The consumer price index went up 0% in the month of June.
The Treasury Department is optimistic
about reaching a 5% rate of inflation.
Government spokesman Javier Solana says statements made by Minister Barrionuevo
were misinterpreted.
Overstepping the limits of the Constitution
in the fight against terrorism was never an issue.
Gerardo Iglesias proposed general guidelines
for the 12th Congress of the Spanish Communist Party
to the central committee.
All topics except the party's Marxist Communist revolutionary nature
will be open for debate.
The Supreme Council on Military Justice will review the sentences
of the remaining prisoners involved in the coup attempt.
Some could receive shortened sentences
in the next few months.
The State Council of the Democratic Republic of Germany
has decreed a general amnesty and eliminated the death penalty,
an unprecedented move in Eastern European countries.
This afternoon a forest fire
has spread at least 6 kilometers between Valencia and Castell�n.
Strong winds have complicated efforts to put it out.
Jesus Gil y Gil, the man of the hour.
Cambio 16 reveals the character o pain is new soccer messiah.
Read Cambio 16.
And now, The Hunter's Corner.
Already half past
It was 25 C at 9 in the morning.
It's gonna be so hot the was baskets melt.
Don't be so poetic, it'll rub off on me
and my article will be too lyrical and it'll depress all the widows.
Yes, sir. That's right.
Stick to the waiter bullshit, I'll handle the columnist bullshit.
Like we usually do.
That's right.
You crossed the cafe like a gazelle.
Totally out of place among all this vulgarity.
So it's true you always write here.
Not always.
Always is a dangerous word, don't you think?
I don't know.
Words that appear to force you into something are always a lie.
Words don't force anyone.
Never trust words. They seem like a chain,
but they break just like that. I won't.
Order something, I'll be done in a second.
Coca-Cola. Right away.
Can I.
On Monday.
Writing two days before doesn't scare you?
Before, Franco could die.
Now, they could kill the Pope and nothing would change.
As long as the banks open.
In '81, when Sudrez resigned,
I wrote an article about how he parted his hair.
Remember? It was perfect.
I said the part never moved because it was afraid of getting
fired or killed or who knows what it was so afraid of.
You think I changed the article when I heard he resigned?
The editor called me.
Change the article, we'll give you more space.
It's fine as it is. And that's how it stayed.
Years later Sudrez himself told me.
When I quit,
the article that struck me most was yours, Miguel.
The one about my hair.
I guess I'm the only one who didn't stab him in the back with an obituary.
Did you two get along?
When you write in the papers every day for 25 years,
you don't even get along with your shadow.
People put up with you, period.
Can I steal a sip?
Dr. Bram�n says Coca-Cola is off limits.
Coca-Cola, coffee, tobacco and whisky.
I see you don't listen to him.
That way when I die the blame will be spread.
That's a good ending.
Of course.
A good ending.
The doctor says Coca-Cola is off limits,
but he didn't say anything
about girls who drink
Coca-Cola.
Are you talking about me?
I only talk about myself. Even when I talk about other people.
Did you bring it?
What is this?
A balance sheet?
It's a copy. I have to turn it in in September.
What have you done with me?
An obituary? I don't know.
As long as I pass.
I don't get why he failed you.
Don't teachers automatically pass beautiful students anymore?
We live in decadent times.
I never went to class. He's a jerk.
Then that's why he failed you. For not going to his class.
I'd have done the same thing.
Seeing your desk empty made the old man
melancholic. He's not so old.
He would read his pathetic journalism handbook out loud.
Nobody ended up going.
Journalism professors.
Can you teach a dog how to be a dog?
How many classes do you have to make up?
Two.
I left everything for September.
This is too long.
Too long.
Newspapers don't like things too long.
They want shorter stuff.
They call them pills. Pills cure everything now.
I wasn't going to publish it.
You're too far, sit over here.
These things I say are totally uninteresting.
Why do you want to know how to write an article or a novel,
if someone goes to bed late or writes at home or in a cafe?
Like there's some secret formula you can steal in a half an hour interview.
No, the secret is giving it everything you've got.
Behind the ironic, foul-mouthed exterior,
there's a little boy.
Maybe an awful boy, but still a boy,
who writes like he talks because he writes as much as he talks.
You're copying my style, it's not your voice.
If you interviewed Felipe Gonzdlez,
would you write it with an Andalusian accent?
You don't need a uniform
to interview a soccer player.
You don't even need to know about soccer.
Don't let it infect you. A writer isn't a chameleon.
These are all cliches, they're worthless.
You're pinching.
Writing should stab, not pinch.
I like this better.
My glasses don't protect me from other people's gazes,
they protect others from my gaze.
I like it.
But don't yours do the same? With that folk singer look...
How we look isn't something we create for others,
like stylists and imbeciles say.
How we look is our bamcade.
We take cover behind it, holding the fort.
You are obviously talented.
This is like being a movie actor.
There's no point if the camera doesn't love you.
The camera clearly loves you.
Can I keep it?
Sure.
Are you in a hurry?
No.
Are they waiting for you at home for lunch?
No, it doesn't matter.
It does for me, but I can be late.
Or not even go.
Check my right pocket.
Don't look for any photos of kids.
The point of an ID card is to remind us what assholes we are.
Ever seen anyone who doesn't look like an asshole
in their ID card?
Rodriguez.
Yes, I use a stage name, like Sara Montiel.
It's expired.
I can't agree more.
Doctor's orders.
No, amphetamines. I'd offer you one, but I don't
corrupt young girls.
In the other one.
The keys to my friend's studio.
He's a painter.
He's in the mountains, avoiding the heat.
I asked him for them before I called you.
Then I tried my luck.
I was surprised you called me.
Were you really?
I didn't think you'd want to read what I wrote after the interview.
I didn't call you to read what you'd written.
What interested me was you.
Did I call too late?
We were having dinner.
I didn't tell my parents who you were.
Can I have an autograph?
For Sonia.
I read you every day. I love your articles.
I don't write to be read,
I write to be paid.
Thank you.
What does it say?
For Sonia, who has lousy timing. Warm regards.
Thanks.
Well then?
I don't know.
I can't stand people looking at us and interrupting us.
I want to spend the next two hours with you without anybody getting in the way.
I just want to get to know you better.
And you to get to know me.
Isn't that what you wanted when you asked me for the interview?
Take the keys and wait for me at the door.
Wipe that smirk off your face and celebrate a comrade's success
like a good Communist. I'll need the whisky bottle.
Save my typewriter and give the article to the messenger from the paper
when he comes at two. Okay.
Use this to drown the envy
and resentment
corroding you.
Thank you, sir. You're welcome.
I love your sandals. It's like they're applauding me.
Your doctor didn't mention climbing too many stairs
If my doctor were here,
he'd say you're the medicine that cures everything.
Inserting a key is sort of like fornicating, don't you think?
I don't know.
Very feminine, snooping around like that.
Are we here to see paintings?
Is he good?
He's my friend.
Careful, you'll step on it. He likes that.
He says paintings should be stained.
Just like literature.
People who protect their work from living material have got it all wrong.
The stain is the interesting part.
And the scars.
It's past Coca-Cola time.
On an empty stomach... - It's better that way, trust me.
It tastes like caramel.
I've always been jealous of painters.
Because they don't need
words.
But if you use words right...
But you can't smell them or touch them.
That's why I hate museums,
they don't let you touch and the paintings don't smell anymore.
It would have been beautiful to smell Las Meninas
recently painted.
Good painters...
They find a form that is at the service of an idea.
Literature struggles to tell in words what can't be expressed in words.
It gives emotions a name like a scientist
names an illness.
But..
how.
How can you tell this,
for example
There are...
There are too many glasses between us.
And what you see is much less interesting than what I see.
I've lost interest in kissing,
actually. It's great when you're a teenager,
when kissing someone feels like you reached the top of a mountain.
Later kissing feels like a formality, like filling out paperwork.
You can't wait to sign and move on.
Maybe there's a limited number of kisses a person can enjoy.
Yes, maybe.
I must be down to...
my last handful.
Come.
I'd like you to take off your clothes for me.
It doesn't have to be erotic.
Make it something artistic, like a gift.
That's it. A gift that will allow me
to appreciate your beauty.
I'll stay right here.
I won't move, I'll just watch.
Like I'm taking a stroll through the Prado Museum.
I won't get naked.
I got naked for you.
You came to take everything from me.
Let me take something from you, even if it's just your clothes.
You wanted to meet me,
thinking.
What can this guy teach me?
Maybe I can squeeze something more out of him.
More than what I've squeezed out of myself over the years.
But you wanted to see if there was anything left for you.
I think I've been pretty faithful to my caricature.
This is what I am.
Were you expecting something else?
Were you expecting something else when you agreed to come here?
When you came up those stairs?
Did you think I wouldn't ask you to sleep with me?
That I wouldn't ask you to take off your clothes?
Please, being predictable should be an obligation.
I just wanted to meet you, listen to you speak.
You've met me, I'm speaking.
I admire you as a writer.
Forgive me if I prefer to admire something more physical about you,
something more palpable than your talent.
I'm sure you're talented, but I've met
plenty of talented people.
And seeing a new body
is something you never get tired of.
Unfortunately we don't have all day.
I'd better be going. No.
That wouldn't be better.
But I understand.
I've always tried to catch with my net
the biggest fish life has to offer.
But my net is old now,
and broken.
And the fish, even the ones I don't care about,
escape through the holes.
Some day you might know what this feels like.
As a writer or as a person.
If you do, I'd like you to remember today
with a forgiving smile.
At least he tried, you'll say.
Before...
when something important happened to me, I'd rush off to write about it.
Now I'd happily stop writing if only something would happen to me.
What gets me most is that nothing will happen here today.
I'm sorry. That's okay.
I should have known the moment I saw your jeans.
Jeans were invented to not be taken off all day
To take the horse to the stable and run cattle in the valley.
In movies cowboys even sleep in their jeans.
They're no good for a striptease.
That's why they carry their guns on the outside.
I'm applauding on the inside.
A little music would help.
No, music gets in the way.
In movies it's like a traffic signal
for the audience.
So they know when to cry, when to be scared...
I know exactly
how I'm supposed to feel right now.
The gorilla has awaken.
Thanks to you.
Coming?
I'll go wash it off.
Don't move.
You're crazy, you know that?
The gorilla fell asleep again.
It's freezing!
I hate cold water. It reminds me of my childhood.
I think I'm gonna die.
The gorilla won't survive this.
I'm leaving.
Don't be angry.
Leave, now.
Yeah, I feel a little strange here.
That's...
That's worse than a cold shower.
It won't open.
It won't open...
Here, let me.
You're kidding me.
How absurd.
Why did you close it?
How should I know? Doors are meant to be closed?
And opened. It has to open.
Let me.
Is it stuck?
God damn it.
It's stuck.
Yeah, I know.
Come on, help me.
Let's see.
Okay, take it easy.
One, two and three!
There's no way. Give me a minute.
Hold on a second.
Hold on a second...
it'll open...
One second, let me...
What's so funny?
I don't know.
It's ridiculous.
I know it's ridiculous.
You don't have to tell me.
Try calling your friend.
Sure.
Go ahead, pass me the phone.
Hello?
Is anybody there?
We're locked in here! What are you doing?
Somebody has to open the door. You'll cause a scandal.
What scandal? Somebody will hear us.
What do we tell them?
To open the door.
And call the fire department.
Hold on.
There must be a less scandalous option.
Let's see.
Are you hurt?
Let's just say I don't kick doors down-
very often. Yeah, I can see that.
This is absolutely insane.
Luis won't be back to paint until Monday.
Two days locked in here.
When I don't show up later my wife will get nervous
but until tomorrow I don't think...
she'll call the police.
My parents will worry a lot sooner.
Do they know you're with me?
That won't happen.
We'll get out of here before.
We'll get out of here.
Neighbors!
Is anybody out there?
We're in apartment 3D! - Is
Neighbors!
Can anybody hear me?
Neighbors!
I can't believe there's nobody out there.
Neighbors!
Can anybody hear me?
Somebody will come.
Is this the only towel we have?
Here.
Friends, Romans, countrymen.
Lend me your ears.
Brutus says...
What would Shakespeare do?
Two people who want to be together isn't the same thing
as two people forced to be together.
That detail completely changes the plot.
Would it be a comedy or a tragedy? What do you think?
Until my parents find me, a comedy.
And after that?
A tragedy with murders.
Parents nowadays aren't like they used to be.
My dad is.
What does he do?
He's in the military.
You're kidding. He even has a gun!
What branch?
He's Lieutenant Colonel of the Madrid Command.
What's his name?
Soriano Castroviejo.
Serafin Soriano Castroviejo is your father?
Then you're Isabel's sister.
How many years between you?
She's my elder sister.
Eight siblings. Eight...
She's 17 years older than me.
I met your sister when she was in the acting group.
They were dying for me to write about them.
She was a great girl.
And she was hot.
I never got to fuck her, but I really liked her.
That black hair...
We're totally different.
Yeah, in that you and I probably won't fuck either.
Your dad was a real fascist back then.
The type who reached for his gun if he heard the word democracy.
I had a couple military trials
for two articles.
One in the early 70's, the other after Franco died.
For offending the military.
You wouldn't remember, you were just a kid.
I remember Tejero. That was yesterday.
I went through my paranoid phase years ago.
I had some government agents who followed me at times.
They messed with me, you know,
warnings to let you know you were under surveillance.
I was terrified, what nonsense... I fucked a transvestite.
I don't know.
I thought they'd sell it to a tabloid
to fuck with him a little.
Everybody was paranoid back then.
Now the socialists raised their wages and everybody's happy.
What I'd give for a cigarette and a whisky.
Maybe they'll do to me what they did to Suso and his wife.
You know, Suso de la Guardia, the political commentator.
Yeah, sure.
He disappeared a couple years ago.
He fucked anything that walked and his wife was fed up
because he'd come home a complete mess.
The guy was drinking himself to death.
He drank like the British.
The Spanish drink to loosen up.
The British drink to kill themselves.
For them it's like a job, not a hobby.
He was like a Brit in that sense.
But not as a writer.
His writing was messy, smudged, incomprehensible.
Like he put his sentences in a blender and it came out lumpy.
Anyway, he had sex with some girl, I don't remember who,
and he got so shitfaced
that when the girl left the hotel he fell asleep.
More like passed out.
And he didn't go home that night because he woke up at noon
the next day. So he turns on the TV
and sees everybody's going nuts
saying he'd been kidnapped by ETA.
So he calls the paper. What happened?
Nobody kidnapped me.
His wife had made it all up to teach him a lesson.
That's what his friends said.
An old man's battle stories.
I bet your dad...
has his battle stories.
Though he didn't get to be the hero of Alcazar.
What did he get?
The dirty war, the Green March, the coup attempt...
Your sister was a classic example of the fascists' offspring.
She was funny,
liked a good time, liked to fuck...
Always hanging out with those baby-faced short actors with big heads
who look so good on camera.
She said your dad were at odds
because she didnt lose Communist plays that were in fashion back then.
Intellectual brats.
They wanted to conquer the workers with that.
Workers just want to see Norma Duval's tits.
My sister and dad still fight.
They have it out every Christmas.
Is she still acting?
She's working on a TV series.
She never talked about me?
She got me your number.
Through a friend.
I told her I had to write an article for class
and I was considering you.
And If she had a number, because
I left messages at the paper... I never go there.
They don't let you drink anymore.
What did she say, that we were friends?
More like acquaintances.
I remember one night I asked her.
Are we gonna fuck or what?
And she said: "I'm afraid not."
It's funny, if she saw us now...
I doubt she's as pretty now as her little sister.
No, she and I...
are both over the hill.
You're still wearing a child's pajamas.
She said you were overrated as a writer.
Wow.
I thought the ones you screwed
always hold a grudge,
but I see you have to watch out for the ones you don't screw as well.
I'll tell you one thing.
Only a completely overrated writer
can make a living at this.
Does it bother you people think that?
Is this still the interview? Will you tell?
Naked in a grungy shower,
I continued my meeting with the overrated
columnist. Will you tell?
It depends how it ends.
But your books and novels aren't as relevant as your articles.
Despite the awards you've won.
Awards are just... Money.
But you still accept them.
Some people spend their whole lives with a novel inside.
Like storytelling in the old days, I don't know...
I've hung my novels strip by strip
in the paper every day.
I gave it everything I had.
If somebody values me, I have to pick up the pieces.
I like what you write.
Maybe you'd be the one to glue them together some day.
Or you were going to be, but not anymore.
Meeting someone you admire is the first step towards not admiring them anymore.
You can only admire bodies and dead people.
What's inside is dirty, rotten, untidy.
It's better not to go in.
What about your other six siblings?
Five. One died 8 years ago.
They do different things.
One's an English teacher,
another is studying in the United States...
That's what gets me about this country.
We went from a grotesque tragedy to an American TV series.
Like "Eight is Enough" or something.
From Goya to Norman Rockwell.
I've written this before.
So why the hell do you want to be a journalist?
All the interesting stuff has already happened in this country.
Until people start killing each other again
this'll be just a boring stream of economic data and election results.
Maybe not a journalist. I want to write.
That's another thing.
The last 15 years in this country have been a party
for newspaper writers.
The transition, the political tension,
the coup attempt, NATO replacing the Common Market...
It was like the unknown body of a young stranger
you don't caress any more
because you're too old but suddenly you're allowed to.
Because you and I...
are gonna fuck, aren't we?
We've earned it, right?
Try screaming, see if anyone hears you.
A woman screaming isn't the same as a man.
Nobody wants to save a man.
Unlucky for you.
People will do anything
to save a pretty girl.
You'r not allowed to go out, or to live life.
Guys all want to buy you an apartment
and get you pregnant.
Go on, try it.
Hello!
Is anyone there? Be more dramatic.
You sound like you're giving the time.
Hey!
Please!
We're locked in here! Help!
Please!
Can anybody help us?
Hey!
Can anybody hear me?
They must all be away for the weekend
because of the heat.
No, stop.
Seriously.
Are we gonna let nothing happen?
Please, stop. I just want to get out of here.
Is the interview over?
You've seen what I am and don't like it.
Or have you seen what you are and don't like it either?
Maybe you want to leave
because you don't like what brought you here.
After all,
I've been honest the whole time. You might have been lying all along.
Forget the door, it's not going to open.
Don't be scared, I won't do anything to you.
We'll tell the gorilla to forget it.
What were you hoping to get from me?
Make off with some literary secret?
How naive.
I wanted to fuck you from the beginning, nothing else interested me.
Read the interview from start to finish and you won't find a single word
or brilliant phrase that doesn't really mean "Fuck me,"
"Let me fuck you," "Get naked for me."
Your friend won't come.
Yeah, on Monday.
Monday...
he'll rescue us.
Like two castaways. That's what we are, two castaways.
Two castaways.
I'm a dead body washed up on the beach.
And you're... Well, you're...
still swimming,
desperately trying to grab hold of something.
You're young and still think there's something out there
floating...
that resembles dreams.
And there isn't.
There isn't, ask your sister.
This is it.
There you have it, the meaning of life, like two passing trains.
You're going...
and I'm coming.
This is like a mechanical problem in the tunnel. Unexpected.
You and I...
were just destined to cross paths.
Each on a track, headed in opposite directions.
Is sleeping with me that important for you?
What is it, a victory?
I kissed up to people too.
I courted people who could help me up.
I praised people who didn't deserve it
to please the ears of those who could
give me a leg up.
I took whatever steps I could.
A step here, another there...
Things were much tougher back then.
The corrupt press union, the fascist party press, nepotism...
Today things get resolved more cleanly.
Things are more... mercantile.
Supply and demand.
We were all feeling guilty and then I came along
with my writing...
Young and free.
Like you are now.
I didn't come here to ask you for anything.
I set out a pile of crap to attract flies. It worked.
Can we please stop and find a way out of here?
Don't kid yourself, gorgeous.
Right now, I'd trade your thighs
for a cigarette
and your perfect tits for a glass of whisky!
There you have it.
Everybody has their priorities.
Six o'clock.
Did you hear that?
What would you be doing if you were out there?
It's Saturday.
Young people still believe in the weekend.
I don't like going out on Saturdays.
Too many people.
It makes you feel special.
Feeling special is important.
What makes you think you're special?
Isn't everybody?
You'd be surprised by how many people
aspire to be completely normal.
We�re a race apart.
You have to fight to the teeth
for not end up being one of them.
I think
the French Revolution was wrong about
egalite, liberte, fraternite.
Fraternity with whom?
The 20th century has shown us with a good beating
that all men are not brothers.
Or do you believe that crap?
Only priests used to repeat it. Now it's Coca-Cola,
the Olympic Games...
Do you read?
What do you read? I don't know,
novels.
I read novels all the time.
Still, I thought young people only watched TV.
At school nobody even reads the newspaper.
I do read.
What do you like?
I don't know.
Truman Capote, "In Cold Blood."
And other Americans before him Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Hemingway.
They invented the contemporary author
like others invented the automobile.
They conjugated everything
in first person singular.
"The Great Gatsby," "A Moveable Feast"...
I did read "The Great Gatsby." And "This Side of Paradise."
I love "Portnoy's Complaint."
And "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man."
I think that's when Joyce tells it...
One day...
after Catholic School, killing time,
walking along the dock
he sees a beautiful girl walking in the water
with her skirt pulled up
and it's like a illumination.
An illumination that leads him to choose life and art above everything else.
Even if life is disorder
and art is suffering.
What you read when you're young
is all you ever read.
They say we always write the same book.
We certainly do always read the same book.
Do you like the Latin Americans?
You make them sound like
a group of bolero singers.
Let's not discuss tastes.
How could we ever understand each other?
It's like a 17th century knight meeting a rock singer.
Young people like impossible things.
And older people, the simplest.
It's like flying.
When you're young
you think you can fly.
Think you can just fly away.
Fly away I don't know.
From this country,
from this bathroom, from this world.
The whole point of fucking you
was to fly with your wings
fly a little while.
To get a little taste of youth.
Do you read Proust?
I tried.
The only theme. The passing of time.
You'll have to excuse me.
I need to pee.
Sex matters a lot to people.
But only one percent of human bodily fluids
has anything to do with eroticism.
Hundreds, even thousands of songs and poems have been written
about love and passion.
What about pissing?
Or what our kidneys do, or the liver?
There's no literature about the crucial labors performed by the lungs.
Literature eludes the truth because it wants to compete with God
in the unknown.
With God and Disney.
Don't be afraid to talk about things organic.
People who say
that writing well elevates us
are revolting sentimentalists.
Don't trust the abstract, trust your senses.
About Stendhal.
A critic once said he wrote like a concierge.
That's a virtue, not a defect.
Write plainly, tell what you see.
Hello!
Can anybody hear me
We're locked in here!
Neighbors!
What I have here
is a pretty typical human conflict.
To fuck...
or not to fuck.
If we do it, everything will become less tense, less interesting.
Have you ever noticed that when two lovers
desire each other and make love their bodies are weightless?
It's like they're floating.
But once satisfied they get heavy again.
They become real again,
like the flesh on a woman in a Rubens.
But not doing it makes you restless as well.
Being near you
is like sitting by a fountain
and not being able to run
my fingers through the water.
How long will this last?
I want to get out of here, damn it!
Somebody get me out of here!
I can't take it anymore!
I can't take it anymore.
I'm choking.
I'm choking, can't you see?
Why do you make me feel like I'm alone?
I'm intolerable, I know.
I know I'm intolerable.
I can't stand myself.
I look in the mirror and see a fucking shadow of myself.
I'm not fucking impressed.
I'm not clever, I don't admire myself. I disgust myself.
Physically.
And you're standing there like a muse, mute and naked,
and instead of whispering verses in my ear
you put a mirror in front of me.
If you see me as I do,
you must hate me.
Sleep with me. What the hell were you thinking?
Are you that much of a climber?
What did you think you'd get from me?
It was a no-lose situation for me.
Look, my beard is growing.
They say sexual desire
makes your beard grow more quickly.
And fear.
Bullfighters' beards grow like crazy the day of the bullfight.
If it didn't disgust me, I'd shave with Luis' razor.
I'm going bald.
And nose hairs
are truly uncomfortable.
How absurd.
This is too damn absurd.
It's really no big deal.
The body is no big deal.
Fucking is no big deal.
Have you seen dogs in the street?
They sniff each other and go right at it.
Why have we gone so astray?
Do we think we're that important With our museums, our cathedrals
and our government advisors?
With you here in front of me
all that just gets right in the way.
This is going to be a huge mess, you know.
My enemies,
the ones I've made with each success,
with each millimeter I�ve taken of their territory,
of what they consider theirs...
will have a field day.
Your father might have to kill me as his final service to the homeland.
And my wife
might leave me,
more out of shame than anything else,
I'll have to give up all the great things about living with her...
I still desire her, you know. And we've been together
for ages.
But there's a thing called...
Call it refuge, call it solace, I don't really know.
It's a place far away from the limelight
where it's very hard to find someone who knows everything about you
and doesn't use it to destroy you,
rather
to put you back together when you've fallen apart.
And you..
You'll forget me
in every body that awaits you.
The worst part is everyone will imagine what we did in here all this time
and we won't be able to tell the truth because it's too ridiculous.
The best comedies
are often based on the dirty old man
chasing after fresh, young meat
which is always unattainable.
This absurd situation
is good for laughs.
But it reveals
that the distance between
insanity and balance
all comes down to a single hair on your head.
Then laughter becomes terror.
Fear...
that something similar
can happen to you.
Don't come inside.
Hungry?
A little.
I hardly eat, I don't know why.
I ate terribly as a kid.
My mother would get extremely upset.
"Please, eat or you'll die."
She'd cry on the table.
Back then eating was something else, almost like breathing.
I was fat, the fat girl in class.
One day my sister said:
"Are you ready for what's coming"
She scared me.
She said, "Being fat at 14 is hell."
And I took her seriously.
So you've been hungry ever since.
Pretty much.
I like seeing people eat in movies and books.
Nobody goes to the movies to watch people eat.
Well, they're wrong.
In movies and in literature,
I like seeing people work
and eat.
Bogart eating stew. Exactly.
I really liked a French detective movie I saw a while back.
Don't ask me the title because I'm lousy with titles.
Jean Gabin was in it. You know him
Jean Gabin?
A blond French actor with a gut.
Sort of a virile Spencer Tracy.
Never mind.
It was an action movie, with guns, stolen money,
the femme fatale must have been Brigitte Bardot, super young,
or a girl just like her, typical bombshell,
and guys chasing each other the whole time.
All of a sudden
Gabin and his friend got home,
sat down in a chair
and started eating cheese and bread
with a knife
with a little wine.
Damn.
That made me happy.
In literature it's the same.
The great artists accept people as they are.
They give them refuge, in any case.
But they don't try to force the world
into being what they imagine it should be.
One of the greats walks in.
Pio Baroja, for example, and says.
"The street was long and it smelled like fried pork."
Or Simenon.
"Her eyes were like two deep puddles." Damn...
It matters to you because you understand.
Because it's real.
People are only moved by what is true.
Don't look at me like that, like class is starting again.
Besides,
what could I possibly teach you?
Don't you get tired of writing every day about what happens after so long?
How could I? Different things happen every day.
But having to say something...
We used to go to the cafe.
And lots of us went with witty things to say there.
I got more for my buck
and spared myself a few obnoxious jerks.
But your opinion counts...
No, it doesn't.
If I write shit about a minister, it matters to the minister.
People only care about being left alone.
What about your style?
Don't talk about style.
There's no such thing as style. And if it does it's bad.
But you have it.
Well, it's bad.
You can tell you wrote something.
Or one of my imitators. I do have them.
Sure.
Or maybe you're imitating yourself. At times.
On bad days.
What is style
An escort. The museum guide. A pain in the ass.
People have to fall in love with what you write.
You introduce them.
Here's a story, here's a reader. And you disappear.
Imagine a guy introduces you to a friend and you become his friend's girlfriend
and the guy keeps hanging around with you in the park
and gets in bed with you.
He sits at your feet and says,
"I think you should turn your head a little bit when you kiss."
"His ass, you forgot to stroke his ass."
That guy who won't go away is style.
The writer waving his hands in the air so everyone looks at him.
I understand what you're saying, but you don't follow it.
Well, if I have style, it's out of fatigue.
I've written so much that I can't help it...
I don't know.
Everybody combines words in their own way.
But once the vase is finished,
it's better to break it
and start a new one the next day.
You don't think about the people who read you?
No, I'd rather think about the company that pays me.
This profession is for cheapskates.
Cheapskates judging cheapskates.
Surgeons aren't allowed to operate on family members
because the emotional involvement is a distraction.
This is the same thing.
You see the world like an outsider.
You have to grab the scalpel and cut away.
But the world being like this is your responsibility too.
Don't tell me you're one of those people who think
writing can change the world.
Why not?
The only thing a writer can do for the world is write well.
It's a double feature tragedy.
They change the details, but the plot is the same.
Of course a flood or an earthquake always comes along to save the day.
If you want to move people, but that doesn't interest me.
No.
What matters to me is saying,
The world is a joke.
A masquerade ball. Come on, let's dance."
It's hard.
What's hard?
Why should we care about the world if it's so impossible to change things?
If you want to do something different.
You want to do something different?
Maybe...
Young people forget you'll be like us.
You overestimate yourselves.
Youth is a gift, but watch out...
It's a gift that fades.
You feel life emptying and you cover the holes as best you can.
You'll see.
Why do you scold me when you speak to me?
My siblings do it all the fucking time.
Why do you all talk like nobody ever came before you?
It's non-stop, like a lesson in installments.
We have to endure every topic.
Sex life, job, studies, what to do, what to think...
Leave us alone, let us live.
I only wanted to have sex with you. Sorry I turned this into summer school.
What if I was the one after sex?
Maybe I'm curious, or a pervert...
A real pervert...
Or to get ahead, like you said.
What would you get me, a job?
Tell your boss to hire me as an intern.
Get you to reveal a secret.
I'm not that naive.
And if I am, it's my problem.
The same comparison, over and over again...
Back in my day, nowadays...
Just a little prehistory for you.
To teach us what cynicism, bitterness,
striking an intellectual pose...
Finally somebody said something intelligent in here.
I'd rather you actually taught me something you believe in.
I think this is how it is, or this is how it should be.
But they're empty recipes.
Always talking about your age.
Like I'm not aware how old you are and how old I am.
Maybe I'm the one who picked you.
To escape from what's expected of me
and try something new.
Maybe I don't find guys my age interesting or different enough.
If we weren't locked in here,
you'd have left by now, right?
You'd have gotten out of bed with some excuse.
"I'm expected at home" or "I have a meeting."
You'd have dressed in a hurry.
I got what I wanted.
So stop talking like
you're in a tower.
An ivory tower.
No, a tower of shit.
I was just killing time.
But anyway...
Talk, I�m listening.
I have nothing to say.
Could you yell again? Somebody might hear us.
Hello!
Is anybody out there?
Hello!
It's so hot.
When I was little, I'd spend hours in front of the mirror.
I'd pretend I was somebody famous being interviewed.
One of the perks of having grown up without TV.
You don't dream about being on TV.
I'd ask myself questions and answer them.
Have you stopped doing it?
Not long ago.
Who were you?
A famous writer.
What did you ask yourself?
About my latest book.
I played at giving Mass.
I was a priest
giving Mass.
Sometimes I'd make political speeches.
I'd sit all my dolls on the bed and give them a speech.
Because you grew up with Felipe and Alfonso Guerra.
Real politicians make me sick.
They deceive people.
You think people want to know the truth.
They'd rather be deceived.
You can't be happy if you don't lie to yourself.
It may not seem like it, but I don't have an answer for everything.
A couple months ago a girl in my class jumped out the window.
She was meeting another friend
who was waiting for her downstairs.
She saw her fall from her bathroom window.
From the sixth floor.
We were all...
You feel like there was nothing you could do for her.
That you didn't know what she was going through.
She was my age, you know.
We'd walk to class together.
We'd met in class.
She was one of those who always went.
We'd sit together in the back of the room.
The first day there weren't enough desks for everyone.
Then people stopped going. They only showed up for exams.
They need two rooms to seat us all.
Hard to believe, huh.
We don't even have a desk...
Maybe she did it to make space for the rest of you.
It's scary someone can decide to do that.
People who commit suicide are almost always making a statement
to those who survive them.
That's suicide's nastiest side.
Strangely enough,
being desperate can be wonderful
if you can bear it.
You think so?
Desperate people expect nothing.
That's usually when the best stuff appears.
The unexpected.
We all expect something...
But we fabricate other things until it comes along.
Fake And necessary.
The most trivial things, the pettiest...
are the most basic.
It's pretty unpleasant.
When they see what's out there, some choose windows
and others seek more hospitable orifices
where the gorilla, or other beasts we carry inside,
don't bark, growl or scratch.
Being in here is starting to get to me.
Want to go to the movies?
Want to see a movie with me? My treat.
When?
Right now.
Watch.
Come on, I'll make room.
Look.
It starts with some views of Madrid.
You can see how it stretches out from almost every angle.
No commercials before the movie
No, we came in when it was starting.
So nobody would see us together.
Are you ashamed of being seen with a young girt?
Are you ashamed of being seen with an old man?
People would think I'm your granddaughter.
What if we kiss?
Just to annoy people watching.
Don't get distracted.
Watch the movie.
We see a man in his fifties
leaving work in the morning.
Out of town, in an industrial area.
He comes out of a beer factory and drives home.
It could be any neighborhood,
I can't say what street.
His wife is getting up and he's going to bed.
They have breakfast together and he asks where their son is.
The mother says he refuses to get up.
Why, asks the father.
I don't know, he says he doesn't want to.
"That's unacceptable," says the father, and he goes to his room to wake him up.
But the boy, who's 12 years old, is awake,
lying in bed with his eyes open.
No matter how much the father insists,
he says he won't get up,
that he has no reason to.
Is he an only child?
No, he has a sister who's much older and moved out.
The father tries to drag him out of bed,
but it's an absurd situation because the kid falls on the floor
and just gets back in bed again.
The father grows desperate.
The mother tells him to calm down, that it's just one day.
The father can't afford to indulge him,
but there's nothing he can do either.
So he gives up and goes to bed.
But...
when he wakes up at noon, he finds his wife
feeding the boy in his bed.
No, that's the last straw.
If he won't get up, no lunch.
And he forbids his wife from entering his room.
He'll get up.
But the next day the same thing happens.
The boy doesn't want to get up.
And the father tries to reason with him. What's wrong?
Is there anything we can do?
And the boy says he's sorry and that there's nothing they can do.
There's nothing wrong with me.
I just don't want to get up.
Shall I go on? - Yes.
Okay.
The parents call his school
and that afternoon a psychologist visits him.
"Have you had any arguments recently?"
"Has he been sadder than usual?"
"No", says the parents.
The psychologist goes in the boy's bedroom
and asks him a bunch of questions.
But the boy seems fine and always has the same answer.
"I don't want to get up, there's nothing wrong with me."
When he leaves, the psychologist recommends some pills
and tells them to keep acting normal.
Keep feeding him, of course, even let his friends visit him
so he doesn't get bored.
One day he'll just get up
and all this will be forgotten
like it never happened,
says the psychologist before leaving.
Now is when I could use a cigarette.
Halfway through the movie
there's another doctor
who's more aggressive
and wants to check him into a hospital.
Because he's depressed.
Depressed, says the mother. He's only 12 years old.
The parents think it over
and they finally decide
it's always better to be home than in a hospital.
Then summer arrives, the boy fails the semester
and they realize that if this continues
it will be terrible for him.
The father buys a pick-up truck
with an open flatbed
and they put the boy and his mattress on it
and take a trip.
With him in his bed? - Yeah, they head north.
Everybody they come across shows interest in them.
They pass through a town during the local festival
and they carry the boy on his mattress through the square
like a statue of the Virgin Mary.
A girl even falls in love with him
and kisses him on the lips
to see if it's like in the fairy tales.
But no, the boy doesn't get up.
So then the girl decides to go home
and gets in bed as well.
So the girl's parents and all the townspeople
force them to leave town.
"Please, you must leave, it might be contagious."
The police had to escort them away.
They pass through Barcelona and set course for Paris.
Are you making this up now?
Are you crazy? It's right there on screen.
There's a full moon in Paris and they drive around a while.
A long while around the Eiffel Tower.
It gets dark and the father looks for somewhere to park and sleep
near the Bois de Boulogne.
What a pretty shot of the boy on his mattress in the pick-up
with the full moon between the trees.
Too pretty.
Luckily a hooker appears with a customer and they start fucking nearby.
Then the customer throws the hooker out of his car
and she hangs around.
She has dinner with them. The mother has a portable stove and makes a stew.
Good, I love them having dinner.
Then the hooker goes back to work.
The boy falls into a deep sleep and the father,
who seems like another man since they left on the trip,
is content, happy even.
He's left behind the stress and stench
of all those years working in the beer factory.
For the first time he can have a beer
without it tasting like cement.
He convinces his wife to stray off
into the forest...
lie down...
and make love.
Without taking their eyes off the pick-up, of course.
They lie down and make love
like they never had before.
In the moonlight on the grass.
There they are,
watching the pick-up,
in each other's arms.
The father's fallen asleep.
The mother watches the boy constantly.
Before dawn, she leaves the father
and heads for the pick-up.
To her surprise, it's empty.
The boy has disappeared.
What? He's gone?
Don't tell me this ends badly.
How should I know? I�ve never seen it.
I don't know the director or the actors.
Except the one playing the father,
Augustin Gonzalez. Wait.
The sun is coming up.
This is what your friend uses to...
No idea.
Come on.
You'll miss the best part.
What happened?
The mother has woken the father
and she shows him the empty mattress.
So they start calling out
for the boy
and looking for him in the trees nearby.
It's daytime now and people start arriving at the park.
But they don't speak French
and they try to tell people
about the lost boy but nobody understands.
Finally they get back in the pick-up
and start driving around town,
around and around, through the whole city.
The mother gets desperate, the father tries to calm her down.
After all, he got up.
"Don't you realize?"
"He finally got out of bed."
The mother doesn't speak, but...
you can tell by her face
that she would almost prefer to have him there forever,
lying in bed.
And she starts crying
silently,
without being dramatic.
She's a good actress.
Better than the father. He overacts sometimes.
No, they're both very good.
So she's crying. What else happens
Is anybody there?
Please! Is anybody there?
What's wrong?
We're locked in the bathroom on the third floor.
Could somebody let us out? Please, the door is stuck.
I don't live here.
That's okay.
Can you call a phone number?
It's the owner. He'll have the keys.
I don't want any trouble.
It isn't trouble.
I'll pay you. How about a thousand pesetas?
To make a phone call? That's right.
To call the number I give you.
I want the money up front.
I don't have it on me. We're locked in here.
How do I know you'll give it to me? - I swear.
I swear I will.
All you have to do is wait, until my friend gets here.
Have you got something to write with?
No problem, I have a great memory for numbers.
He might not have called.
He sounded like a junkie who snuck into the building.
My parents are gonna kill me.
Crazy things are fine a year age but now?
For me this is like a personal punishment.
Was it that bad?
I was brought up to feel guilty.
The biggest change is kids today
don't feel guilty about anything.
This is another country.
Who said I don't feel guilty?
Your guilt is different from mine.
I still wake up in the morning wondering
why I feel so guilty.
You didn't tell me, how the movie ends.
Maybe it was about guilt too, right?
We can meet up another day and see it again.
You'll walk right over us like we never
existed.
I don't think so.
We might be just a violent, corrupt generation
that never lived up to expectation.
I hope yours does better.
We'll try.
Remember, life is the perfect way to sabotage a dream.
I won't get my hopes up.
What will you think about this in a few years?
I won't think anything.
Things that happen, right?
I forgot to tell you not to shut it from the inside.
You've been in there since yesterday?
Did my wife call you? - No.
Goodbye.
There's a guy outside who says you owe him money.
You know what.
She's too young, even for you.
Sorry.
The lock is broken.
What will I tell Esperanza?
Will you involve me?
Of course.
Are they hers?
Yeah.
Here, give them to her later.
If she wants, she'll come back for them.
You're not gonna see her again?
What do you think?
Myopic.
Two or three gradations.
That worked in your favor, of course.
Very funny.
We need to change the sheets, right?
No.
Tomorrow.