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At the beginning, Étienne is twenty.
He suspects nothing.
COUNT ME OUT
I'll go park.
Gulosus aristotelis.
Clamator jacobinus.
Étienne.
Don't be like that. Watch the game.
She'll be back.
Anyone can wander for a while.
Dad, did you love my mother?
Yes.
- You love her still? - No.
Absence isn't a feeling.
What's that mean?
You can't love someone absent.
You sure?
Yes. It's like anything, in life.
You just decide.
You give up on that love, and it vanishes.
So you could decide to stop loving me?
That's impossible.
I'll always love you. No conditions.
Even if I'm absent?
We'll always be together.
NO LOVE LOST
What?
Just looking at you.
Then stop.
Stop!
How's it going with Youssef?
We don't even have sex.
You're just teens sharing a bed, without touching.
You'd want me to fuck.
To pose as a sensitive, new-age Dad.
He still doesn't need to sneak in.
He's shy.
I'll respect his shyness.
- And my privacy. - That too.
Got my scores.
You look. I don't care.
Metz.
Metz school of fine arts.
Metz is nice.
201 miles away.
You're not expected, not known, not judged.
- You'll be free. - Far out.
Youssef will be disappointed.
But not you.
All I want is for you to be happy.
Eat up. You said we wouldn't cross over.
I don't want to see those people.
I'll let you explore the place. First impressions are best.
Turn.
Let the bike through.
Watch out...
After the pedestrians, turn left.
Blinkers, blinkers.
Slow down a bit.
Watch the hump.
Yes, thanks.
What now?
I'll walk you in.
So we can chat.
Why hurry? You're early.
We'll chat later.
Quit following me.
My friends think you have no life.
What friends?
We know your future school,
we can get organized.
There's a lot to do.
Find a primary care doctor in Metz.
Never easy, to pick a doctor in an unknown city.
- Oh, hi. Why are you here? - You seen Rosa?
Morning.
- Take the banner down? - Sure.
NATURE FIGHTS BACK
The banner!
It's simple, just untie the string!
They used a bowline.
That kiss isn't finished.
See you tonight.
3 hours, 42 minutes. OK.
Do you say Met's or Mess?
You say "hello".
My daughter's enrolled. Hello.
Feel the energy of the stroke?
The color work is remarkable.
She starts with the head.
Next day, an arm.
Then a leg.
She separates body parts, to create
a portrait, that resembles,
or not, its model.
Congrats.
That's me.
We're not acquainted, but we're in tune.
I need to ask a small favor.
Keep an eye on my daughter.
See that she's not lost,
that she talks to people.
It's not that I don't trust her.
But she'll be a newcomer, alone...
Far from me.
I'll leave you my number.
Small 10 euros - Medium 15 euros Large 20 euros
Of course.
I will pick him up, Mrs. Sikora.
I pick everyone up.
Like every time.
I'm just a little late.
Till then.
Want to make God laugh? Tell Him your plans - Yiddish proverb
Run 15 laps with that in mind.
Go, go, go!
Precision in the passes!
Show commitment! Instep kick!
I pass,
I'm open, I offer a solution.
Go ahead.
Let go.
Let go of the ball.
Good.
Involve the team! Go!
Use the team!
Form a triangle!
When you don't have the ball,
you can create space. Play-space!
Behind each kick, there must be a feeling.
A feeling!
Soccer is life-affirming!
Rosa?
- Been here long? - 17 years.
What are you doing?
Painting.
It's your night to cook.
Sorry.
I'm sick of doing all the chores.
You'll be lost when I'm gone.
What do you want to eat?
Some Dunnos, with a Don't-care.
Good, we got both left over.
Souvenir from Metz.
Made me think of you.
Cold and unyielding.
And the look in those eyes...
The sheer joy that they convey...
School looks great. I chatted with students,
they're like you. Loners, misfits,
grandly obsessed with never-experienced feelings.
And I timed it: the round-trip fits in a weekend.
Long and tedious, but doable.
Don't worry, I won't come every week.
I found your accommodation.
Room in a shared house.
Two girls from the school.
You good? Self-assured enough?
I have to be.
Keep your parting gift.
See ya.
All good, Youssef?
We got this practical thing, called a staircase.
You might be aware.
I'd rather climb, if it's OK.
Why?
To impress Rosa. She'll think I'm adventurous.
You hungry?
A little.
Come in.
How're things with my daughter?
We're not doing it, if you're worried.
I know.
It's "courtly love", like in mediæval times.
You write her poems?
All the time.
Can't wait to read them.
Do not mock the youth that drowns its sorrows
in outdated artistic endeavors
that lead nowhere.
Apologies, sweet prince.
"One day, we'll be done with cynicism,
with skepticism and petty jokes.
We'll strive to live musically."
Van Gogh said that.
In a letter to his brother.
You believe that?
Of course.
Like you did when you were 20.
I've never been 20.
Sorry, but having wasted your life
is no excuse for trashing others'.
Hélène,
do you know why you love my father?
- Trick question? - Yes.
I like damaged men. He is one.
Prime example.
The only man who weeps on my breasts after sex.
I see.
Have I answered?
A bit too much, but OK.
Just to establish you'll take decent care of him.
So you're giving him to me?
It's a loan.
If you hurt him, I'll kill you.
- You're a twisted kid. - Me?
Are you crazy?
It's the exact opposite. Totally normal.
I'm 18, and I've been through nothing. No trauma.
Never even seen a corpse.
Not even a squashed pigeon.
My grandparents are 100 years old.
My parents
have always been in love, they love me.
I'm loved. That's my tragedy.
Poor little Youssef, rambling away.
That's my point.
Only sorrow strengthens the mind.
That's why I write about Étienne and Rosa.
What?
3 years ago, I started writing an epic poem.
A great social and emotional drama.
Largely inspired by both your lives.
My life isn't tragic.
The instant your wife leaves you and Rosa, without a word,
your life becomes tragic.
Her desertion turned you into a fictional character.
She gave you a story.
To you, and to Rosa.
Like it or not, she was your creator.
But I decided it wouldn't be a story.
I could've collapsed, gladly.
But Rosa was there.
Her mother didn't want her, I did.
Without conditions. So she gave her to me.
I was devastated, adrift...
I didn't touch the ground.
I was in for an amazing experience.
Hold on, wow.
I'll make a note, I forget things.
Would you tell me more stuff?
More intimate stuff?
11:15, at the library? It's my only slot.
She told you she was leaving?
That'll flesh out your poems.
A major heartbreak.
Wait, what?
Only one. At random.
You, under the pink orange Coca-cola-grey sky,
You, there and not, beware.
Everything's about to take off.
It's beautiful.
You don't scare me.
But if you want to love me...
I'll let you.
I do.
On one condition.
Which one?
Love me...
strongly.
I love you strongly.
I want to live with you.
O you, whom I wrest from oblivion,
You,
whom I strive to content...
I should be kissed now.
You should be kissed always.
Surrender yourself to me?
I love you, but I'm cold.
No, it's hot!
I'm cold!
Hélène.
A gift.
Might be the last time I sneak out.
I'll miss it.
Good night, my love.
It's occupied.
What are you doing?
Quiet. I'm concentrating.
- You jerking off? - No!
- Sorry. - You're out of line!
Please understand this.
It's out of respect for Rosa.
We share a bed, without touching.
I'm fine with that, it's beautiful.
But it's too hard.
My sex drive, though budding, can be relentless.
This lust
takes control of my body and soul,
so I deal with it.
Before it spoils things.
I'm only a boy.
Do it at home.
I do it at home too.
But this time, it was your fault.
What?
I heard you and Hélène.
All that moaning...
Got me excited too.
And Rosa heard it?
Of course she did.
Anyway, she knows everything about you.
Don't be silly.
Don't be embarrassed.
It's natural.
Good night.
All the best to Hélène.
What clangs? Your tongue
Sparring against mine
CONGRATS FOR METZ!!!
Like it?
Nice, huh?
I like it.
You won't be here much, your room can be small.
Your stuff stays in Metz,
we'll store your paintings in the cellar.
Soundproofing needs work.
The living room... Magnificent view.
Marshmallow?
I bet the sunsets are awesome.
What's up with the house? How'd the viewing go?
They'll make an offer.
What are they like?
Why are they buying?
I'll meet them.
Let me run things until we sign. Otherwise, once again,
you'll harass and judge them, they'll run.
Just let me sell it. It's best.
My family home.
Where I grew up, my parents died, I raised my kid.
I know all that.
Be happy to move on, don't be a drag.
And to afford this very decent apartment.
If you don't sell,
your amateur-soccer paycheck, and Hélène's taxi
wouldn't cut it.
You OK, Alex ?
Yeah, sorry.
I'm sick of selling places I'd like for myself.
No big deal.
Comes with the job. Capitalism's gopher.
I WAS BETTER BEFORE
Poor, dear friend!
We'll invite you and Olive over.
Meaning what? What's she been telling you?
Nothing. That she's happy with you.
She's lying.
She says there's no fire.
What fucking fire?
Couples are a long game, not a bonfire.
Happiness is a quiet thing, for oldies.
Even you're finally settling down.
Anyway, feelings are shit. Right?
Dunno. Nope.
I should've given up.
Giving up is frowned upon, but it can be good.
I was stupid to dig in my heels.
Why not give in?
Why not? It'd be a load off.
Look.
The table goes here.
The couch there.
Against this wall, my piano.
I could handle
getting old here.
You might die here.
Suddenly, over your morning coffee.
You'll collapse,
and breathe your last on the laminated flooring.
I'll call out,
you won't answer.
And I'll find you sprawled,
I'll sob and scream your name.
So when do we sign?
Tomorrow?
Tomorrow.
Dad.
We can't move in this place,
where sunsets are gorgeous,
but that Youssef can't scale
to reach my room.
We can't sell our house.
- If I stay, no need to sell. - Stop.
We agreed. Stick to the plan.
You're not ready.
I can't leave you like this.
I'll stay with you another couple years.
And also,
I don't need a school to paint.
It's not all about you.
Grow up.
Why?
We each need to live our own lives now.
Is that what you need to hear?
Never, since the world began, since light was light,
and the waters separated from top to bottom,
has poetry been more needed.
Preternatural child of the Word,
a fitting advocate for the untamed soul...
Got a light?
... poetry is, by essence,
this language, still alive and kicking,
powerful and undivided.
Close enough to mystery, and speech
to topple the fortress of inertia,
and pierce the concrete citadels of falsehood.
It bears the seed of human truth, that can flower and triumph.
This year, we scored more DEGREES than GUYS
Have you read it?
Did you finish?
Yes.
Thanks.
What do you think?
Dunno.
I write only what I see of your lives.
I shape it into poetry, I don't make it up.
I know.
You think it's shit?
Not at all.
To me, it's like... nothing.
Great.
I haven't found a title, if you have ideas...
I don't know.
An epic poem by Youssef Horlaville
Did you cringe at the parts about your Dad?
They're my favorites, even.
Even if he seems lost.
Freaked out.
You fear leaving your parents alone?
No.
I'm looking forward to it.
Maybe I'm not fully aware.
When I wheel my suitcase out,
I'll hide my tears, like people do.
This is only Volume 1.
Volume 2 will be much better.
In Alexandrine verse.
I could illustrate it with my paintings.
What?
Best day of my life.
You write that I reject the world.
I get the feeling you do.
Sorry.
It's because I reject you.
What?
No.
Sometimes, Rosa...
you see the world as a setting.
But that's not what it is.
Guys, we got nothing to lose.
- Except the game. - Yeah, that.
- Our honor. - That too.
- Our dignity. - Splitting hairs.
Better to lose honor, or dignity?
What do you want, to win cups?
Nothing as ugly as a cup.
Except a medal.
Victory teaches nothing.
On him!
Go!
Go wide!
We alternate.
When I go, step up. Go where I'm not.
- OK. - Eyes open.
Come on!
You're too far back, move up!
- Ms. Mayor? - How are you?
- Getting lucky? - Thanks for the support.
The world's in trouble. Isn't it?
It is?
Collapse. Change.
People are lost. They need calm.
They need meaning. Roots.
Of course.
You like trees?
Dunno. Depends.
Everyone likes trees.
Trees are important.
They're calm.
Rooted.
After the match.
- We'll build a forest. - Great.
Over this soccer field.
Pardon?
Nothing I can do.
It's the times.
Apparently, we have a planet to save.
A planet, and my favorite constituency.
So we'll build a forest.
Governance is foresight.
- You decided this when? - Today.
Big decisions, you don't dither. You need to...
That's stupid. Build a forest how?
By planting trees, dumbass.
Let go of the ball!
What a hog.
We need to get things launched.
To communicate. To restore hope.
People need it.
The idea that there's still possibility.
But the stadium is history.
Why my stadium?
Precisely: it's not yours.
It's municipal.
Our very last piece of real estate.
Where we can affordably build a forest.
- What'll our youth do? - Climb trees.
You can't!
I'll stop you! With a petition, a hunger strike!
Listen, you little turd of a coach.
Strike all you want.
Cut off your arms and legs, and juggle them.
I don't give a shit.
No one will. The project's good.
It is.
Good for everyone,
except for just you.
So you can swallow your little pride,
with salad dressing, if you have an appetite.
Then it's back to planet Earth.
You'll hush up,
take a good look at your life,
and you'll adapt.
Like we all do, every day.
Starting with me.
Drive, Maxence.
You OK, Dad?
Yeah, great.
Did you lose?
You sad?
You might score a goal next season.
I think I'll quit soccer.
- Been drinking? - No.
Is it late teen-angst,
or early mid-life crisis?
And you?
How was your day?
You're late getting home.
I kissed Youssef this afternoon.
I jumped him.
On an impulse.
It was nice.
After class, we made love at his place.
Nice too.
He was very gentle.
As you like being in the know...
If you'd like more details about my first time,
I'm willing to answer questions.
Right here,
the greatest wave in the world was tamed.
The height of a 10-story building.
These hellish swells have a geological explanation,
hidden beneath the surface.
An immense abyss, 3 miles deep,
acts as a springboard for the waves.
When Nazaré,
a coastal town between Lisbon and Porto,
turns into a bomb,
crowds gather, holding their breath.
What?
I didn't speak.
You, what?
We can keep her today.
I'll be all right.
It'd be simpler.
We're here.
Don't be silly. Don't go with a baby.
We'll keep her.
She's coming with me.
We'll manage.
Back this evening, don't worry.
Soccer isn't a sport, it's social science.
The pitch is one of our last spaces for diversity.
Difference, discovered.
A player learns to enjoy victory,
but more importantly,
to acknowledge defeat,
in its mellow warmth.
As defeat is confined to the field,
he knows it's only a game - not life.
He learns to get beyond his mortal condition,
and to aim for... grace.
The grace he feels when he scores.
I'm sorry.
Should I take her?
You OK?
Fine.
Contactless?
There.
STAY IN CONTROL
May I?
This model's unbreakable.
Here.
Enjoy your day.
Valérie ?
You OK?
Boxing champ?
Dunno.
Dunno anymore.
- Can you throw me away too? - Sure.
My life escapes me.
Nobody needs me.
"I want kindness.
I want tears to dry.
I want my love soft and round.
Enough right angles.
Enough wounds,
open gashes and heartbreak.
Enough side glances,
and perfunctory kisses.
I want us to invent our own passion.
Just ours.
A deep and persistent joy."
Remember writing me that?
Yes.
I know that letter by heart. And my answer.
"For that, you need to be here, really.
With me, and nowhere else.
For ever."
You said, "I'm with you, and nowhere else."
And I believed you.
I still do.
Could you work on your packing?
So we can box things.
I won't go to Metz.
I turned them down.
You want me to live my life, fine.
It'll happen here, in this town.
And above all, in our house.
I won't let it become a memory.
I'll never leave it willingly.
I saw your mother.
Not in real life.
On TV. The other night.
Ocean program.
It was her. I'm sure.
She was in Portugal, behind some shitty surfers.
Did you know the greatest waves crashed off Portugal?
Giant waves.
You can check. 100 ft.
Sometimes 115.
It's her.
This woman.
That's your mother.
She might be, but I'm not her daughter.
I don't know that woman.
That's just it.
Just what?
Let's go together.
You can meet her.
She didn't call you, she was on TV.
Coincidence.
You go. But count me out.
-Your story, your guilt. - Your Mom.
We can find her.
If I go, it'll be to end her.
Fine.
You're pitiful, Dad.
- Language. - I'll say what I want.
Because I love you.
Because I'm still here.
Since when do we miss her?
Since when is she needed?
Or did you lie for years,
telling me we needed no one?
No.
What, then?
One image of her,
and you're back to feeling you've lost everything?
You can see I'm not the problem.
I'm not keeping you from your life.
- Don't dramatize. - I will.
We can, now.
I'm 18.
You can stop protecting me.
Because you've achieved that.
Congratulations, and thanks.
Thanks Dad, in all sincerity,
you can revel in your drama now.
In her absence.
You can stop standing tall,
as you always have.
You can cry.
In my arms, even.
Look.
They're big and strong.
Do you remember asking me about her life?
About how she was?
No.
Well I don't either.
You've never asked me about her.
Then go ahead, I'm listening.
What's so special about her,
that you'd find her desertion heroic?
And mistake her selfish cowardice for freedom?
How'd you explain that?
Or are you just stupid?
You don't understand.
You don't know.
Then explain, for fuck's sake!
Was it physical?
Was it animal, irresistible?
How did she kiss?
Like this?
Dad, what happens when we die?
Dunno.
Nobody knows.
How do you know you're dead?
Dunno either.
Who invented the word "salad"?
- And what's... - Last question.
And then... beddy-bye.
He's fine. Don't worry.
We'll still keep him monitored overnight.
Which room?
Sorry, he wants to see no one.
Can I help you?
Rosa?
I'm going to get her, since that's what you want
Little girl, if that's what you expect,
guess again.
You're so wrong.
Not without me.
You don't leave me stranded, alone.
That's been done.
Been there.
Not this time.
I didn't find her.
We can keep at it.
Follow the coast. See what happens.
She could be in the next village.
Dad...
I'm not sorry about her.
Believe me. I've never known, or missed her.
You were there.
I'd miss you.
I'll miss you.
You're my whole childhood.
And, what...
Is your childhood over?
I guess it is.
NO LOVE LOST
An epic poem by Youssef Horlaville
Subtitles by Joël Savdié