat my art.

No, but we can drink mine.

Come on.

Drink.

Go be happy.

Josie, look at him.

He's so gloomy.

So rationed.

Here, my little Tata.

My Kalmuk from Minsk.

From Smilovichi.

So what's the difference?

He's close to Minsk.

I used to walk there when I was

a boy.

Be happy.

Drink.

Right.

More.

If we're going to drink, let's drink.

We need some more wine.

I shall get some more.

How many bottles?

Six more.

Three bottles each.

No, you'll fall asleep, both of you.

Josie, we won't.

We're rationed.

A real Russian celebration, Josie.

While you're gone, I'll take care of your

wife.

Of course, I trust my wife.

And I trust you, my little Kalmuk.

Of course.

To friendship.

We three.

Trust.

Leave Julie.

Marry me.

Are you blind?

Death.

Chaim is an artist.

We trust one another.

But he's making love to me in front

of you.

Of course.

He is an artist.

I won't.

I refuse.

Oh, Josie, you must.

Kaim must see my art.

He doesn't believe a tattoo can be art.

Kaim, make her show you.

Show me it.

No, I can't.

No.

Where is it?

Where?

Is it your thigh?

No.

Kaim, I'll show you where it is.

My feet are floating.

Stop it, Julie.

Is that your stomach?

Is that what it is?

No, but your watermark.

Don't think you can show him.

He's an artist.

It's my breath.

Stop it, Kaim.

I want you to see.

I want to prove I'm the greatest tattooist

in Paris.

Both of you.

Yeah, of course.

We're celebrating.

All right.

You want to see art?

His art?

All right, all right.

Since my husband insists, my pimp insists, come

and look, artist.

It's beautiful.

He is an artist.

You see?

I have an idea.

Yes.

No.

Not now.

I have a tremendous idea.

Again?

A study of my wife.

Yes.

Are you listening?

Sit by me, José.

My friend, you are such an artist.

I must have a picture.

Take them all.

In exchange, I'll have your wife.

No, no, no.

No, listen.

I'm serious now.

I want a special picture.

One that will stay with me always.

Wherever I go.

Forever.

Now, listen.

Listen, my little camel.

I want you to paint a picture on

me.

On my skin.

On my back.

You're crazy.

No.

No.

First you paint it.

Then you tattoo over it.

You tattoo over it.

It will always be there.

I'll teach you.

It's easy.

A child could do it.

You're drunk.

No.

I was, but I'm not now.

I'll teach you to tattoo in five minutes.

José will be the master.

I'll go and get my equipment.

Yes.

Why don't you go?

I won't be long.

I'll be half an hour.

Yes, go.

It's a tremendous idea.

Don't you think?

José.

No, keep the needle upright.

That's it.

Now, move it lightly over the surface of

the skin.

Yes.

Now, the electricity, you see, is making it

jump up and down.

And there is puncturing the skin.

And the ink is going in.

Does it hurt?

No, it tickles.

It's simple.

I told you.

It's like drawing with pen and ink.

Shall we begin?

At once.

José, wake up.

No.

There.

With the hair like this.

You're brushing it.

Brushing her hair.

Wonderful.

Where do you want me?

On this chair.

This way.

You rest your head on the back of

the seat.

First, I shall paint.

And if I like it, I'll tattoo over

it.

How do I look?

Brush your hair.

Stop.

Yes.

Like this.

Yes.

Keep still.

I feel like a centipede on my back.

Still.

The painting is done.

Do you need me anymore?

No, darling.

You can go to sleep again.

Good.

I feel so good.

How is he?

Terrible.

Is it any better?

Still.

What time is it?

It's morning.

It's finished.

It's finished.

I want to see it.

Let me see.

It's wonderful.

It doesn't really look like me.

It's an impression.

A mood.

My feelings about you.

No.

It's a masterpiece.

I quite like it.

In fact, I think it's good enough for

me to sign.

Subtle.

Famous.

I like it.

Excuse me.

What is it that you want?

If you don't mind.

We don't want any trouble here.

Come along.

Get your hands off me.

Come along.

I have as much right as you to

be here.

More!

I asked you to leave.

No, no, no.

I got a picture.

I got a picture by this painter.

He was my friend.

He gave it to me.

No, don't touch me.

I'll show you.

Look.

You see?

You see?

Look.

There.

On my back.

Look.

Look.

Look there.

Oh, my God.

My God, it's true.

It's extraordinary.

When was this done?

1913.

Who taught Soutine to tattoo?

I did.

You're a professional tattooist.

I was.

Nowadays, nobody wants tattoos.

I wouldn't say that.

My dear sir, we must have a little

chat, you and I.

This woman, who was she?

My wife.

She was killed by a bomb in 1940.

I'm sorry to hear it.

But now to business.

I will buy your picture.

I am perfectly serious.

I'll give you...

200,000 francs for it.

But how?

How could I sell it?

Nothing easier.

I'll get the best surgeon in Paris to

remove the skin from your back.

That's impossible.

That would kill him.

With respect, my dear sir, it would not.

Don't listen to him, my friend.

You would never survive a major skin grafting

operation.

How old are you?

61.

There you are, then.

Far too dangerous.

If you don't mind.

Please.

I also have a proposal to make.

You have a masterpiece on your back worth

far more than 200,000 francs.

Very well, then.

I'll offer you 500,000 francs.

Do you like to swim?

To lie in the sun?

I don't understand.

Fine food, great wines, beautiful women, tailored suits,

shirts.

Your wardrobe does seem a little run down.

Tell me, have you ever had a shoe

made for your own foot?

Would you like someone to shave you in

the morning?

A pretty girl to manicure your nails?

A bell by your bedside to summon a

maid who can bring you anything you desire?

Does that appeal to you at all?

Well, yes.

Yes.

Good, good.

750,000 francs.

I happen to be the owner of the

Hotel Bristol in Cannes.

I'm inviting you to come down and live

in luxury for the rest of your life.

Your only duty would be to spend your

time on my private beach, in your bathing

trunks, swimming, sunning yourself, drinking cocktails.

Meanwhile, my guests will be able to look

at this fascinating picture by Soutine.

You'll be famous.

People will say, there goes the man with

10 million francs on his back.

Is this a joke?

Not at all.

This is a mere promise.

I'm offering you cash and an operation.

Look, why don't you and I discuss this

over a meal, hmm?

Are you hungry?

Yes, I am hungry.

Roast duck in Chambartin?

Perhaps a soufflé au marron?

How do you like your duck?

Roasted and crisp on the outside, baked inside?

Oh, anyway, anyway at all, good.

Good.

You know me very well.

We're next door to one of Paris' best

restaurants, the Restaurant Bifid.

And the chef there is a personal friend

of mine.

Not long afterwards, a portrait by Soutine of

an unusual nature turned up for sale in

Buenos Aires.

That, and the fact that there is no

Hotel Bristol in Cannes, causes one to wonder

a little.