All language subtitles for Eden and After.ENG

- Headlines.
- Scripture.

- Eden.
- Architecture.

Composition.

- Make-up.
- Catherine Jourdan.

- Performance.
- Objects sharp.

- Games.
- Viscous substances.

- Director.
- Blood flowing.

Catherine Jourdan, Richard Leduc.

- Pierre Zimmer.
- Sexual Violence.

Juraj Kukura.

- In the labyrinth.
- Sylvain Corthay.

- Murder.
- Lorraine Rainer.

- Sex.
- Jarmila Kolenicova.

- Playing cards.
- Distance

- Chess games.
- Ludwik Kroner.

Theatricality

- Phantasm
- Francois Gervai.

Laboratory.
Catherine Robbe-Grillet

Eden and After

Eden and After

- Eden and After
- Objective

- Eden.
- Subjective

Injective

Surjective

Bijective

Images and lights.

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Editing

Score sound.

Objects. Pictures.

To Imagine.

Imagination.

Ghost.

Phantom

Haunted house

Mirror.

Rotary mirror

Parallel mirror.

Distorting mirror.

Cinema.

Reality.

My life.

The two girls
to hold her arms.

Hurt her if she moves
too much.

Spread her legs.

Make her stay like that.

Lambda power N
on factorial N

multiplied by

sum from V equals zero

up to the infinite of less
than 1 power V

factorial N plus 2 V
on factorial 3 V plus 2

T power 3 V plus 2.

The image of an application F
is a part of the arrival of F

formed by the images
of first F elements.

A relation of equivalence
in an entirety E...

..is a reflexible, transitive
and symmetrical relation.

Number of liberty degrees
is synonymous with size.

If V is size N

N vector of V
constitutes a basis only...

Looking for a geometric spot

if you have 3
unlined up dots

don't think the result
is a circle

for nothing looks more
a circle than 2 circles

and nothing looks
like 2 circles

more than a lemniscate
to a Pascal's snail.

The image of a sum is t
the sum of the images.

Here you are.

6 shots.
Just one bullet.

A 1 in 6 chance
of being killed.

Five.

Four shots in the air,
the fifth a success.

There remains
one chance in five.

One in four.

One in three,

one chance in two of dying.

Come on, shoot!

Of course, this is stupid.

Not more stupid than anything else.

He's dead.

How was it?

Average.

It'd be better
with real bullets.

There is always the risk
of a splinter in one eye.

Let's go to bed.

- I'm breaking!
- Fucking. always fucking.

- Sell that thing.
- What thing?

That's daub.
worth a fortune.

- What would we do with the money?
- A voyage.

- Where to?
- Anywhere. Somewhere else.

What does it mean?

It's called "Composition No. 234".

Your uncle has some imagination!

We'll go on a trip
to a warm and dry country

a naked and gleaming
country

- with vigor
- hard.

tough, transparent,
rigid

ect.

The desert.

in order to get money

sell to an U. S. museum
the blue square No 234.

bequeathed to eternal culture
by the deceased uncle of Violette.

And to take hold of the picture
we'll treacherously murder

his niece!

Now comes the scene
of the poison.

DRINK BLOOD

BLOOD = LIFE

If this story bores you,
then you're heartless.

Me, I have heart.

so big I'm fed up.

Death-march for our friend
Boris.

Just across the University

there's a big cafe
all glass and steal

called "Eden"

We go there after our class

or before, or instead of.
In there, we invent our stories.

we act our parts.

In there, we pretend to be
happy or sad

to be in love, to break off,
to have adventure

since in our studious
and useless life

nothing ever actually
happens

The waiter who brings the lemonades
mixed with quinquina or cocaine

is called "Franz"

That Franz pretends to be bizarre
and ominous

He's said to deal
in mythological,

drugs, white trafficking for
the Middle-West

armored cars

tanks camouflaged
as baskets of flowers

ingots of gold,
mirages.

His name isn't likely Franz.
rather "Francois Gervai",

"Daniel Dupont", "Jean Robin",
or anything else

Newspapers say our youth
has lost faith.

the notion of values
that we take refuge in false paradises

that our favorite games
are homosexual prostitution

and group raping.

After reading all that
we've tried everything just to see.

We've played seriously,
with steadiness.

it's amused us..

moderately.

Marie-Eve is jealous.
She pretends to pretend to be jealous

But she fools no one.
She says she'll commit suicide..

..who knows why

My room is empty too.

Just a large bed
and the blue and white picture

My uncle's last souvenir.

I liked it in the past.

I liked my uncle too,
in the photos.

I've never known
my father either.

He died in Indo-China.

I'm lying, of course.

That running boy
is Marc Antoine.

He plays the hunted man
looking for an outlet

knowing too well
he'll be caught.

It's then that we saw the stranger
watching us through the window

Red wine.

I can show you something
of the same kind

Give me two empty bottles.

Take them.

You stand beside her.

Drop one.

Now the other.

Pick up the pieces.

Give me your hand.

I learned that trick
in Africa

I spent 30 years
of my life there.

Ghosts of horsemen
against the sun sets.

Africa
is another ancient continent.

Matter becomes magic.

The black spirit, the obscure
conscience of our reason.

Dead matter that is
no longer rigid.

Dead matter becomes magic.

The blue water, the white sand.

And the hidden barrier
that reveals itself to you.

Eyes full of reflections
of the desert.

The young prisoners
are now locked in cells

where no light gets in.

The wizards prepare powders
of poisonous plants

capable of changing people
suddenly.

While priestess

continue to do
their sacred dances.

Meanwhile women have to suffer

a long series

of initiation trials.

The mage dances around large
fires, until collapsing.

If one of you wishes
to try the experiment

I have here some
of the "powder of fear"

Suddenly, everything
was normal again:

Faces, objects, gestures.

At least, in semblance

As if Eden and its patrons
tried to appear reassuring

From then on,
all is a bit blurred.

Or rather, it's more
confused in my memory.

During the rest of the evening
we played improvised scenes

directed by that stranger.

He said our games
were too abstract.

He told us:

Before I came in I watched you
through the window

The gestures were stiff

as though you were ill at ease
in new clothes.

Or afraid to get dirty
or to leave prints.

Break it.

You juggle with ideas but you
won't get involved with living matter

as if you weren't
born yet.

You smile,
you're sheltered.

Outside, there are rain, snow
and sun.

And the night.

Here everything is air-conditioned

It's never cold nor warm.

Whoever draws the shortest straw
will have to break his own shell.

in front of everyone.

Bend her on the table.

I can teach you
another game.

Give me a key.

It's better be one
belonging to her.

Her.

- Tonight.
- Yes. Where?

You choose.

The channel
in front of the factory.

What's your name?

"Violette" and yours?

They call me "Duchemin".

- I have to go. I have an appointment.
- Is it important?

I'll know soon.

- You come with me?
- No, I've to work.

- You'll come?
- I will.

My uncle's last souvenir.

I liked it, in the past.

My uncle also, perhaps,
on the photos.

That picture is empty and dull.
I used to look at it for hours.

Now, I know it's worth
a lot of money

and I like it less.
I've never known my father.

He died in Indo-China.

We've often played at war.

Resistance, heroism,
treason

Interrogations with torture

- Please, on which side is the water?
- The water?

- The channel with the barges.
- That way

or this. It's the same.

You're in the middle of an 8.

Two immense cylinders
side by side.

Let me explain

or else you'd get lost

and could never get out.

Not to be.

Or else, play.

That's the dilemma.

No feelings.

None of my feelings
exists

except those I'm playing
to try.

Come in my arms,
my Ophelia

or else I drown instead of you.

Shit! that's Macbeth now!

After the last door

I'm surprised to see
it's becoming light.

How could such a long time
have elapsed

since those cries chased me
away from my date's place

and forced me to
hide in the factory?

I feel I awake out
of a confused sleep

with the fear of being
late for school.

Anyway, I go back
to the channel.

Now it's broad day-light
and I easily find the bridge

No one there, of course.

The stranger must've
grown weary of waiting.

Marc Antoine!

Marie-Eve!

Boris!

Jean Pierre!

Jean Pierre!

- Come here.. Hurry!
- What's up?

- I think he's dead.
- Who is dead?

- Duchemin.
- Who is Duchemin?

Last night

You all went into that new
factory near the channel.

No, we've stayed here.

He was there.

- Who was?
- The stranger.

The crabs ate him!

Haven't you smoked a bit?

And my bag?

My bag.

- You left your bag here?
- No.

- Where was it?
- I do not know. Lost.

Elementary, my dear Watson.

The bag came here
and ate the corpse.

- My key.
- Must be at the cafe.

What will I do
without my key?

Come and sleep
at my place.

Nobody believed
my story of a corpse.

After all, there was
no trace of it.

You don't believe me either.

- Are you sure he was dead.
- Yes.

- Sure it was him?
- Yes, here's the proof.

I found it in his jacket
when I pulled him out.

IN DJERBA, AS AGREED.
CLAUDE

He was called "Eric".

- He only gave his last name.
- Dutchman.

Yes, something like that.
I thought it was "Duchemin".

Djerba is the country
he spoke about.

It really looks like blood.
Was he wounded?

I don't remember.

- Isn't Franz here?
- Who is Franz?

- The waiter here.
- So the former waiter was named Franz?

- Why "the former"?
- Because he stopped working here last night

So, suddenly?

Surely not. My arrival was
decided some while ago.

Really?

When you arrived here,
did you find a key?

There's one on the piano.

I feel at once something's changed.

The blue and white picture
has vanished.

Stolen without the lock
being forced.

I discover I've known it
for a long while.

That absurd game
with my key

last night's accident
surely a crime.

and Franz abrupt departure.

Only the red-stained
postcard is left to me.

The image, a plain wall
of a house

reminds me of a short film
about Tunisia

which we saw last week
Cinema Eden.

The whitewashed walls
of the house

with the blue geometry
of the doors.

and a few windows.

The balustrade seems
a still-life photo.

as the sun flattens out
the surfaces

and removes every
effect of death.

The sand too from the early hours

deprived of shadows
and perspective

abolishes distances, making
them impassable.

Would the oasis be only mirages,
never reached by any visitor

and that no one wants
to erase from the maps

because they seem close,
scintillating and real.

Water,

a mirror created by the contact
of the air with the burning sun,

but deceptive because
one could go for hours

without penetrating them

- A fine house.
- Yes. Is it far?

Not much. By that road.

The second or third block.

You can walk there.

Thank you.

What shall we do
now she's arrived?

We must kill her at once.

No, not at once.

After she's talked.

- I decide right now
- And the picture?

Is it you who'll find it?

You knows this house?

This house isn't special.

They're all alike.
Could be this one.

That's the day I met Dutchman;
for the first time.

He was a sculptor
or something like that.

He collected cast out things

rather big ones which he
painted with vivid colors

with naked models.

They were still or frozen
in strange and awkward poses

among frames and
metal structures.

He pronounced only rare words.

Maybe he wasn't talking at all.

His face, his stature his pale
eyes and gray temples

reminded me of someone
violently

But that impressions vanished at once.

Maybe it was that well known
phenomenon called immediate memory

or memory of the future.

When I came into that house

there was another girl

whom I seemed to
recognized too.

She sat for Dutchman,

but she was probably
his mistress too.

He had still the same
slow gestures

of a ploughman accustomed to clay
or of a stone cutter

with his motionless eyes,
his absent look

What are you looking for?

Nothing.
But I've found it.

What? The picture?

What picture?

No.

I found what I didn't know
I was looking for.

You found it?

- No, nothing.
- You went the wrong way.

- No, it's not here.
- Franz is making fun of us.

I'll see to it.

Let me go!

They shut me up in a cellar
or a kind of cell,

my hands chained behind my back
and they blindfolded me.

The first day, I made
the bandage slip

by rubbing my face
against the straw

But they stroke me so hard that
they tore my clothes to rage.

And they blindfolded me again.
I don't know when

as I can't tell
days from nights.

They want to know
where the picture is.

What picture? I said I didn't
know and didn't care.

But they didn't believe me.

You haven't found that
picture yet?

Why?

Because I found out
where you hid it.

Let me go, please.

You're hurting me.

Wait... I'll explain everything.

Don't move so much.

Now you'll remain quite still

and tell me where
the picture is hidden.

If you won't tell me

Where's the picture?

Where's the picture?

Where's the picture?

Check. Nothing doing with Duchemin.

He won't swap the picture
for Violette.

So what will we do
with that girl?

I've already said that.
We'll make her talk.

When we know where's the
picture, we take it.

You'll never find it.

How do you know?

Why isn't Sonia here?

I'm not Sonia's guardian.

Violette, listen to me.

They'll kill you anyway.

Swallow this powder,
and it'll be over.

Who are you?

Nobody.

Stand up.

Take off my chains,
it'll be easier.

Want to know if I
like you?

Drink this, you'll
know my thoughts.

Marc Antoine?

The small picture.
I liked it no longer.

I had already forgotten it.

They could do what they wanted
with it. I didn't care.

Boris was dead.
Sonia was dead.

Maybe Marc Antoine and Marie-Eve too.

And I didn't care.

Dutchman was dead.
I didn't care either.

And now, it was Jean Pierre's turn.
What for?

For that absurd little painting.

A few million francs.

It's impossible.

Or then, for what other reason?

I walked at random
without thinking of anything.

I found the sea again.

Now I'm again alone
in my room.

Nothing has happened yet.

Presently, I'll go and meet
my friends at Eden.

They'll all look tired
as if they'd gone far.

Franz will still look like a
villain in a play.

We'll drink lemonade
with quinquina or cocaine.

To get our of our boredom we'll have
games of hide and seek and such.

At the end of the evening
when the game reaches its climax

suddenly, there'll be
a great silence.

Slowly, one after the other

we'll turn our heads
towards the windows

On the other side of the glass
we'll see the stranger, just arrived

looking at us with his pale eyes

and already pushing the door.

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