Savage Messiah (1972) Movie Script
You are in my place.
- This is a public library.
- I always sit here.
- You cannot reserve.
- Ask him.
My place, please.
Why don't you sit there?
Why don't you?
Thank you.
I'm lonely.
Are you lonely?
Of course, I am.
You're a genius.
I know you're a genius.
Because, I'm a genius too.
When there are no fish in
the pond, the shrimp is great.
Oh, philosopher!
I thought you're a poet.
I'm a writer,
and I want a paper.
I'm an artist.
I don't read the papers.
Give us a kiss.
- I do not like men.
- Oh, I do.
Sometimes I think men
are more beautiful than women.
Beauty is dead.
I think you're wrong.
I make beauty.
You make beauty.
Most people struggle
to make something beautiful.
Many fail, that's true.
But I shan't fail.
I have enough for everyone.
You mustn't boast, boy,
or you'll never become a genius.
Do you think
Michelangelo boasted?
I loathe Michelangelo.
There, Michelangelo
at his worst.
Yoo hoo!
That's not by Michelangelo.
It's dead.
Just look at it.
No holes, no muscle,
and no mystery.
Consider these tipsy tits.
And who wants
a whopping great ass
staring them in the face in the
middle of the average working day?
It's indecent.
There is a good chance
some innocent young child
will be corrupted for life.
Art, good people.
Nothing but luck
backed up by slave labor.
So good citizens,
I implore you
have nothing to do with art.
Art rots your moral fiber.
Ladies and gentleman,
observe that charming woman
in the straw hat
with a wicker basket.
From the look of her,
you would imagine
she was a... famous lady
of fashion.
But there, you would be wrong.
She is a great novelist.
But she does not
set her immortal stories
at the time
of the Crusades, does she?
And why?
Because you can't
make art out of dreams.
Art is dirt. Art is sex.
And art is revolution.
Just a minute young man,
we want a word with you.
Stop!
I'll see you tomorrow,
in the library.
If I'm not there,
come and bail me out.
Hello.
I forgot to tell you my name.
It's Gaudier.
Henri Gaudier.
G-A-U-D-I-E-R
Hey, let's get married.
I earn good money.
One franc an hour
at the Lartigue Art Gallery.
- No.
- No.
Well, let's live together then.
- I sleep with everyone.
- Good.
I'm part of everyone.
You shouldn't have made
that scene in the park.
You should have taken
the hat around.
I come from a good family.
My father's a carpenter.
What's your book about then?
Conflict.
- Conflict?
- Yes.
- Ah.
- Perhaps you should read it.
- Yes.
- Hey, leave it alone. How dare you?
I love you.
Doesn't give you
the right to pry.
- Yeah, true.
- Anyway, it's in Polish.
I'll learn Polish. I shall
learn Polish tomorrow.
You tire me. Ten minutes
with you is like a week's work.
- I'm sorry.
- I'll give you one sou for that leek.
- Three.
- One.
Three.
Shall I send it
or will you take it wrapped?
What's it like, this work
you do in the gallery?
Oh, it's piece work.
I come and go as I please.
But they get their pound
of flesh. Here.
Your flesh?
Sometimes I do feel
as if I'm always going uphill.
Now, don't get me wrong.
I don't want
to be other than I am.
I know it's lucky
to be what I am.
But, sometimes, I don't think
I'll be able to do
what I want to do...
on my own.
Let me make one thing clear.
My asking you in is a simple act
of artistic companionship.
I understand, Miss Brzeska.
Why should you be special?
I know dozen of artists.
- Who do you know?
- I know...
Never mind who I know.
What does it matter who I know?
I don't know anybody.
That's who I know.
- You know me.
- I know your kind.
You think art is all sex
and material things.
Art is above sex!
When my books go out into the
world, the people who read them...
- Read. I'll read anything.
- You?
You're the worst read man
I've ever met.
You wait until
you meet my friends.
- You have no friends.
- And neither have you.
And you're old.
I would like
to see Henri Gaudier.
Staff are not allowed
through the doors, madame.
But I must see him urgently.
I'm-I'm his sister and-and...
And his poor dying mother
is calling for him.
- My condolences, madame.
- But...
The trade entrance
is 'round the corner.
Bourgeois lackey.
My God!
A forger.
Help! Help!
Mamelushka!
So, I'm entertaining a criminal?
Better a good copy
than a bad original.
- What's to draw in Polish?
- Rysowa.
Oh, don't make a mess
all over the floor.
Anyway, if people
with more money than sense
can't tell the difference
between a genuine Gaudier
and a genuine Gainsborough,
they deserve to be cheated.
One day, someone
will be forging my work.
Work?
You don't know
the meaning of the word.
D'browski, to work. Yes?
Well, star of the morning, I
have dbrowski'd on the roads
from Paris to Marseille.
I have dbrowski'd in Wales,
in a coal merchant's office.
And I got a dbrowski's
scholarship to study business.
Till I chucked it for this.
And soon, I shall be
in the dbrowski house.
While you, I imagine, are in
Paris to do a little shopping.
I came to finish my book.
I needed a creative atmosphere.
You have to create
your own atmosphere.
Knife, please.
- What's in there?
- What? My trunk?
All I possess.
- Is it full?
- Yes.
Who said you could open that?
You have too many things.
You should get rid of them.
Those artistic,
they have nothing.
If there was ever
any good in nothing
it's hard to find
when you pass 30.
Thirty! What am I saying?
Twenty, ten, being alone
getting sick on nothing
of nothing in the head.
Arms minus the will
to wash their face.
Taking a letter to post harder
than shifting a ton of rock.
Alone.
"Write. You want to write,"
mother said.
Poor, flat, flabby,
chocolate munching.
I only want what's good
for you, mother.
Gone saggy with one after
another born dead
or dead three weeks
later... boys...
Till they held me up, looked
between my legs and frowned.
Stupid, they said. Stupid.
Can't write. Girl.
She said, "Girl, better find
a man as stupid as yourself."
"Writing. Writing?
Put that book down."
"However will we get rid of you,
I'm sure I do not know."
Miss Nice, fluttery, home-loving,
reading, eating, sleeping.
So... they found me an old fish
fop, with a moneyed mama.
Her darling father's gambling
and whores gobbled that up.
So, when her old fish fop jilts her,
a well-bred cast-off
can become a governess.
Her empire, a cloud
of vomit and baby shit.
In the evening, up to
your room, and write out
your thoughts on the soul.
Oh, what is this I hear?
It's my God-fearing, upright
employer ready to jump on me.
Keep your love, I know what
you've got at top of your legs.
I'm the biggest whore
in the Latin quarter.
I've started more books
than all the drawings
you'll do in a lifetime.
My book is about sleep.
That thick oily substance
under whose surface you float,
half dreaming, half waking...
...hidden in your hope that
the world comes through.
You cannot imagine
the ways I have evolved
to abolish myself there,
under the surface.
Half sleeping, half waking.
Leaving your worries
and your clothes asleep.
But the rent never sleeps
and time never sleeps.
If only we'd met 20 years ago.
My body's gone, see?
Scrawny, see?
Old enough to be your mother.
Soon I'll be a snaggle-toothed old hag.
And do not imagine
I mourn my lost loveliness.
From the start, I knew
my face was not my fortune.
But I was young enough
to have prospects, like you.
I'm not worth your love, boy.
Love me like love must be
and you'll loathe me soon.
You are so young.
You will be a great artist.
Keep yourself
for someone kinder.
The cabbage is burning.
Oh.
Ah, you'll like my mother.
She's wonderful.
Thought you mother lived
in the country.
That's my natural mother.
My real mother is.
The Louvre!
Oh, rubbish.
Pretentious townhouse full
of junk stolen from savages.
Art is made from art.
- That's not what you said.
- That was yesterday.
Look, you said it and don't
you dare tell me I'm wrong.
That today's art cannot be
made from anything except today.
And where do you think today
comes from? Yesterday.
Or do you see some clean break
along the line of days
stretching back
from here to Babylon?
You never say
the same thing twice.
Yes, I change.
When I lie down at night,
I lie down as if I'm going to die.
When I get up in the morning,
I get up as if I'm going to live forever.
And you expect me
to fling myself
into your arms for always?
I know your sort.
You'll be off in a week.
I will carry my love for you
wherever my mind leads me.
- Excuse me, sir.
- Ah, good day, kind sir.
In which direction lies the
newly acquired primitive head?
- That way, sir, but...
- Thank you.
But, sir, sir, sir.
Pardon me for mentioning.
- But your shirt is hanging out.
- That's all right.
Most of the people
in here are naked.
Henri, look. This is where
your mind leads you.
- Rape. Rape of the Sabine Women.
- Oh!
He's got more hanging out
than his shirt.
It's more like a wax works.
Hello, hello.
In a bit of
an artistic tizzy, are we?
I'm about to take
my hat off to the Mona Lisa.
I fully appreciate your desire take
your hat off to the Mona Lisa, sir.
I take my hat off to the
Mona Lisa at least once a day.
However, sir,
I am decently dressed.
Madam, would you take
your hand out of my trousers?
- Ah!
- One other thing, sir.
My God! My brother.
This is where it all started.
- Your voice. Sir!
- And where it'll all end.
This is after all a museum, sir.
And whilst your enthusiasm
for these eternal works
of the human spirit...
...strikes a chord
in my own heart.
We don't want
to disturb the tax payers
enjoying the benefits
of cultural democracy.
Do we, sir?
Disturb? Of course,
they should be disturbed.
Shocked into life.
This isn't a morgue.
Now, that, sir, is stone.
And a very valuable stone,
if I may say so.
And if we allow
one visitor to touch it
then everyone will be wanting
to touch it. Won't they, sir?
Art is alive.
Enjoy it.
Laugh at it.
Love it or hate it.
But don't worship it.
You will not enjoy it.
Hang it on your walls.
Wipe your asses on it.
But use it.
I'm the man who's gonna fill
this dump tomorrow.
Then I'll wait until tomorrow.
- Get off me.
- Jump that one.
Nincompoop. Never calm down.
You sprainy, rat-faced vandal!
You have no mother!
Your old man came up
against a shithouse wall.
And the sun hatched you out.
- We'll come back another day.
- No, we won't.
I'll never set foot in that
place again as long as I live.
Then I'll keep it pure and
air-conditioned
for the American tourists.
Boy, your real mother
turned out a real bitch.
Right. Let's see if my natural
mother treats us any better.
What do you mean?
I mean a few days in the country
would do us both good.
What about your parents?
I've got nothing to wear.
I don't want to go to the country.
I want to go home.
We have no home.
Henri.
Breathe, Mamelushka!
- Who is her publisher?
- Oh, she has several.
- She is internationally famous.
- She looks like a widow.
Our love is platonic.
Such quietude.
Did you have a pleasant
journey, Miss Brzeska?
I'm terrified of trains.
We find them rather convenient.
What is this place?
The estate of the
Countess of Mont-de-Masan.
We are her tenants.
It is very good
of you to have me.
I'm afraid, there's no
room for you at the house.
But we fitted out
the old dairy for you.
- Oh, well...
- We are a large family.
I need solitude.
- She's a pearl.
- Do you know her well, boy?
- Good morning.
- Intimately.
- Good morning, ma'am.
- Now, listen...
We are fused in the
mutual radiance from our souls.
Your mother is very worried.
Papa, your forbears carved
the west front
of Chartres Cathedral.
There's no need for me
to tell you about beauty.
And beauty is in her bones.
Hello, Alma.
Oww!
- Hello.
- What are you doing?
- What?
- What are you doing?
Well, I just came to see
if you had everything.
- This used to be my room.
- It's beautiful.
It has everything. Now,
just let me alone. I'm tired.
- You're tired of me?
- No. Not of you.
But - and your parents
will get into trouble
if it gets about that
you're in here at night.
Well... I'll go then.
- Goodnight.
- Goodnight, boy.
Let us plight our troth.
Yes. Let us
plight our troth.
- Are you sure?
- Yes.
Then we must give
each other something.
Something that will
last forever.
- I'll give you my name.
- I'll give you mine.
- Henri Gaudier-Brzeska.
- Sophie Gaudier-Brzeska.
- Now, I am your brother.
- I'm your sister.
You are my love.
All my life, I have
looked for such a love.
Even when you were young?
Very young.
Even then. If you can't find
love in your own family
I thought find it
in someone else's.
A good governess
is worth her weight in gold
and travel broadens the mind.
But mothers become jealous
and fathers lustful.
And then you're walking the
streets in a foreign country
with no references.
What price is love then?
Well, then you settle
for something else.
Friendship?
Companionship?
Less than that.
- Charity?
- Less even than that.
You settle for...
anything.
I came to Paris
to kill myself, boy.
But I was frightened
of the worms and the dark.
My sister.
My little sister.
My maleska.
You have found your lover.
And we will live
only for each other.
And you will do
work for everyone.
And you too.
Right. Up off
that bed, you two.
Come along now. His lordship
has something to read.
"Honored sir."
That's me.
"It is my most unpleasant duty
"to inform you that a woman
of foreign extraction
"is using the countess'
disused dairy
"for the improper
reception of men."
"As mayor of this district,
it is your duty
"to evict the said alien
"and not only from the estate
"but from the district
as a whole."
Signature illegible.
Right.
Form a queue... outside.
Youngest, first.
Go on.
Please, my son, send her away.
Stay here with us.
Vermin. Scum on lice.
Get out!
Greetings, father.
And help us find
a cheap room in London.
Oh, thank you, sir.
Thank you.
Mister.
Oh, hello.
He's for me.
Gospel, sir. See what Jesus
can do for your life.
- Dominus vobiscum.
- I'm a convent girl.
Clean as a whistle.
Tight as a drum.
Six pence for a short time.
Five bob all night long.
With a gobble at the end.
You're so nice, you could
shit chocolate bonbons.
Bless you, sister.
How's the great three-volume novel?
- There's a letter for you.
- You open it.
If you didn't read so much
perhaps you'd get
some work done, huh?
In this din?
It's not London transport...
it's the damp, or the fog,
or the right idea.
There is... only... now.
- You've got a job.
- What?
You've got a job!
Fifty-five shillings a month.
Fifty-five shillings a month?
Hey! Well,
now I have everything.
My studio, my work
every one a masterpiece
and my woman.
What more could a solid
middle-class citizen want, hah?
He wants a kiss.
Right!
What? No! No!
- Oh, stop!
- This is lovely.
What are you doing?
Stop it, boy! Sauvage!
How often do I have
to tell you I don't like sex?
You think of nothing else.
Nine cases of indecent exposure
in the papers today.
All because of women like you.
You want sex. Go and find
someone who sells it.
Right. Will you
give me the money?
Five shillings?
Woman, you're out of your mind.
Do you imagine I'm going
to allow my beautiful young body
to be clasped in the embrace
of a five-bob whore?
It's all we can afford.
Well, let's economize
and eat at home.
All right.
Bless you, holy brother!
You're hired!
Why do you do this, Mamelushka?
You know you will
blunt my love for you!
- Gaudier.
- Yeah?
Gaudier, I want you
to do this Polish invoice.
I'll do it tomorrow,
Mr. Saltzman.
I have to show my Polack sister.
Corky's looking forward
to meeting you
and your sister very much.
Gaudier, you haven't
forgotten Mr. Corky, have you?
My friend, the art dealer.
I never forget anyone,
Mr. Saltzman.
Good.
I mean... you know he's supposed
to be having supper
with both of you tonight?
Lotsky, Zavaroshky, forgotsky!
She's been at it all day,
Mr. Saltzman. All day.
Mrs. Saltzmann thanks you
very much for your drawing.
It is framed and hanging already
in the drawing room.
Courage, Mamelushka!
My boss has arranged
for me to meet with Mr. Porky.
One of the world's
most celebrated art dealers.
Offices in London,
New York and Paris.
So soon, you will be
a wealthy woman.
Meanwhile, I've written
for that job in Blandford.
They can't afford you.
You're the sister of the world's
most famous sculptor.
Supper, genius.
Of course,
I retain my simple way of life.
A great artist must reserve
his contact with the people.
Ah, the people.
Out of season watercress soup
and Afghani goat's milk?
The last of the herrings.
Keep it warm.
I've invited my important
art dealer to supper.
Tonight?
Now he tells me!
Oh, my God!
Ah, that's him!
We're rich, Mamelushka!
Start spending!
Ah, Mr. Porky, I presume.
Excuse me. Excuse me.
My name's Angus Corky.
And I am Henri Gaudier-MacBrzeska.
That's small stuff.
Soon as I've borrowed the tools,
I'm starting stone carving.
- I'll get you the tools.
- Thank you.
You like those?
Very much.
I knew it the moment I set eyes
on you. You're a genius.
Would you accept five pounds?
How much?
Five pounds?
Shakespeare!
You know,
I can't afford that much.
It's a lot of work.
I'll just take this one for now.
You mean, five pounds each?
Well, of course.
You're an idiot.
Mamelushka, allow me
to present my new art dealer.
The one with offices
in Paris and...
He has just bought one
of my drawings for five pounds.
Zoot!
Mr. Angus Porky?
I'd like to present my sister,
Sophie Gaudier-Brzeska.
The pleasure is
entirely mine, mademoiselle.
And mine to surrender,
Mr. Porky.
Mmm, delicious!
Snouts down, fellow pigs.
Do begin, please, Mr. Porky.
Oh, the kind of rare vegetables
we like are out of season.
We are poor.
- We have five pounds.
- Oh!
Oh! Oh, dear. Well, I,
well I didn't actually...
Well, I was lying
about the money.
He's my friend.
I gave him the drawings.
Well, didn't I, Porky? Yeah?
You'll have it tomorrow.
I promise you that.
Well, there.
You see?
Come, food will get cold.
Of course, he'll pay.
I know he will.
It's just
that you're so easy to cheat!
Yes, I'd rather
be cheated than cheat.
- That's not the alternative.
- Look, I'm the host here.
- I will decide what...
- So like a man... He's the host.
What does that make me?
The whore?
- Who buys the food?
- Who pays the rent?
Well, who wastes money
on stupid trinkets?
Oh, boy!
You shouldn't have.
They're for me.
For my new outfit.
The first to see
the light of day
at the exhibition
Porky has promised me.
A small thing
but guaranteed to set
the art-buying public
aflame with enthusiasm.
Zoot! A mark of a slave!
A revolutionary gesture.
I'll have to wear them.
Your ears aren't pierced.
No sooner said than done.
Hah!
Stop!
They'll think you're a pansy!
They love pansies!
You know the public.
If an artist isn't miserable,
he's nothing.
- I paint revolution!
- Boy, stop it!
See me in my barbaric splendor.
What is the essential difference
between men and women?
No!
Oh, boy! Boy! Boy!
You!
Brzeska, I surrender!
I'd like you very much
to come and have dinner with me
one of these evenings.
Naughty boy!
Make it... soon.
I surrender!
A tiger burning in the night.
A woman's body
burning in the day.
Sensual lights and shades.
But with sounds,
instead of tones.
It sounds more like Blake
than Debussy.
I don't smell tigers,
but it reeks of sex.
I see light.
One never sees anything else
with an impressionist.
I thought, it was a ballet
about homosexuality.
Oh!
Just what you'd expect
from people like Diaghilev.
They say he's had
the entire corps de ballet
boys, girls,
and all the electricians.
And you associate impressionism
with homosexuality, Mr. Brzeska?
It's a lot of cock.
Supper everyone?
- Did you read Hardy's latest?
- I read the reviews.
- Pass the salt.
- I don't read reviews.
Lice! Scumbags!
But where else would you
get your information?
- Information?
- Information?
You get about enough information
out of the reviews
to satisfy a very small,
illiterate pygmy.
True.
It's always you that's blaming me
for ignoring the papers.
Oh, fiddlesticks! It's the news,
not the views that count.
How do you distinguish?
I don't. I wipe my ass on both.
Pippa, have some more cider.
Mavis?
Mr. Shaw?
How much a year
do you make out of art?
Yes! More than Tom does
out of publishing my poor books.
You have no idea
of the overhead.
Do you include
your jewelry in that?
And when the war comes
dear Lionel,
will make even more.
And when the refugees
start to move
they'll give you a statue
for a passport.
A Michelangelo for an
American passport? It's cheap.
But if the war comes,
it'll kill the artists, too.
But not the dealers.
Tom, what a cruel thing to say!
- I love war!
- Ah!
War is good for the human soul.
The bigger the war,
the better I like it.
- He doesn't mean it.
- Oh, yes. I do.
I like what everyone likes,
and everybody likes war.
- Otherwise...
- Why is it so popular?
If I hear you
say that again, I'll...
- What?
- She will shed a pacifist tear.
Why make it all so personal?
Men always make it personal.
What do you do, Miss Brzeska?
I write.
She sings, too.
I am a writer.
And have you published anything?
Recently.
The third volume, of her nine
volume philosophical romance
has just been received
with acclaim in Moscow.
You mean three are out,
and six in typescript?
Exactly. Except, that my sister
prefers longhand.
Do you know
Polish folk melodies?
I loathe the peasants,
and their awful melodies.
She's a noble woman.
I am a communist.
Then I will cut off your head.
A song... entitled
"Melancholy Mazurka"
Translated from the Polish
by Sophie Gaudier-Brzeska.
- Beautiful.
- You, none of you like it.
You hated it.
You, yapper-faced
yobber-trapped offspring
of chimpanzees! Hah!
I liked it.
But I don't think I like you.
She thinks your breath smells.
I wonder, how she distinguishes
it from your... feet?
Tell me, what is your
favorite medium, Mr. Brzeskit?
Brzeska. Stone.
- Granite?
- No, marble.
But you could carve... granite?
Well, naturally.
But, you've used marble
a great deal?
My brother carves
in most stones, Mr. Shaw.
Sophie.
Marble is my favorite.
Sophie, help me
with the coffee, would you?
Excuse me.
Shaw's gonna pin him down,
if we're not very careful.
How?
He's gonna ask to see
one of his non-existent stones.
I'll see him on his way.
Do you sculpt from life?
Life, death,
all part of the job.
Henri, we must go.
Actually, I have just finished
a torso in marble.
Neoclassic style.
I'll model for you.
That is, if you'd like me to.
He would be delighted.
Oh, I'm so tired. I must go.
Henri, we will miss
the last bus.
Oh, sit down.
I'm eating my pudding.
That new piece you mentioned
the neoclassical torso.
- May I come and see it?
- Gladly.
When?
At eight tomorrow.
- Alas, I'm going to the theater.
- 8 a.m.?
Make it nine.
Done.
Mr. Corky will give you
my studio address.
Bye, all.
Oh, boy,
you've done it this time.
Bye.
Well, isn't
Corky's sculptor divine?
Yes. Let's hope
his talent will mature.
We'll see.
It's easier to become
the prime minister of this country
than be one of its artists.
But I can't stand her.
The sooner she goes, the better.
Hear, hear.
You must come again.
Corky! Come on!
Oh, sorry, madam, wrong window.
Hey, come on, we've got
to get Shaw's stone.
And bring those tools,
you promised.
All the shops are shut.
- Debrovsky, Pukovsky.
- Come on!
Sophie?
Sophie?
Is this any good?
Too much grain.
Do wish you'd make up your mind.
Oh, we're too near
the main road.
Henri? Henri?
Oh, come on, don't play games.
We're not buying vegetables,
you know.
Choosing the right stone
is a creative act.
Michelangelo used to spend
six months
in his favorite quarry,
before picking a piece.
You loathe Michelangelo!
Oh, I have to admit
he's getting better.
- Getting better all the time.
- Eureka!
This is it.
Come on, quick.
You will be cursed
by Edward Timothy West!
Nonsense!
I'll be blessed
for taking a load of his chest.
Oh, for God's sake!
Oh, it's hardly the place
to mention Him.
I'm wet through.
Think of the Jews
crossing the Red Sea.
I'm not Jewish!
Please, Gaudier,
can't we stop for tea?
No resting!
What time is it?
It must be three.
Six hours to go then.
Shaw won't come, Gaudier.
I know him.
He never leaves his gallery
before lunch.
He will! He'll come!
He'll have his stone!
Nine o'clock. On the dot.
Excellent tea, Sophie.
It's nice to be appreciated.
Right.
I'll tell you a story.
Oh, I hope
I haven't heard it before.
A man was walking
across the field one day.
And he came across
a little bird.
So young... it couldn't fly.
Oh, how sweet.
In fact, unless,
he did something about it
the little bird would die.
Nearby, there was
a newly laid cow puddle
big, rich and steaming.
So, he picked the little bird up
made a hole in the cow puddle
and popped the little bird in.
After a while,
what with the cozy warmth,
not to mention
the delectable aroma,
the little bird perked up
and began to chirrup.
Cheep, cheep, cheep.
A fox was walking
along the ditch.
He heard the little bird
chirruping away
comes over to see
what's going on
and scrunch.
Ah!
Bites off its head.
And the moral is...
...it's not always your enemies,
who drop you in the shit
and not always your friends,
who get you out.
But when you're in it,
keep your mouth shut.
I want some sleep.
Aah, what a pity.
Why don't you go
and find a nice park bench, then?
Go on, it's only
a couple of minutes.
Your admirer,
Mr. Porky, will take you.
All right.
I am contemptible, Mamelushkina.
My darling soul.
My free one.
My life outside my life.
My permanent reminder
of splendor.
My soft voice.
My happiest when sad.
Not you, Corkums, my love.
I need you still.
Put the chisels in the stove...
and stoke up.
Oh, God!
I'm so tired!
You know the
kind of work I like?
Where every blow is a good one.
Where you know the man could
see the thing he wants in the stone
before he opens the stone.
Chisel.
No messing about.
You ask your carpenter.
And yet, and yet, unless,
you let the stone influence you.
Unless, you let it,
to quite a large extent
lead you in, you're lost.
Every blow must be a true one.
Every blow is a risk.
You take your whole life
in your hands.
You can always tell
a bad artist, like a bad doctor,
by the fact he tries to
surround his work
with some sort of hocus-pocus.
Sure, there's a mystery.
But it's as much a mystery
to the one who's doing it
as to the one
who's looking at it.
Exactly the same!
I need an audience.
Theres no such thing as an artist
who doesn't need an audience.
Well, maybe there is.
But in that case, he's a saint
as well as an artist.
And a saint first.
You take Cezanne.
Bad-tempered bugger.
Now, he was a saint.
Paint, paint, paint,
all bloody day long.
And sells nothing.
But what does he care?
His father was a banker.
You buy
some of this stuff, Corkums.
Keep us all in luxury
when we're old and gray
and sick of sleep.
But, by and large, itd be wrong to
be taken in by the solitary genius stuff.
Of course, I do it
because it pleases me.
There's nothing wrong with that.
If it doesn't give me
a lot doing it
how the hell is it gonna
give anything to anybody else?
That's the mystery, Corkums.
Why anybody else wants to look
at the work someone like me does
and give good money for it,
is amazing.
Why don't they
just do their own?
I'm not interested
in somebody else's work
unless I can steal from it.
Unless it gives me
something I can use.
And yet, if there isn't
somebody there to see it
then... zoot.
As my divine sister would say,
it's just a lump of stone.
Put St. Paul's Cathedral
in a cardboard box
and what have you got?
A heavy box.
Off to work, good citizens.
Go and buy a boiled egg.
Oh, you've never done
an honest day's work
in your life.
Now, my little sexy darling.
Just a bit more
off the shoulder.
File on your titty.
Thought he could catch us out, heh?
Mr. Bronsky?
- What number?
- Twenty-five.
Are you Mr. Bronsky, mister?
I am Bronsky, the world's
most famous brain surgeon.
Telegram.
Read it out.
"Desolate."
"Just remembered prior
appointment in the gallery."
"Do call. Shaw."
Oh, no!
Let me go!
I'm a hooligan.
I don't deserve my liberty.
Let me into this cell immedi...
Out!
Oh, stop it, boy!
Shaw has withdrawn the charges.
Corky's paid for the window.
As a down payment on the statue.
What right have you got
to pay for the window?
I insist on repaying you.
As your agent, I've got a right
to sell your work
to whoever I choose.
Myself included.
You're cheating a man
out of his punishment!
You did it because you like me,
not because you like my work!
If I get away with my...
he gets minimized.
You people make me sick!
I don't want to get off!
If I get off, it means,
I didn't do anything.
I did it!
I'm glad I did it!
You will be deported, boy.
Please, let's forget it.
I must go, Corky.
I get no rest with Henri.
But, do you really want
to be a governess, again?
Yes. I shall have time
to do my own work.
We're nearly at the end
of my savings.
Henri's wages go nowhere
with all those materials.
- They just eat up the money.
- Sophie, please, let me...
Don't be silly.
But it is good of
you to pay for the cab.
Anyway, I want to go.
I love him, but I want to go.
I must have my life to myself
for a few months.
- Yes.
- Look after him, Corky.
Sorry I can't see
you off at the station.
- Bye, boy.
- I must find some work today.
- Sorry about your job.
- Don't worry about it. It was no good, anyway.
Oh, he'll soon find another one.
- You will write?
- Take her to Paddington.
- Yes, of course, I will.
- Keep the change.
- Here you are.
Oh, boy!
Goodbye!
- I'm sorry.
- It's all right, Mamelushka, I do love solitude.
Bye.
Fre-e-e! Come on, Corky.
Let's find some women.
- Well, we could go see Mavis Coldstream.
- Really fantastic women.
Big, fleshy,
sexy, breasty, maneat...
Excuse me.
Could I have a light, please?
Yes, of course.
- What the...
- Wait there.
Votes for women!
Votes for women!
- My God! Look at that! Come on, Corky.
- Aah!
Give us your hat.
A contribution, sir.
Just a few pence.
Your wife will be proud...
- She ought to be horse whipped.
- I dispute that, sir!
Someone who provides a little
public warmth on a cold night
like this, can't be all bad.
Come along, ladies!
Nows the time!
- Join the group, men.
- Yes! Yes!
Seize the day, we want it, now.
- Seize the day!
- Votes for women!
Come on, Corky. She's our man.
After her.
Evening, Miss Boyle.
"The Vortex,"
Shaw's new nightclub!
Come on then, she may need help.
One moment, gentlemen, please.
May I see your membership card?
Old masters exploit
young mistresses!
There she is, Corky.
She must be fireproof.
- Show us your knickers!
- Shut up!
- Who's that?
- Gosh, isn't she gorgeous?
- Gosh, that's ejaculation.
- She's certainly worth one.
More!
Take your clothes off, Gosh!
You've got a great ass!
It's red hot!
Oh, no!
Well, now, if our
priapic fellow European
has discharged
his creative impetus...
I can't read!
How can I understand you?
- Shut up and grow up.
- Thank you for your song, Gosh.
Don't go slashing too many pictures.
One day, you may destroy a good one.
By accident...
In a moment,
Miss Gosh will sound off
a serious blast
on behalf of the women...
- Get on with it!
- Women Suffrage Movement.
Yes, the Women
Suffrage Movement.
Give her the vote
and take off her knickers!
Do sit down.
Of course, we had hoped
to follow this
by having a quick sketch
by Pablo Picasso.
Never heard of him!
However, it being Monday,
he's having his drawing.
You're lucky.
I'm here to replace him.
A poem, by the new genius
of the planet earth.
Concrete
by Henri Gaudier-Brzeska.
Play the Maestro's March.
My assistant, Miss, ah, Gosh?
- Gosh Boyle.
- Miss Gosh Boyle.
Take your clothes off
or we're sunk.
One, two.
- That's it.
- Thank you! Thank you!
Long live free expression.
Damn. I've just thought
of a much dirtier song.
Oh, no, don't worry about them.
I know something
much better we can do.
What?
Blow up the Royal Academy
of Art!
As I am coming down this weekend,
I'll bring the grammar book
instead of sending it
with Rappals.
Since your landlady
does not permit male visitors
let's meet at Portland,
which is about halfway
and, as I'm told,
has excellent sea bathing.
I will arrive on
the 222 from Waterloo.
The train arriving at platform
4, is the 222 from London.
Stopping at Lyme Regis,
Weymouth and Exeter.
Mamelushka!
Mamelushka!
I caught an early train,
and it didn't stop
so I had to jump out. Ah!
Train!
Boy! Boy, stop it!
Train! Come up!
Come up!
Please! Look out, please!
Oh!
- Above all, Mamelushka, we must keep calm.
- Yes.
- We mustn't upset each other.
- We must be tranquil.
I'll do exactly as you say.
Oh, these are from Corky,
and these are from me.
- Boy.
- Come on.
I would like a room for two,
in which I could also stew
some herrings for my brother.
Sorry, lady, our helper forgot
to turn the sign around.
Oh, what is this?
St. Moritz or something?
In the middle of winter, suddenly
there are no vacancies?
Come on, Mamelushka, I want to see the sea.
- I haven't seen the sea for 30 years.
- Oh, wait a minute.
Please, do you have some chambers
for my brother and myself
in which I could also stew
some herrin...
Oh, bugger the herrings.
Which way is the sea?
Down the lane, over there.
Oh.
Thank you. Henri, wait for me.
Come back, boy. We've got
to find somewhere to stay.
Later. We've wasted
enough of the day as it is.
What about the night?
You're always looking
on the dark side.
Oh, boy, wait for me.
I shall be lost, ah!
Bastard!
Bastard.
Bloody herrings.
Oh, bloody, bloody herrings.
Whoo!
The child is a snotty-nose,
spoilt brat. Hates me.
The locals come out of their holes
to stare at me when I go by.
Ugly like-like,
pigs filled up with beer.
They think I'm an easy
foreigner. Sex maniacs.
They make me sick,
give me a pain in the chest.
The-the cook told me the last
governess died of consumption.
So I bought buckets of water,
scrubbed out the entire room
every week.
To write is impossible.
A great white moon shining
on me, menacing, horrible.
- You can always come home.
- Soon, boy, soon.
Battling with the weathercocks.
Oh, why did we choose
this shortcut?
Listen, I've got something
to tell you. You listening?
Yes, I'm listening,
just because my eyes are shut
it doesn't mean,
I'm not listening.
Corky really is gonna
give me that exhibition.
- He is?
- Yes.
Oh, boy! I'm so
happy for you.
It'll be a huge success.
Thousands will attend
and I shall cover
the floor with drawings.
- They'll be ruined.
- Only the bad ones.
It's gonna be my world.
Oh, I so want you to be mine.
Oh, and you will write
the catalogue notes.
- Corky, better do that.
- No.
- I've never done such a thing.
- You're the writer, aren't you?
My God. Look at that.
Enough stone
for at least a fortnight!
Now, I feel it.
I love this stone.
Great Father Sun!
Behold your children
in their delight.
Dance, Sophie, dance!
We must stay here forever, Mamelushka.
We'll live in a hut.
We'll have the exhibition here.
The customers can float away
their statues in boats.
A fleet of Gaudiers,
stretching to the far horizon.
- Just imagine.
- I can do it.
- I'll find a studio then.
- I know I can do it.
It will be no ordinary catalogue.
It will be a poem. A hymn.
To truth.
And beauty!
Oh, boy, I'm so happy!
- Your beautiful home.
- It's good!
And it is beautiful.
And it's quiet.
- And holy.
- Oh.
Oh, I love you, Sophie,
I love you.
I'm sorry if I hurt you.
I'm only cruel
because I'm afraid.
I'm afraid you might leave me.
I get-I get afraid,
you don't love me.
But you do love me. You do.
I do. Of course, I do.
I love you.
Oh, my love.
My love, my only love.
No, no, we mustn't.
Oh, I'm sorry,
I'm so sorry, I'm mad.
- Why?
- After this exhibition
you'll be famous.
You'll be rich.
- And if you still...
- That'll make no difference.
We'll see, we'll see.
If you still love me, well then,
then maybe we'll get married.
Come on, it's getting dark.
Oh, where did I put my bag?
Did you see it?
I was dancing.
Oh, I put it near this rock.
Oh, where is it?
Oh, where is it?
Oh, God.
- Do you think, I'm beautiful?
- You'll do.
- Sexy?
- Sexy?
I thought that was a dirty word
to you suffragettes.
I'm bored with politics.
- I want to be an artist.
- Excellent.
The world needs more artists,
and fewer politicians.
You know, all my
lovers are poets.
Can I show you some of my poems?
Show them to my sister,
when she comes back.
She knows,
all there is to know...
Why are you always
talking about your sister?
I hope she never comes back.
I get fed up with hearing about your sister.
Are you looking forward
to sculpting daddy?
I'm looking forward
to his money.
Why else would I lug a hundred
weight of clay over here?
Could you give me
sculpture lessons?
Lesson one. If you
want to be a sculptress
you better stop sleeping
around with poets.
Get to know a few quarrymen.
You get a much better
ride out of it, anyway.
I don't care what I do
so long as it's creative.
I want to leave something behind
me that was never there before.
Lavatory's outside.
Oh, I get so bored!
You know,
my astrologer says that
Virgo's are subject
to cosmic boredom.
I know, I should dance
naked at your exhibition.
I shall dance
to the spirit of nature.
Ke-e-e, yeah!
Vok-chu!
Ka-a-ah!
R-rah, tu, ah.
Do you think,
animals have souls?
You know, daddy thinks
Hannibal is almost human.
Attention.
He has the makings of
a first-class general.
I'm coming back
to your place tonight.
- Hello, daddy.
- Good morning, miss.
Good morning, sir.
I'm glad to see you're punctual.
Give him the
measurements, Brown.
Sir!
They are accurate.
I got them from my tailor.
Daddy, Mr. Brzeska
is an artist.
He looks very poor
for an artist.
That's why I'm so cheap.
Do you want me to keep still?
No, you ride where
you like, Major.
I'll sculpt you just as
you are. Horse shit and all.
If it doesn't look like me,
you won't be paid.
And if you see yourself anew,
I'll get more.
I hope you're not going to have a lot
of waffle about artistic insight.
We're not here
to make your reputation
but a regimental souvenir.
Something recognizable
to the naked eye
of a well-trained fighter
at a distance of 40 paces.
What you need is a photographer.
Frankly, I'd have preferred it.
Quicker and cleaner.
I should warn you, Major Boyle.
- I charge by the cubic inch.
- Hmm.
Maybe, I'll have a
head and shoulders only.
Half the regiment
would like to do that.
When's the war starting?
First week in August
would be a good time.
- Have you got that nose right?
- Do you think we'll win?
Hard to say.
By the look of some of
our recruits, I'd reckon on
us taking a hiding at first.
I'm sure you're making
that nose too long.
It'll shrink.
They tell me some young men today
would rather go to jail than to war.
Yes. It's all that
education that's about.
It's too many fancy ideals.
Like art and so forth.
Art never won a war, laddie.
And there is no higher ideal
than patriotism.
Where are all the brave
young men of yesterday?
Dead.
You'd die for your country?
You're right, you know,
this nose is too long.
- Would you?
- Definitely.
I give you my solemn assurance
in less than a year
this country will be at war.
People like him
would be put into prison.
Prisons are full of them
already. Better kill them.
Yes.
And then say it was
in the stars. In there.
You don't live
in that hole, do you?
I know, what they mean
when they say...
Oh, why bother with that
when you can have naked me?
If we live in an age of beggars,
then we must draw beggars.
No more starvation wages!
Put some tea on.
God, what a barn!
Good afternoon, Madame.
Can I help you?
Oh, I didn't know
he had a servant.
Ah, yes, I'll have
some tea, please.
Certainly, Madame.
- Indian or China?
- Indian with a dash of China.
Has Madame made an appointment?
To see some drawings, perhaps.
Oh, no, I'm his model.
Ah! Oh, no.
- Pardon, mademoiselle.
- You stupid bitch
I'll have to speak
to your master about you.
Oh, It's me.
Sorry to disappoint you.
- I should have sent a telegram.
- Hello.
Oh, is that all
you've got to say?
Have you got a cigarette?
Oh, my God.
I didn't realize.
Yes. Here you are, darling.
Thank you, darling.
Darling, is it?
Well, don't let me interfere.
Act as though I wasn't here.
I'll just continue
cleaning up the pig sty.
None of that, boy.
Save that for your
so-called model.
Take no notice of me.
- There.
- Right.
Gosh, show us some more of those
tricks you picked up
on the Left Bank.
I've got the time, darling,
if you've got the energy.
- Loose pussy.
- Foreign bull.
You don't mind foreign bull then
when it's got a cock, do you?
What do you know
about men?
I've had more men
than you've had free dinners.
You simple-minded,
petty bourgeois.
You couldn't tell a man from a pumk...
Any minute now,
you'll be screaming.
Never darken my door again.
And all the other various cries
of a confirmed property owner.
You? An artist?
You've had the wrong
sort of education.
You're educated, and that means
you're sunk.
Deary.
Why don't you go
back to the country?
Find yourself
a soulful old ploughman.
Somebody more your own age.
Someone you can sit
in communion of spirit with.
In front of an attractive dunghill.
You can't help Gaudier.
You just want him to fail.
Like you!
When you come to your senses,
I shall be at daddy's.
Mamelushka.
You haven't changed.
Oh boy.
It's so good to be back.
Hold me. Hold me. Hold me.
Mamelushka. Mamelushka.
Mamelushka.
I don't wanna hear
any more about it!
You knew full well
we can't afford two rooms.
We've lived together before
so why not now?
It's only two minutes away.
Two minutes? Two million,
zillion, trillion light years.
What's the difference?
You want your own room?
Have your own room.
I can't live
with all that noise.
Damn noise.
It's that exhibition.
I almost wish Porky'd
never suggested it.
Don't forget your promise.
You'll get your catalogue.
You said we'd get married
after the exhibition.
I said no such thing.
I said we'd see.
You promised.
We'll see.
I said we'll see.
Henri.
Isn't it wonderful?
There. Designed
the handbag myself.
I'm glad you found
a creative outlet.
- Well, when are you going?
- Where?
Where everyone's going, silly.
The front of course.
Do you fancy
the French Dragoons?
Oh, I say, daddy knows the man
who's in charge
of the Artist Rifles.
He'll get you a commission
if you like.
- Well?
- Well?
Well, who do you wanna go with?
I'm staying.
With these birds!
Where on earth would I see
a bird like that?
The same place you see
yourself bandaging
the slightly wounded brow
of some handsome young officer.
With star shells illuminating
your dazzling new war outfit.
- What are you going to do?
- This. Now, bugger off.
You ill-bred, treacherous savage.
How many of the enemy
do you think
that sort of rubbish
is going to kill?
Well, it can break your head open
for a start.
Well, I'm not the enemy, am I?
People who are always talking
about enemies are my enemies.
Ooh, listen to the Messiah.
The Kaiser was quite right
to burn those paintings
by that dago, Picasso.
You so-called "modern artists."
Just a lot of
degenerate cowards.
Ooh, yes.
We'll soon have enough
for a really beautiful show
around Christmas.
It'll all be over by Christmas.
And, uh,
...how do I catalogue
exhibit number 52?
You christen this one.
All right.
How about "Trench Mortar
Firing a Grenade"?
No.
"Bird Swallowing a Fish."
How are your parents? Safe?
As yet.
You'll never guess.
Augustus John
has just signed up.
I thought he was
a pacifist painter.
No. He's an official war artist.
No fighting. But a...
...a full commission,
a paint brush
and a king's uniform.
Hypocrite.
And no one thinks
any the worse of him.
Look, my effort is just
as important as the war effort.
Anyway, when are you going?
Unfortunately, I've got
a weak bladder.
Then piss off.
What happens to all this
so-called art
when it's sold
at the exhibition?
Goes into the houses
of the rich.
Nobody sees it for 200 years.
Or it's sold abroad.
How's your new room?
All right.
So a parasite who feeds off
a parasite can always say
he's working to kill his host.
I am not a parasite.
I put something
back into the pot.
You amuse the educated.
Nothing else.
I'm ignorant. How can I amuse
clever people?
That's the function
of the mediocre.
What I do will help people.
I am responsible,
and I don't care what they say.
Things are beautiful,
and that helps.
Definitely.
It helps.
...Reims Cathedral in flames.
Big German push.
Allied retreat on all fronts.
Extra. All the latest.
Paris threatened.
Paris threatened.
Star News Standard.
All the latest.
Big German advances.
Reims Cathedral in flames.
Hey, Mamelushka.
Mamelushka!
Let me in. I want to make
an honest woman of you.
Go away, boy.
Go away, boy. I'm tired
of your tricks.
Let's get married, Mamelushka.
I'm going away to fight.
Oh, stop all this nonsense.
Go home to bed.
We'll get married after
the exhibition like I said.
Courage, Mamelushka.
Dearest Henri...
...you were joking I thought,
when you said
you were going to fight.
I wanted to call after you
but you were gone.
I will marry you
after the exhibition
as I said.
Of course, I love you.
I always have.
Take care of yourself.
Sophie.
"I'm not at all bored
in the trenches."
"I'm doing some little pieces
of sculpture."
"Few days ago I did a small
maternity statue
"out of the butt-end
of a German rifle."
"It's magnificent walnut,
but I managed to cut it
"quite successfully
with an ordinary knife."
That's a saleable item.
"In the last 12 days,
I have succeeded
"in making the enemy angry."
"We were only 50 yards off,
and I got a bugle to blow
"false alarms."
Still blowing his own trumpet.
"Then I insulted them,
and went out of the trench
"with a French newspaper."
"A German came out to meet me
"and gave me
the Hannover Zeitung
"in exchange.
It was very amusing."
"But I profited
by the excursion
"to discover an outpost
on which
"I directed our artillery."
"At three p.m., four big shells fell on it."
"And twenty chaps in it
went up to heaven."
"I like the war.
I'm in lots of action."
"Each night we go out
and kill Germans."
"I have killed
at least four myself."
"When the shells go off
it reminds me of thunder."
"And I look up and say,
"father."
Whoever wrote
that should be shot.
He was.
Last Thursday.
- This is a public library.
- I always sit here.
- You cannot reserve.
- Ask him.
My place, please.
Why don't you sit there?
Why don't you?
Thank you.
I'm lonely.
Are you lonely?
Of course, I am.
You're a genius.
I know you're a genius.
Because, I'm a genius too.
When there are no fish in
the pond, the shrimp is great.
Oh, philosopher!
I thought you're a poet.
I'm a writer,
and I want a paper.
I'm an artist.
I don't read the papers.
Give us a kiss.
- I do not like men.
- Oh, I do.
Sometimes I think men
are more beautiful than women.
Beauty is dead.
I think you're wrong.
I make beauty.
You make beauty.
Most people struggle
to make something beautiful.
Many fail, that's true.
But I shan't fail.
I have enough for everyone.
You mustn't boast, boy,
or you'll never become a genius.
Do you think
Michelangelo boasted?
I loathe Michelangelo.
There, Michelangelo
at his worst.
Yoo hoo!
That's not by Michelangelo.
It's dead.
Just look at it.
No holes, no muscle,
and no mystery.
Consider these tipsy tits.
And who wants
a whopping great ass
staring them in the face in the
middle of the average working day?
It's indecent.
There is a good chance
some innocent young child
will be corrupted for life.
Art, good people.
Nothing but luck
backed up by slave labor.
So good citizens,
I implore you
have nothing to do with art.
Art rots your moral fiber.
Ladies and gentleman,
observe that charming woman
in the straw hat
with a wicker basket.
From the look of her,
you would imagine
she was a... famous lady
of fashion.
But there, you would be wrong.
She is a great novelist.
But she does not
set her immortal stories
at the time
of the Crusades, does she?
And why?
Because you can't
make art out of dreams.
Art is dirt. Art is sex.
And art is revolution.
Just a minute young man,
we want a word with you.
Stop!
I'll see you tomorrow,
in the library.
If I'm not there,
come and bail me out.
Hello.
I forgot to tell you my name.
It's Gaudier.
Henri Gaudier.
G-A-U-D-I-E-R
Hey, let's get married.
I earn good money.
One franc an hour
at the Lartigue Art Gallery.
- No.
- No.
Well, let's live together then.
- I sleep with everyone.
- Good.
I'm part of everyone.
You shouldn't have made
that scene in the park.
You should have taken
the hat around.
I come from a good family.
My father's a carpenter.
What's your book about then?
Conflict.
- Conflict?
- Yes.
- Ah.
- Perhaps you should read it.
- Yes.
- Hey, leave it alone. How dare you?
I love you.
Doesn't give you
the right to pry.
- Yeah, true.
- Anyway, it's in Polish.
I'll learn Polish. I shall
learn Polish tomorrow.
You tire me. Ten minutes
with you is like a week's work.
- I'm sorry.
- I'll give you one sou for that leek.
- Three.
- One.
Three.
Shall I send it
or will you take it wrapped?
What's it like, this work
you do in the gallery?
Oh, it's piece work.
I come and go as I please.
But they get their pound
of flesh. Here.
Your flesh?
Sometimes I do feel
as if I'm always going uphill.
Now, don't get me wrong.
I don't want
to be other than I am.
I know it's lucky
to be what I am.
But, sometimes, I don't think
I'll be able to do
what I want to do...
on my own.
Let me make one thing clear.
My asking you in is a simple act
of artistic companionship.
I understand, Miss Brzeska.
Why should you be special?
I know dozen of artists.
- Who do you know?
- I know...
Never mind who I know.
What does it matter who I know?
I don't know anybody.
That's who I know.
- You know me.
- I know your kind.
You think art is all sex
and material things.
Art is above sex!
When my books go out into the
world, the people who read them...
- Read. I'll read anything.
- You?
You're the worst read man
I've ever met.
You wait until
you meet my friends.
- You have no friends.
- And neither have you.
And you're old.
I would like
to see Henri Gaudier.
Staff are not allowed
through the doors, madame.
But I must see him urgently.
I'm-I'm his sister and-and...
And his poor dying mother
is calling for him.
- My condolences, madame.
- But...
The trade entrance
is 'round the corner.
Bourgeois lackey.
My God!
A forger.
Help! Help!
Mamelushka!
So, I'm entertaining a criminal?
Better a good copy
than a bad original.
- What's to draw in Polish?
- Rysowa.
Oh, don't make a mess
all over the floor.
Anyway, if people
with more money than sense
can't tell the difference
between a genuine Gaudier
and a genuine Gainsborough,
they deserve to be cheated.
One day, someone
will be forging my work.
Work?
You don't know
the meaning of the word.
D'browski, to work. Yes?
Well, star of the morning, I
have dbrowski'd on the roads
from Paris to Marseille.
I have dbrowski'd in Wales,
in a coal merchant's office.
And I got a dbrowski's
scholarship to study business.
Till I chucked it for this.
And soon, I shall be
in the dbrowski house.
While you, I imagine, are in
Paris to do a little shopping.
I came to finish my book.
I needed a creative atmosphere.
You have to create
your own atmosphere.
Knife, please.
- What's in there?
- What? My trunk?
All I possess.
- Is it full?
- Yes.
Who said you could open that?
You have too many things.
You should get rid of them.
Those artistic,
they have nothing.
If there was ever
any good in nothing
it's hard to find
when you pass 30.
Thirty! What am I saying?
Twenty, ten, being alone
getting sick on nothing
of nothing in the head.
Arms minus the will
to wash their face.
Taking a letter to post harder
than shifting a ton of rock.
Alone.
"Write. You want to write,"
mother said.
Poor, flat, flabby,
chocolate munching.
I only want what's good
for you, mother.
Gone saggy with one after
another born dead
or dead three weeks
later... boys...
Till they held me up, looked
between my legs and frowned.
Stupid, they said. Stupid.
Can't write. Girl.
She said, "Girl, better find
a man as stupid as yourself."
"Writing. Writing?
Put that book down."
"However will we get rid of you,
I'm sure I do not know."
Miss Nice, fluttery, home-loving,
reading, eating, sleeping.
So... they found me an old fish
fop, with a moneyed mama.
Her darling father's gambling
and whores gobbled that up.
So, when her old fish fop jilts her,
a well-bred cast-off
can become a governess.
Her empire, a cloud
of vomit and baby shit.
In the evening, up to
your room, and write out
your thoughts on the soul.
Oh, what is this I hear?
It's my God-fearing, upright
employer ready to jump on me.
Keep your love, I know what
you've got at top of your legs.
I'm the biggest whore
in the Latin quarter.
I've started more books
than all the drawings
you'll do in a lifetime.
My book is about sleep.
That thick oily substance
under whose surface you float,
half dreaming, half waking...
...hidden in your hope that
the world comes through.
You cannot imagine
the ways I have evolved
to abolish myself there,
under the surface.
Half sleeping, half waking.
Leaving your worries
and your clothes asleep.
But the rent never sleeps
and time never sleeps.
If only we'd met 20 years ago.
My body's gone, see?
Scrawny, see?
Old enough to be your mother.
Soon I'll be a snaggle-toothed old hag.
And do not imagine
I mourn my lost loveliness.
From the start, I knew
my face was not my fortune.
But I was young enough
to have prospects, like you.
I'm not worth your love, boy.
Love me like love must be
and you'll loathe me soon.
You are so young.
You will be a great artist.
Keep yourself
for someone kinder.
The cabbage is burning.
Oh.
Ah, you'll like my mother.
She's wonderful.
Thought you mother lived
in the country.
That's my natural mother.
My real mother is.
The Louvre!
Oh, rubbish.
Pretentious townhouse full
of junk stolen from savages.
Art is made from art.
- That's not what you said.
- That was yesterday.
Look, you said it and don't
you dare tell me I'm wrong.
That today's art cannot be
made from anything except today.
And where do you think today
comes from? Yesterday.
Or do you see some clean break
along the line of days
stretching back
from here to Babylon?
You never say
the same thing twice.
Yes, I change.
When I lie down at night,
I lie down as if I'm going to die.
When I get up in the morning,
I get up as if I'm going to live forever.
And you expect me
to fling myself
into your arms for always?
I know your sort.
You'll be off in a week.
I will carry my love for you
wherever my mind leads me.
- Excuse me, sir.
- Ah, good day, kind sir.
In which direction lies the
newly acquired primitive head?
- That way, sir, but...
- Thank you.
But, sir, sir, sir.
Pardon me for mentioning.
- But your shirt is hanging out.
- That's all right.
Most of the people
in here are naked.
Henri, look. This is where
your mind leads you.
- Rape. Rape of the Sabine Women.
- Oh!
He's got more hanging out
than his shirt.
It's more like a wax works.
Hello, hello.
In a bit of
an artistic tizzy, are we?
I'm about to take
my hat off to the Mona Lisa.
I fully appreciate your desire take
your hat off to the Mona Lisa, sir.
I take my hat off to the
Mona Lisa at least once a day.
However, sir,
I am decently dressed.
Madam, would you take
your hand out of my trousers?
- Ah!
- One other thing, sir.
My God! My brother.
This is where it all started.
- Your voice. Sir!
- And where it'll all end.
This is after all a museum, sir.
And whilst your enthusiasm
for these eternal works
of the human spirit...
...strikes a chord
in my own heart.
We don't want
to disturb the tax payers
enjoying the benefits
of cultural democracy.
Do we, sir?
Disturb? Of course,
they should be disturbed.
Shocked into life.
This isn't a morgue.
Now, that, sir, is stone.
And a very valuable stone,
if I may say so.
And if we allow
one visitor to touch it
then everyone will be wanting
to touch it. Won't they, sir?
Art is alive.
Enjoy it.
Laugh at it.
Love it or hate it.
But don't worship it.
You will not enjoy it.
Hang it on your walls.
Wipe your asses on it.
But use it.
I'm the man who's gonna fill
this dump tomorrow.
Then I'll wait until tomorrow.
- Get off me.
- Jump that one.
Nincompoop. Never calm down.
You sprainy, rat-faced vandal!
You have no mother!
Your old man came up
against a shithouse wall.
And the sun hatched you out.
- We'll come back another day.
- No, we won't.
I'll never set foot in that
place again as long as I live.
Then I'll keep it pure and
air-conditioned
for the American tourists.
Boy, your real mother
turned out a real bitch.
Right. Let's see if my natural
mother treats us any better.
What do you mean?
I mean a few days in the country
would do us both good.
What about your parents?
I've got nothing to wear.
I don't want to go to the country.
I want to go home.
We have no home.
Henri.
Breathe, Mamelushka!
- Who is her publisher?
- Oh, she has several.
- She is internationally famous.
- She looks like a widow.
Our love is platonic.
Such quietude.
Did you have a pleasant
journey, Miss Brzeska?
I'm terrified of trains.
We find them rather convenient.
What is this place?
The estate of the
Countess of Mont-de-Masan.
We are her tenants.
It is very good
of you to have me.
I'm afraid, there's no
room for you at the house.
But we fitted out
the old dairy for you.
- Oh, well...
- We are a large family.
I need solitude.
- She's a pearl.
- Do you know her well, boy?
- Good morning.
- Intimately.
- Good morning, ma'am.
- Now, listen...
We are fused in the
mutual radiance from our souls.
Your mother is very worried.
Papa, your forbears carved
the west front
of Chartres Cathedral.
There's no need for me
to tell you about beauty.
And beauty is in her bones.
Hello, Alma.
Oww!
- Hello.
- What are you doing?
- What?
- What are you doing?
Well, I just came to see
if you had everything.
- This used to be my room.
- It's beautiful.
It has everything. Now,
just let me alone. I'm tired.
- You're tired of me?
- No. Not of you.
But - and your parents
will get into trouble
if it gets about that
you're in here at night.
Well... I'll go then.
- Goodnight.
- Goodnight, boy.
Let us plight our troth.
Yes. Let us
plight our troth.
- Are you sure?
- Yes.
Then we must give
each other something.
Something that will
last forever.
- I'll give you my name.
- I'll give you mine.
- Henri Gaudier-Brzeska.
- Sophie Gaudier-Brzeska.
- Now, I am your brother.
- I'm your sister.
You are my love.
All my life, I have
looked for such a love.
Even when you were young?
Very young.
Even then. If you can't find
love in your own family
I thought find it
in someone else's.
A good governess
is worth her weight in gold
and travel broadens the mind.
But mothers become jealous
and fathers lustful.
And then you're walking the
streets in a foreign country
with no references.
What price is love then?
Well, then you settle
for something else.
Friendship?
Companionship?
Less than that.
- Charity?
- Less even than that.
You settle for...
anything.
I came to Paris
to kill myself, boy.
But I was frightened
of the worms and the dark.
My sister.
My little sister.
My maleska.
You have found your lover.
And we will live
only for each other.
And you will do
work for everyone.
And you too.
Right. Up off
that bed, you two.
Come along now. His lordship
has something to read.
"Honored sir."
That's me.
"It is my most unpleasant duty
"to inform you that a woman
of foreign extraction
"is using the countess'
disused dairy
"for the improper
reception of men."
"As mayor of this district,
it is your duty
"to evict the said alien
"and not only from the estate
"but from the district
as a whole."
Signature illegible.
Right.
Form a queue... outside.
Youngest, first.
Go on.
Please, my son, send her away.
Stay here with us.
Vermin. Scum on lice.
Get out!
Greetings, father.
And help us find
a cheap room in London.
Oh, thank you, sir.
Thank you.
Mister.
Oh, hello.
He's for me.
Gospel, sir. See what Jesus
can do for your life.
- Dominus vobiscum.
- I'm a convent girl.
Clean as a whistle.
Tight as a drum.
Six pence for a short time.
Five bob all night long.
With a gobble at the end.
You're so nice, you could
shit chocolate bonbons.
Bless you, sister.
How's the great three-volume novel?
- There's a letter for you.
- You open it.
If you didn't read so much
perhaps you'd get
some work done, huh?
In this din?
It's not London transport...
it's the damp, or the fog,
or the right idea.
There is... only... now.
- You've got a job.
- What?
You've got a job!
Fifty-five shillings a month.
Fifty-five shillings a month?
Hey! Well,
now I have everything.
My studio, my work
every one a masterpiece
and my woman.
What more could a solid
middle-class citizen want, hah?
He wants a kiss.
Right!
What? No! No!
- Oh, stop!
- This is lovely.
What are you doing?
Stop it, boy! Sauvage!
How often do I have
to tell you I don't like sex?
You think of nothing else.
Nine cases of indecent exposure
in the papers today.
All because of women like you.
You want sex. Go and find
someone who sells it.
Right. Will you
give me the money?
Five shillings?
Woman, you're out of your mind.
Do you imagine I'm going
to allow my beautiful young body
to be clasped in the embrace
of a five-bob whore?
It's all we can afford.
Well, let's economize
and eat at home.
All right.
Bless you, holy brother!
You're hired!
Why do you do this, Mamelushka?
You know you will
blunt my love for you!
- Gaudier.
- Yeah?
Gaudier, I want you
to do this Polish invoice.
I'll do it tomorrow,
Mr. Saltzman.
I have to show my Polack sister.
Corky's looking forward
to meeting you
and your sister very much.
Gaudier, you haven't
forgotten Mr. Corky, have you?
My friend, the art dealer.
I never forget anyone,
Mr. Saltzman.
Good.
I mean... you know he's supposed
to be having supper
with both of you tonight?
Lotsky, Zavaroshky, forgotsky!
She's been at it all day,
Mr. Saltzman. All day.
Mrs. Saltzmann thanks you
very much for your drawing.
It is framed and hanging already
in the drawing room.
Courage, Mamelushka!
My boss has arranged
for me to meet with Mr. Porky.
One of the world's
most celebrated art dealers.
Offices in London,
New York and Paris.
So soon, you will be
a wealthy woman.
Meanwhile, I've written
for that job in Blandford.
They can't afford you.
You're the sister of the world's
most famous sculptor.
Supper, genius.
Of course,
I retain my simple way of life.
A great artist must reserve
his contact with the people.
Ah, the people.
Out of season watercress soup
and Afghani goat's milk?
The last of the herrings.
Keep it warm.
I've invited my important
art dealer to supper.
Tonight?
Now he tells me!
Oh, my God!
Ah, that's him!
We're rich, Mamelushka!
Start spending!
Ah, Mr. Porky, I presume.
Excuse me. Excuse me.
My name's Angus Corky.
And I am Henri Gaudier-MacBrzeska.
That's small stuff.
Soon as I've borrowed the tools,
I'm starting stone carving.
- I'll get you the tools.
- Thank you.
You like those?
Very much.
I knew it the moment I set eyes
on you. You're a genius.
Would you accept five pounds?
How much?
Five pounds?
Shakespeare!
You know,
I can't afford that much.
It's a lot of work.
I'll just take this one for now.
You mean, five pounds each?
Well, of course.
You're an idiot.
Mamelushka, allow me
to present my new art dealer.
The one with offices
in Paris and...
He has just bought one
of my drawings for five pounds.
Zoot!
Mr. Angus Porky?
I'd like to present my sister,
Sophie Gaudier-Brzeska.
The pleasure is
entirely mine, mademoiselle.
And mine to surrender,
Mr. Porky.
Mmm, delicious!
Snouts down, fellow pigs.
Do begin, please, Mr. Porky.
Oh, the kind of rare vegetables
we like are out of season.
We are poor.
- We have five pounds.
- Oh!
Oh! Oh, dear. Well, I,
well I didn't actually...
Well, I was lying
about the money.
He's my friend.
I gave him the drawings.
Well, didn't I, Porky? Yeah?
You'll have it tomorrow.
I promise you that.
Well, there.
You see?
Come, food will get cold.
Of course, he'll pay.
I know he will.
It's just
that you're so easy to cheat!
Yes, I'd rather
be cheated than cheat.
- That's not the alternative.
- Look, I'm the host here.
- I will decide what...
- So like a man... He's the host.
What does that make me?
The whore?
- Who buys the food?
- Who pays the rent?
Well, who wastes money
on stupid trinkets?
Oh, boy!
You shouldn't have.
They're for me.
For my new outfit.
The first to see
the light of day
at the exhibition
Porky has promised me.
A small thing
but guaranteed to set
the art-buying public
aflame with enthusiasm.
Zoot! A mark of a slave!
A revolutionary gesture.
I'll have to wear them.
Your ears aren't pierced.
No sooner said than done.
Hah!
Stop!
They'll think you're a pansy!
They love pansies!
You know the public.
If an artist isn't miserable,
he's nothing.
- I paint revolution!
- Boy, stop it!
See me in my barbaric splendor.
What is the essential difference
between men and women?
No!
Oh, boy! Boy! Boy!
You!
Brzeska, I surrender!
I'd like you very much
to come and have dinner with me
one of these evenings.
Naughty boy!
Make it... soon.
I surrender!
A tiger burning in the night.
A woman's body
burning in the day.
Sensual lights and shades.
But with sounds,
instead of tones.
It sounds more like Blake
than Debussy.
I don't smell tigers,
but it reeks of sex.
I see light.
One never sees anything else
with an impressionist.
I thought, it was a ballet
about homosexuality.
Oh!
Just what you'd expect
from people like Diaghilev.
They say he's had
the entire corps de ballet
boys, girls,
and all the electricians.
And you associate impressionism
with homosexuality, Mr. Brzeska?
It's a lot of cock.
Supper everyone?
- Did you read Hardy's latest?
- I read the reviews.
- Pass the salt.
- I don't read reviews.
Lice! Scumbags!
But where else would you
get your information?
- Information?
- Information?
You get about enough information
out of the reviews
to satisfy a very small,
illiterate pygmy.
True.
It's always you that's blaming me
for ignoring the papers.
Oh, fiddlesticks! It's the news,
not the views that count.
How do you distinguish?
I don't. I wipe my ass on both.
Pippa, have some more cider.
Mavis?
Mr. Shaw?
How much a year
do you make out of art?
Yes! More than Tom does
out of publishing my poor books.
You have no idea
of the overhead.
Do you include
your jewelry in that?
And when the war comes
dear Lionel,
will make even more.
And when the refugees
start to move
they'll give you a statue
for a passport.
A Michelangelo for an
American passport? It's cheap.
But if the war comes,
it'll kill the artists, too.
But not the dealers.
Tom, what a cruel thing to say!
- I love war!
- Ah!
War is good for the human soul.
The bigger the war,
the better I like it.
- He doesn't mean it.
- Oh, yes. I do.
I like what everyone likes,
and everybody likes war.
- Otherwise...
- Why is it so popular?
If I hear you
say that again, I'll...
- What?
- She will shed a pacifist tear.
Why make it all so personal?
Men always make it personal.
What do you do, Miss Brzeska?
I write.
She sings, too.
I am a writer.
And have you published anything?
Recently.
The third volume, of her nine
volume philosophical romance
has just been received
with acclaim in Moscow.
You mean three are out,
and six in typescript?
Exactly. Except, that my sister
prefers longhand.
Do you know
Polish folk melodies?
I loathe the peasants,
and their awful melodies.
She's a noble woman.
I am a communist.
Then I will cut off your head.
A song... entitled
"Melancholy Mazurka"
Translated from the Polish
by Sophie Gaudier-Brzeska.
- Beautiful.
- You, none of you like it.
You hated it.
You, yapper-faced
yobber-trapped offspring
of chimpanzees! Hah!
I liked it.
But I don't think I like you.
She thinks your breath smells.
I wonder, how she distinguishes
it from your... feet?
Tell me, what is your
favorite medium, Mr. Brzeskit?
Brzeska. Stone.
- Granite?
- No, marble.
But you could carve... granite?
Well, naturally.
But, you've used marble
a great deal?
My brother carves
in most stones, Mr. Shaw.
Sophie.
Marble is my favorite.
Sophie, help me
with the coffee, would you?
Excuse me.
Shaw's gonna pin him down,
if we're not very careful.
How?
He's gonna ask to see
one of his non-existent stones.
I'll see him on his way.
Do you sculpt from life?
Life, death,
all part of the job.
Henri, we must go.
Actually, I have just finished
a torso in marble.
Neoclassic style.
I'll model for you.
That is, if you'd like me to.
He would be delighted.
Oh, I'm so tired. I must go.
Henri, we will miss
the last bus.
Oh, sit down.
I'm eating my pudding.
That new piece you mentioned
the neoclassical torso.
- May I come and see it?
- Gladly.
When?
At eight tomorrow.
- Alas, I'm going to the theater.
- 8 a.m.?
Make it nine.
Done.
Mr. Corky will give you
my studio address.
Bye, all.
Oh, boy,
you've done it this time.
Bye.
Well, isn't
Corky's sculptor divine?
Yes. Let's hope
his talent will mature.
We'll see.
It's easier to become
the prime minister of this country
than be one of its artists.
But I can't stand her.
The sooner she goes, the better.
Hear, hear.
You must come again.
Corky! Come on!
Oh, sorry, madam, wrong window.
Hey, come on, we've got
to get Shaw's stone.
And bring those tools,
you promised.
All the shops are shut.
- Debrovsky, Pukovsky.
- Come on!
Sophie?
Sophie?
Is this any good?
Too much grain.
Do wish you'd make up your mind.
Oh, we're too near
the main road.
Henri? Henri?
Oh, come on, don't play games.
We're not buying vegetables,
you know.
Choosing the right stone
is a creative act.
Michelangelo used to spend
six months
in his favorite quarry,
before picking a piece.
You loathe Michelangelo!
Oh, I have to admit
he's getting better.
- Getting better all the time.
- Eureka!
This is it.
Come on, quick.
You will be cursed
by Edward Timothy West!
Nonsense!
I'll be blessed
for taking a load of his chest.
Oh, for God's sake!
Oh, it's hardly the place
to mention Him.
I'm wet through.
Think of the Jews
crossing the Red Sea.
I'm not Jewish!
Please, Gaudier,
can't we stop for tea?
No resting!
What time is it?
It must be three.
Six hours to go then.
Shaw won't come, Gaudier.
I know him.
He never leaves his gallery
before lunch.
He will! He'll come!
He'll have his stone!
Nine o'clock. On the dot.
Excellent tea, Sophie.
It's nice to be appreciated.
Right.
I'll tell you a story.
Oh, I hope
I haven't heard it before.
A man was walking
across the field one day.
And he came across
a little bird.
So young... it couldn't fly.
Oh, how sweet.
In fact, unless,
he did something about it
the little bird would die.
Nearby, there was
a newly laid cow puddle
big, rich and steaming.
So, he picked the little bird up
made a hole in the cow puddle
and popped the little bird in.
After a while,
what with the cozy warmth,
not to mention
the delectable aroma,
the little bird perked up
and began to chirrup.
Cheep, cheep, cheep.
A fox was walking
along the ditch.
He heard the little bird
chirruping away
comes over to see
what's going on
and scrunch.
Ah!
Bites off its head.
And the moral is...
...it's not always your enemies,
who drop you in the shit
and not always your friends,
who get you out.
But when you're in it,
keep your mouth shut.
I want some sleep.
Aah, what a pity.
Why don't you go
and find a nice park bench, then?
Go on, it's only
a couple of minutes.
Your admirer,
Mr. Porky, will take you.
All right.
I am contemptible, Mamelushkina.
My darling soul.
My free one.
My life outside my life.
My permanent reminder
of splendor.
My soft voice.
My happiest when sad.
Not you, Corkums, my love.
I need you still.
Put the chisels in the stove...
and stoke up.
Oh, God!
I'm so tired!
You know the
kind of work I like?
Where every blow is a good one.
Where you know the man could
see the thing he wants in the stone
before he opens the stone.
Chisel.
No messing about.
You ask your carpenter.
And yet, and yet, unless,
you let the stone influence you.
Unless, you let it,
to quite a large extent
lead you in, you're lost.
Every blow must be a true one.
Every blow is a risk.
You take your whole life
in your hands.
You can always tell
a bad artist, like a bad doctor,
by the fact he tries to
surround his work
with some sort of hocus-pocus.
Sure, there's a mystery.
But it's as much a mystery
to the one who's doing it
as to the one
who's looking at it.
Exactly the same!
I need an audience.
Theres no such thing as an artist
who doesn't need an audience.
Well, maybe there is.
But in that case, he's a saint
as well as an artist.
And a saint first.
You take Cezanne.
Bad-tempered bugger.
Now, he was a saint.
Paint, paint, paint,
all bloody day long.
And sells nothing.
But what does he care?
His father was a banker.
You buy
some of this stuff, Corkums.
Keep us all in luxury
when we're old and gray
and sick of sleep.
But, by and large, itd be wrong to
be taken in by the solitary genius stuff.
Of course, I do it
because it pleases me.
There's nothing wrong with that.
If it doesn't give me
a lot doing it
how the hell is it gonna
give anything to anybody else?
That's the mystery, Corkums.
Why anybody else wants to look
at the work someone like me does
and give good money for it,
is amazing.
Why don't they
just do their own?
I'm not interested
in somebody else's work
unless I can steal from it.
Unless it gives me
something I can use.
And yet, if there isn't
somebody there to see it
then... zoot.
As my divine sister would say,
it's just a lump of stone.
Put St. Paul's Cathedral
in a cardboard box
and what have you got?
A heavy box.
Off to work, good citizens.
Go and buy a boiled egg.
Oh, you've never done
an honest day's work
in your life.
Now, my little sexy darling.
Just a bit more
off the shoulder.
File on your titty.
Thought he could catch us out, heh?
Mr. Bronsky?
- What number?
- Twenty-five.
Are you Mr. Bronsky, mister?
I am Bronsky, the world's
most famous brain surgeon.
Telegram.
Read it out.
"Desolate."
"Just remembered prior
appointment in the gallery."
"Do call. Shaw."
Oh, no!
Let me go!
I'm a hooligan.
I don't deserve my liberty.
Let me into this cell immedi...
Out!
Oh, stop it, boy!
Shaw has withdrawn the charges.
Corky's paid for the window.
As a down payment on the statue.
What right have you got
to pay for the window?
I insist on repaying you.
As your agent, I've got a right
to sell your work
to whoever I choose.
Myself included.
You're cheating a man
out of his punishment!
You did it because you like me,
not because you like my work!
If I get away with my...
he gets minimized.
You people make me sick!
I don't want to get off!
If I get off, it means,
I didn't do anything.
I did it!
I'm glad I did it!
You will be deported, boy.
Please, let's forget it.
I must go, Corky.
I get no rest with Henri.
But, do you really want
to be a governess, again?
Yes. I shall have time
to do my own work.
We're nearly at the end
of my savings.
Henri's wages go nowhere
with all those materials.
- They just eat up the money.
- Sophie, please, let me...
Don't be silly.
But it is good of
you to pay for the cab.
Anyway, I want to go.
I love him, but I want to go.
I must have my life to myself
for a few months.
- Yes.
- Look after him, Corky.
Sorry I can't see
you off at the station.
- Bye, boy.
- I must find some work today.
- Sorry about your job.
- Don't worry about it. It was no good, anyway.
Oh, he'll soon find another one.
- You will write?
- Take her to Paddington.
- Yes, of course, I will.
- Keep the change.
- Here you are.
Oh, boy!
Goodbye!
- I'm sorry.
- It's all right, Mamelushka, I do love solitude.
Bye.
Fre-e-e! Come on, Corky.
Let's find some women.
- Well, we could go see Mavis Coldstream.
- Really fantastic women.
Big, fleshy,
sexy, breasty, maneat...
Excuse me.
Could I have a light, please?
Yes, of course.
- What the...
- Wait there.
Votes for women!
Votes for women!
- My God! Look at that! Come on, Corky.
- Aah!
Give us your hat.
A contribution, sir.
Just a few pence.
Your wife will be proud...
- She ought to be horse whipped.
- I dispute that, sir!
Someone who provides a little
public warmth on a cold night
like this, can't be all bad.
Come along, ladies!
Nows the time!
- Join the group, men.
- Yes! Yes!
Seize the day, we want it, now.
- Seize the day!
- Votes for women!
Come on, Corky. She's our man.
After her.
Evening, Miss Boyle.
"The Vortex,"
Shaw's new nightclub!
Come on then, she may need help.
One moment, gentlemen, please.
May I see your membership card?
Old masters exploit
young mistresses!
There she is, Corky.
She must be fireproof.
- Show us your knickers!
- Shut up!
- Who's that?
- Gosh, isn't she gorgeous?
- Gosh, that's ejaculation.
- She's certainly worth one.
More!
Take your clothes off, Gosh!
You've got a great ass!
It's red hot!
Oh, no!
Well, now, if our
priapic fellow European
has discharged
his creative impetus...
I can't read!
How can I understand you?
- Shut up and grow up.
- Thank you for your song, Gosh.
Don't go slashing too many pictures.
One day, you may destroy a good one.
By accident...
In a moment,
Miss Gosh will sound off
a serious blast
on behalf of the women...
- Get on with it!
- Women Suffrage Movement.
Yes, the Women
Suffrage Movement.
Give her the vote
and take off her knickers!
Do sit down.
Of course, we had hoped
to follow this
by having a quick sketch
by Pablo Picasso.
Never heard of him!
However, it being Monday,
he's having his drawing.
You're lucky.
I'm here to replace him.
A poem, by the new genius
of the planet earth.
Concrete
by Henri Gaudier-Brzeska.
Play the Maestro's March.
My assistant, Miss, ah, Gosh?
- Gosh Boyle.
- Miss Gosh Boyle.
Take your clothes off
or we're sunk.
One, two.
- That's it.
- Thank you! Thank you!
Long live free expression.
Damn. I've just thought
of a much dirtier song.
Oh, no, don't worry about them.
I know something
much better we can do.
What?
Blow up the Royal Academy
of Art!
As I am coming down this weekend,
I'll bring the grammar book
instead of sending it
with Rappals.
Since your landlady
does not permit male visitors
let's meet at Portland,
which is about halfway
and, as I'm told,
has excellent sea bathing.
I will arrive on
the 222 from Waterloo.
The train arriving at platform
4, is the 222 from London.
Stopping at Lyme Regis,
Weymouth and Exeter.
Mamelushka!
Mamelushka!
I caught an early train,
and it didn't stop
so I had to jump out. Ah!
Train!
Boy! Boy, stop it!
Train! Come up!
Come up!
Please! Look out, please!
Oh!
- Above all, Mamelushka, we must keep calm.
- Yes.
- We mustn't upset each other.
- We must be tranquil.
I'll do exactly as you say.
Oh, these are from Corky,
and these are from me.
- Boy.
- Come on.
I would like a room for two,
in which I could also stew
some herrings for my brother.
Sorry, lady, our helper forgot
to turn the sign around.
Oh, what is this?
St. Moritz or something?
In the middle of winter, suddenly
there are no vacancies?
Come on, Mamelushka, I want to see the sea.
- I haven't seen the sea for 30 years.
- Oh, wait a minute.
Please, do you have some chambers
for my brother and myself
in which I could also stew
some herrin...
Oh, bugger the herrings.
Which way is the sea?
Down the lane, over there.
Oh.
Thank you. Henri, wait for me.
Come back, boy. We've got
to find somewhere to stay.
Later. We've wasted
enough of the day as it is.
What about the night?
You're always looking
on the dark side.
Oh, boy, wait for me.
I shall be lost, ah!
Bastard!
Bastard.
Bloody herrings.
Oh, bloody, bloody herrings.
Whoo!
The child is a snotty-nose,
spoilt brat. Hates me.
The locals come out of their holes
to stare at me when I go by.
Ugly like-like,
pigs filled up with beer.
They think I'm an easy
foreigner. Sex maniacs.
They make me sick,
give me a pain in the chest.
The-the cook told me the last
governess died of consumption.
So I bought buckets of water,
scrubbed out the entire room
every week.
To write is impossible.
A great white moon shining
on me, menacing, horrible.
- You can always come home.
- Soon, boy, soon.
Battling with the weathercocks.
Oh, why did we choose
this shortcut?
Listen, I've got something
to tell you. You listening?
Yes, I'm listening,
just because my eyes are shut
it doesn't mean,
I'm not listening.
Corky really is gonna
give me that exhibition.
- He is?
- Yes.
Oh, boy! I'm so
happy for you.
It'll be a huge success.
Thousands will attend
and I shall cover
the floor with drawings.
- They'll be ruined.
- Only the bad ones.
It's gonna be my world.
Oh, I so want you to be mine.
Oh, and you will write
the catalogue notes.
- Corky, better do that.
- No.
- I've never done such a thing.
- You're the writer, aren't you?
My God. Look at that.
Enough stone
for at least a fortnight!
Now, I feel it.
I love this stone.
Great Father Sun!
Behold your children
in their delight.
Dance, Sophie, dance!
We must stay here forever, Mamelushka.
We'll live in a hut.
We'll have the exhibition here.
The customers can float away
their statues in boats.
A fleet of Gaudiers,
stretching to the far horizon.
- Just imagine.
- I can do it.
- I'll find a studio then.
- I know I can do it.
It will be no ordinary catalogue.
It will be a poem. A hymn.
To truth.
And beauty!
Oh, boy, I'm so happy!
- Your beautiful home.
- It's good!
And it is beautiful.
And it's quiet.
- And holy.
- Oh.
Oh, I love you, Sophie,
I love you.
I'm sorry if I hurt you.
I'm only cruel
because I'm afraid.
I'm afraid you might leave me.
I get-I get afraid,
you don't love me.
But you do love me. You do.
I do. Of course, I do.
I love you.
Oh, my love.
My love, my only love.
No, no, we mustn't.
Oh, I'm sorry,
I'm so sorry, I'm mad.
- Why?
- After this exhibition
you'll be famous.
You'll be rich.
- And if you still...
- That'll make no difference.
We'll see, we'll see.
If you still love me, well then,
then maybe we'll get married.
Come on, it's getting dark.
Oh, where did I put my bag?
Did you see it?
I was dancing.
Oh, I put it near this rock.
Oh, where is it?
Oh, where is it?
Oh, God.
- Do you think, I'm beautiful?
- You'll do.
- Sexy?
- Sexy?
I thought that was a dirty word
to you suffragettes.
I'm bored with politics.
- I want to be an artist.
- Excellent.
The world needs more artists,
and fewer politicians.
You know, all my
lovers are poets.
Can I show you some of my poems?
Show them to my sister,
when she comes back.
She knows,
all there is to know...
Why are you always
talking about your sister?
I hope she never comes back.
I get fed up with hearing about your sister.
Are you looking forward
to sculpting daddy?
I'm looking forward
to his money.
Why else would I lug a hundred
weight of clay over here?
Could you give me
sculpture lessons?
Lesson one. If you
want to be a sculptress
you better stop sleeping
around with poets.
Get to know a few quarrymen.
You get a much better
ride out of it, anyway.
I don't care what I do
so long as it's creative.
I want to leave something behind
me that was never there before.
Lavatory's outside.
Oh, I get so bored!
You know,
my astrologer says that
Virgo's are subject
to cosmic boredom.
I know, I should dance
naked at your exhibition.
I shall dance
to the spirit of nature.
Ke-e-e, yeah!
Vok-chu!
Ka-a-ah!
R-rah, tu, ah.
Do you think,
animals have souls?
You know, daddy thinks
Hannibal is almost human.
Attention.
He has the makings of
a first-class general.
I'm coming back
to your place tonight.
- Hello, daddy.
- Good morning, miss.
Good morning, sir.
I'm glad to see you're punctual.
Give him the
measurements, Brown.
Sir!
They are accurate.
I got them from my tailor.
Daddy, Mr. Brzeska
is an artist.
He looks very poor
for an artist.
That's why I'm so cheap.
Do you want me to keep still?
No, you ride where
you like, Major.
I'll sculpt you just as
you are. Horse shit and all.
If it doesn't look like me,
you won't be paid.
And if you see yourself anew,
I'll get more.
I hope you're not going to have a lot
of waffle about artistic insight.
We're not here
to make your reputation
but a regimental souvenir.
Something recognizable
to the naked eye
of a well-trained fighter
at a distance of 40 paces.
What you need is a photographer.
Frankly, I'd have preferred it.
Quicker and cleaner.
I should warn you, Major Boyle.
- I charge by the cubic inch.
- Hmm.
Maybe, I'll have a
head and shoulders only.
Half the regiment
would like to do that.
When's the war starting?
First week in August
would be a good time.
- Have you got that nose right?
- Do you think we'll win?
Hard to say.
By the look of some of
our recruits, I'd reckon on
us taking a hiding at first.
I'm sure you're making
that nose too long.
It'll shrink.
They tell me some young men today
would rather go to jail than to war.
Yes. It's all that
education that's about.
It's too many fancy ideals.
Like art and so forth.
Art never won a war, laddie.
And there is no higher ideal
than patriotism.
Where are all the brave
young men of yesterday?
Dead.
You'd die for your country?
You're right, you know,
this nose is too long.
- Would you?
- Definitely.
I give you my solemn assurance
in less than a year
this country will be at war.
People like him
would be put into prison.
Prisons are full of them
already. Better kill them.
Yes.
And then say it was
in the stars. In there.
You don't live
in that hole, do you?
I know, what they mean
when they say...
Oh, why bother with that
when you can have naked me?
If we live in an age of beggars,
then we must draw beggars.
No more starvation wages!
Put some tea on.
God, what a barn!
Good afternoon, Madame.
Can I help you?
Oh, I didn't know
he had a servant.
Ah, yes, I'll have
some tea, please.
Certainly, Madame.
- Indian or China?
- Indian with a dash of China.
Has Madame made an appointment?
To see some drawings, perhaps.
Oh, no, I'm his model.
Ah! Oh, no.
- Pardon, mademoiselle.
- You stupid bitch
I'll have to speak
to your master about you.
Oh, It's me.
Sorry to disappoint you.
- I should have sent a telegram.
- Hello.
Oh, is that all
you've got to say?
Have you got a cigarette?
Oh, my God.
I didn't realize.
Yes. Here you are, darling.
Thank you, darling.
Darling, is it?
Well, don't let me interfere.
Act as though I wasn't here.
I'll just continue
cleaning up the pig sty.
None of that, boy.
Save that for your
so-called model.
Take no notice of me.
- There.
- Right.
Gosh, show us some more of those
tricks you picked up
on the Left Bank.
I've got the time, darling,
if you've got the energy.
- Loose pussy.
- Foreign bull.
You don't mind foreign bull then
when it's got a cock, do you?
What do you know
about men?
I've had more men
than you've had free dinners.
You simple-minded,
petty bourgeois.
You couldn't tell a man from a pumk...
Any minute now,
you'll be screaming.
Never darken my door again.
And all the other various cries
of a confirmed property owner.
You? An artist?
You've had the wrong
sort of education.
You're educated, and that means
you're sunk.
Deary.
Why don't you go
back to the country?
Find yourself
a soulful old ploughman.
Somebody more your own age.
Someone you can sit
in communion of spirit with.
In front of an attractive dunghill.
You can't help Gaudier.
You just want him to fail.
Like you!
When you come to your senses,
I shall be at daddy's.
Mamelushka.
You haven't changed.
Oh boy.
It's so good to be back.
Hold me. Hold me. Hold me.
Mamelushka. Mamelushka.
Mamelushka.
I don't wanna hear
any more about it!
You knew full well
we can't afford two rooms.
We've lived together before
so why not now?
It's only two minutes away.
Two minutes? Two million,
zillion, trillion light years.
What's the difference?
You want your own room?
Have your own room.
I can't live
with all that noise.
Damn noise.
It's that exhibition.
I almost wish Porky'd
never suggested it.
Don't forget your promise.
You'll get your catalogue.
You said we'd get married
after the exhibition.
I said no such thing.
I said we'd see.
You promised.
We'll see.
I said we'll see.
Henri.
Isn't it wonderful?
There. Designed
the handbag myself.
I'm glad you found
a creative outlet.
- Well, when are you going?
- Where?
Where everyone's going, silly.
The front of course.
Do you fancy
the French Dragoons?
Oh, I say, daddy knows the man
who's in charge
of the Artist Rifles.
He'll get you a commission
if you like.
- Well?
- Well?
Well, who do you wanna go with?
I'm staying.
With these birds!
Where on earth would I see
a bird like that?
The same place you see
yourself bandaging
the slightly wounded brow
of some handsome young officer.
With star shells illuminating
your dazzling new war outfit.
- What are you going to do?
- This. Now, bugger off.
You ill-bred, treacherous savage.
How many of the enemy
do you think
that sort of rubbish
is going to kill?
Well, it can break your head open
for a start.
Well, I'm not the enemy, am I?
People who are always talking
about enemies are my enemies.
Ooh, listen to the Messiah.
The Kaiser was quite right
to burn those paintings
by that dago, Picasso.
You so-called "modern artists."
Just a lot of
degenerate cowards.
Ooh, yes.
We'll soon have enough
for a really beautiful show
around Christmas.
It'll all be over by Christmas.
And, uh,
...how do I catalogue
exhibit number 52?
You christen this one.
All right.
How about "Trench Mortar
Firing a Grenade"?
No.
"Bird Swallowing a Fish."
How are your parents? Safe?
As yet.
You'll never guess.
Augustus John
has just signed up.
I thought he was
a pacifist painter.
No. He's an official war artist.
No fighting. But a...
...a full commission,
a paint brush
and a king's uniform.
Hypocrite.
And no one thinks
any the worse of him.
Look, my effort is just
as important as the war effort.
Anyway, when are you going?
Unfortunately, I've got
a weak bladder.
Then piss off.
What happens to all this
so-called art
when it's sold
at the exhibition?
Goes into the houses
of the rich.
Nobody sees it for 200 years.
Or it's sold abroad.
How's your new room?
All right.
So a parasite who feeds off
a parasite can always say
he's working to kill his host.
I am not a parasite.
I put something
back into the pot.
You amuse the educated.
Nothing else.
I'm ignorant. How can I amuse
clever people?
That's the function
of the mediocre.
What I do will help people.
I am responsible,
and I don't care what they say.
Things are beautiful,
and that helps.
Definitely.
It helps.
...Reims Cathedral in flames.
Big German push.
Allied retreat on all fronts.
Extra. All the latest.
Paris threatened.
Paris threatened.
Star News Standard.
All the latest.
Big German advances.
Reims Cathedral in flames.
Hey, Mamelushka.
Mamelushka!
Let me in. I want to make
an honest woman of you.
Go away, boy.
Go away, boy. I'm tired
of your tricks.
Let's get married, Mamelushka.
I'm going away to fight.
Oh, stop all this nonsense.
Go home to bed.
We'll get married after
the exhibition like I said.
Courage, Mamelushka.
Dearest Henri...
...you were joking I thought,
when you said
you were going to fight.
I wanted to call after you
but you were gone.
I will marry you
after the exhibition
as I said.
Of course, I love you.
I always have.
Take care of yourself.
Sophie.
"I'm not at all bored
in the trenches."
"I'm doing some little pieces
of sculpture."
"Few days ago I did a small
maternity statue
"out of the butt-end
of a German rifle."
"It's magnificent walnut,
but I managed to cut it
"quite successfully
with an ordinary knife."
That's a saleable item.
"In the last 12 days,
I have succeeded
"in making the enemy angry."
"We were only 50 yards off,
and I got a bugle to blow
"false alarms."
Still blowing his own trumpet.
"Then I insulted them,
and went out of the trench
"with a French newspaper."
"A German came out to meet me
"and gave me
the Hannover Zeitung
"in exchange.
It was very amusing."
"But I profited
by the excursion
"to discover an outpost
on which
"I directed our artillery."
"At three p.m., four big shells fell on it."
"And twenty chaps in it
went up to heaven."
"I like the war.
I'm in lots of action."
"Each night we go out
and kill Germans."
"I have killed
at least four myself."
"When the shells go off
it reminds me of thunder."
"And I look up and say,
"father."
Whoever wrote
that should be shot.
He was.
Last Thursday.