MY LIFE TO LIVE
A FILM IN TWELVE TABLEAUX
"Lend yourself to others, but
give yourself to yourself."
- Montaigne
A CAF? - NANA WANTS TO GIVE UP -
PAUL - THE PINBALL MACHINE
Do you really like the guy?
I don't know.
I wonder
what I was even thinking.
Does he have more money
than me?
What do you care?
What do you care?
Something bothering you?
No, I just wanted to deliver
that line a specific way.
I didn't know
the best way to say it.
Or I did know,
but I don't anymore.
Just when I should know, too.
Doesn't that ever happen to you?
Don't you ever talk
about anything but yourself?
You're horrible.
I'm not horrible, Nana.
I'm sad.
I'm not sad, Paul.
I'm horrible.
Don't talk nonsense.
This isn't a stage.
You never do as I ask, but you
always want me to do what you want.
Anyway, I'm fed up.
I want to die.
- Is that so?
- Yes, that's so.
More nonsense.
It's exhausting loving you.
I always have to beg.
I exist too.
You say I'm cruel,
but you're the cruel one.
Why do you say that? It isn't true.
You mean Sunday evening?
You know very well when.
I begged you
to introduce me to that man.
You did it on purpose.
Yes, I did.
You're pathetic.
If we started over,
I'd just cheat on you again.
Don't say that.
Don't say that.
It's true.
I thought it was important
we should meet, but I don't any more.
We might have
got together again.
But the more we talk,
the less the words mean.
Anyway, if I make it on the stage,
it won't be thanks to you.
Acting isn't everything.
Not you too!
Why do you say that?
If it's what I want,
why should you mind?
I might be discovered
someday.
Yes, you mustn't give up.
I haven't given up music.
Not like your English lessons.
You were never really interested.
I'm not giving up.
In fact, that guy's going
to take pictures of me.
Maybe I'll get into the movies.
That'll be the day.
You're horrible, Paul.
You're horrible, Paul.
You really are.
It's always the same.
You say you love me,
but you don't consider me special.
I hardly love you any more,
but I still consider you special.
Why do you say things like that?
I think we're all the same.
You don't approve of me
looking for work?
It suits you even less
than all the rest.
Anyway, you're leaving me
because I'm poor.
When all's said and done, maybe.
Have you got the pictures
you mentioned on the phone?
I forgot them. They'll be ready
at the end of the week.
Is he all right?
ls he eating well?
He had an earache,
but the doctor said it was nothing.
What's your job at Path?-Marconi?
I sell records.
Can you lend me 2,000 francs?
Out of the question.
Your parents
must be glad I'm gone.
No, they liked you.
I'll bet.
What's that look for?
What's that look for?
Nothing.
Let's not start quarreling again.
How about a game?
Sure.
Got a coin?
I only have one.
Yes, I do.
You go first.
I'm suddenly thinking of those essays
my dad's students write.
What about them?
He read us some great ones
last night over dinner.
They're just kids. They had
to describe their favorite animals.
One little girl of eight
chose a bird.
How did it go?
"A bird is an animal
with an inside and an outside.
Take away the outside
and the inside is left.
Take away the inside
and you see its soul."
THE RECORD SHOP - 2,000 FRANCS -
NANA LIVES HER LIFE
No, we're out of that, sir.
What about Judy Garland?
We don't have her either.
Do you have a guitar recording
by Rom?o...
What's his name?
Rafael Romero.
I'll ask.
Rafael Romero on guitar.
In the bins in back.
Is Rita still sick?
Yes. I think she'll be back
Thursday.
What a drag.
She owes me 2,000 francs.
- Can you lend me 2,000?
- You crazy? I'm broke.
Why? Anything wrong?
- No, nothing.
Here it is.
I'll take this too.
This way, sir.
That looks great.
The story's stupid,
but it's very well written.
"He gazed at the turquoise,
star-laden sky
and then turned to me.
'You live your life intensely,
so logically... '
I interrupted him.
'You attach
too much importance to logic.'
For a few seconds I was filled
with a bitter sense of triumph.
No more broken heart,
no more struggle to live again.
No probing questions to face
while masking one's defeat.
Yes, a truly elegant way
of breaking this deadlock."
THE CONCIERGE - PAUL -
THE PASSION OF JOAN OF ARC -
A JOURNALIST
Please give me my key.
All right, then.
Arthur! Get her!
Come on, give me the key.
Here, honey.
Hi.
Where are you headed?
Want to see the pictures?
He doesn't look like me at all.
He looks more like you.
Come have dinner?
- Where are you going?
- Boulevard Saint-Michel.
- Come have dinner.
- I'm not hungry.
I want to see a movie.
Bye.
JOAN OF ARC
We have come
to prepare you for death!
Now... already?
How am I to die?
At the stake!
How can you still believe
you were sent by God?
God knows our path, but we understand it
only at the end of the road!
Yes, I am his child!
And the great victory?
It will be my martyrdom!
And your deliverance?
Death!
Death.
I said good-bye already.
I paid for your movie ticket.
Too bad.
Evening. How are you?
Evening. How are things?
- Didn't we have a date tonight?
- Yes.
I wondered if you were coming.
- Why? Am I late?
Just a bit.
But that's not why I wondered.
I'm usually very punctual.
11:00 p.m. is very late.
I thought you'd forgotten too.
What will you have?
- Any rolls left?
- Sorry, no.
A coffee, then.
Was that a friend outside?
No, it was my brother.
You have lots
of brothers and sisters?
Five brothers and three sisters.
Surprised? It's true.
What's new since Wednesday?
Nothing much.
Is that red car outside yours?
What is it? A Jaguar?
No, an Alfa Romeo.
Are you interested in cars?
No, I don't know
a thing about them.
When shall we take
those pictures?
You tell me.
I already told you I'm ready.
But I'm only free on Sundays.
I'm off to London on Sunday.
Well then, I don't know.
How about now?
Are you tired?
If I say no,
you won't think I'm awful?
Not at all.
Do you really think
I could get into films?
I think so.
Look, I brought you
a composite sheet.
I'd like to do
something like that.
What's this for?
You send it out
to people in films,
and a few days later
maybe they call you.
I'm a bit shy
about undressing.
Just a little.
What can it hurt?
Could you lend me 2,000 francs?
I would, but I haven't got it.
I'm tired.
What about my pictures?
You'll come with me then?
THE POLICE -
NANA IS QUESTIONED
Nana Klein-what?
K-L-E-I-N...
F-R-A-N-K-E-N...
H-E-I-M.
Born April 15th, 1940,
at Flexburg, Moselle.
No fixed address.
ls that right?
Yes.
All right. What happened?
Well, I was walking
down the street,
and I saw a woman
buying a magazine.
Then... she took some money
out of her bag.
She didn't notice
she'd dropped 1,000 francs.
So then... I pretended
to buy a magazine too,
and I put my foot
on her 1,000 francs.
She left and...
And she realized it?
She walked back toward me...
and stared into my eyes
for a long time.
So I gave her back her money.
Then why did she bring charges?
I don't know.
I think it was very mean of her.
Don't you have anyone
you can stay with in Paris?
Friends, sometimes.
Boys?
Sometimes.
Why not ask
for an advance at work?
I already have, too many times.
What are you going to do?
I don't know.
I...
I... is someone else.
THE BOULEVARDS -
THE FIRST MAN - THE ROOM
How about it?
Is this the place?
You've been here before?
Yes, it is.
Anyone there?
You want Room 27 or 28?
Room 27.
- Do you smoke?
- No, thanks.
There's never an ashtray.
Here's one.
How much do you want?
I don't know.
It's up to you.
I don't know.
Four thousand francs?
You owe me 1,000.
I have no change.
Keep it.
It doesn't matter.
It's true.
I'm not just trying to get more.
But you have
to take everything off.
Why not on the mouth?
MEETING YVETTE -
A CAF? IN THE SUBURBS -
RAOUL -
g*nshots IN THE STREET
Yvette! How are you?
Is that you? You cut your hair!
- A long time ago.
- How are you?
- And you?
- Oh, I'm getting by.
- Me too.
Good for you.
- Why?
- I thought that...
What are you doing here?
I'm thirsty.
Shall we get a drink?
I'd love to.
How's Raymond?
Oh, I'll tell you all about it.
What happened?
Life is cruel.
I'd like to get away,
escape to the tropics.
- Escape is a pipe dream.
- Why?
It just is.
This is it.
Shall we sit over there?
I'll be back in a minute.
So tell me.
One evening, Raymond...
came home
with train tickets to Brest.
He said he had a job,
so we took the kids and moved
and went to live
in a hotel by the harbor.
He'd disappear
for the entire day.
He was "working."
I'd take the children out,
buy them ice cream.
I was worried,
because I couldn't figure out
how he earned his money.
One evening,
after three weeks of that,
he just never came back.
I had to manage on my own...
with the children that
my mother-in-law wouldn't look after
because she didn't like me.
I gradually became a prost*tute.
It was the easiest way.
Then, two years later,
I went to the movies one night...
and saw him acting
in an American movie.
And things are fine now?
Everything's fine.
What would you like?
- White wine.
- Ros?.
Still, it doesn't sound
like much fun.
No, it's depressing,
but it's not my fault.
I think we're always responsible
for our actions. We're free.
I raise my hand -
I'm responsible.
I turn my head to the right -
I'm responsible.
I'm unhappy -
I'm responsible.
I smoke a cigarette -
I'm responsible.
I shut my eyes -
I'm responsible.
I forget that I'm responsible,
but I am.
I told you
escape is a pipe dream.
After all,
everything is beautiful.
You only have to take an interest
in things, see their beauty.
It's true.
After all,
things are just what they are.
A face is a face.
Plates are plates.
Men are men.
And life... is life.
The guy I said hello to by the door
wants to meet you.
Would you mind?
Not at all.
My girl's not the kind
to be seen
In a chic magazine
That's plain to see
No starlet's
sunglasses or gowns
She works across town
In a factory
Some plain furnished rooms
are our home
We live there alone
She and I
A warehouse
and rooftops below
From our little window
Meet the eye
Vacations we spend
close at hand
The Riviera's too grand
For our pay
Loved ones are distant and few
I've a godmother who
Lives far away
But my girl, though just 25
ls the sweetest that I've
Ever seen
No saint in any church
you could find
ls as sweet or as kind
At least to me
When the town dozes off
in the blaze
Of the sun's summer rays
Burning bright
With my baby girl
wrapped in my arms
I drink in her charms
And hold her tight
We whisper our thoughts, she and I
As light fades from the sky
Up above
In the secrecy of our four walls
As night slowly falls
We make love
ls she a lady or a tramp?
Insult her. if she's a tramp,
she'll get angry.
If she smiles, she's a lady.
Raoul.
A hot toddy.
We'll find out.
You're a friend of Yvette's?
That's right.
I know you very well.
- You're lying.
- I saw you three months ago.
You're lying.
A guy was showing you pictures
on Boulevard Saint-Germain.
That's true.
Then why did you deny it?
You say any old nonsense.
You're pathetic.
Why do you look at me like that?
You look stupid,
and your hair looks awful.
Wait here.
I need to talk to you.
You okay?
My eyes!
THE LETTER - RAOUL AGAIN -
THE CHAMPS-ELYS?ES
Dear Madame, a friend who worked
for you gave me your address.
I would like to come
and work for you.
I am 22 years old.
I think I am pretty.
My height is...
5'6...
I have short hair...
but it grows very quickly.
Enclosed is a picture and...
Oh, it's you.
The classic letter.
Yes, it's me.
How did you know I was here?
I followed you.
I was in my car,
and I saw you come in here.
You've got some nerve.
No, you're very beautiful.
You really skipped out quickly
the other day.
When?
When that crook was sh*t
outside the caf?.
You just vanished.
I don't think they were crooks.
It was some political stuff.
Really? I didn't know.
In any case,
I didn't mean you aren't brave.
I was just making conversation.
What do you think of me?
Me?
Yes, you.
I think there's
a lot of goodness inside you.
What? A lot of what?
There's a lot of goodness
in your eyes.
Really?
I didn't understand.
Anyway,
that's an odd thing to say.
Why?
I wasn't expecting a Catholic response.
What I meant was:
Do you place me
in a special category of women?
You like being special?
Why?
No reason.
For me, there are
three types of girls:
those with one expression,
those with two, and those with three.
Did Yvette give you this address?
Are you really serious about it?
Why?
I'd like to earn more money.
I can help you earn
even more here in Paris.
Really? Fine with me.
Why not try to get into movies?
You're a pretty girl.
I did try.
Two years ago,
I wanted to make it on the stage.
I was in Pacifico
at the Ch?telet.
And I was in a film once
with Eddie Constantine.
I'm telling you my life story.
How awful.
No, it's not. I'm a friend.
Give me a smile.
No, I don't feel like it.
Shall I come with you?
When do I start?
"When the city lights go on, the
streetwalkers' desperate rounds begin."
AFTERNOONS - MONEY - SINKS -
PLEASURE - HOTELS
What exactly do I do?
The prost*tute earns all she can
by trading on her charms
to build up a good clientele and
establish the best working conditions.
Does she have
to be beautiful?
No, although beauty is an important
factor in a prost*tute's career.
It establishes her place in the hierarchy
and attracts the attention of the pimp,
since her physical allure can be
a source of great profit.
Does she have
to register somewhere?
Before the law
of April 13th, 1946,
prostitutes were subject to medical
and police surveillance.
Under the new law,
only medical surveillance
is now required.
The 1946 law and Decree 2253
of November 5th, 1947,
established the National Sanitary
Register for all women
shown by conclusive evidence
to be engaged in prostitution.
But what do I do?
Regardless of the neighborhood,
the procedure is the same.
By her dress,
attitude, and makeup,
the prost*tute indicates
her trade.
Sometimes,
in defiance of the law,
she gestures to the client
or propositions him outright.
What do I charge?
It can vary greatly,
from 300 to 15,000 francs
for an encounter lasting
from a few minutes to an hour
called a "trick."
An "overnight" ranges
from 5,000 to 50,000 francs.
Can I go anywhere I like?
Controls have been attempted.
In Paris, for instance
a police regulation
of August 25th, 1958,
forbids loitering
with intent to solicit
during certain hours
in the Bois de Boulogne
and around the Champs-Elys?es.
Do I keep a percentage?
A daily "quota"
is agreed upon in advance.
Around the Champs-Elys?es
and the Madeleine,
it's 20,000
to 30,000 francs a day,
paid at the end of the week.
Do I have my own room?
Usually only the towels are changed
between tricks, not the sheets.
Some hotels provide no blankets,
only a bottom sheet.
What about the police?
They conduct raids
and interrogations.
Any woman in violation
of regulations
can be detained in a clinic
as long as necessary
for extensive testing.
Can I have a drink
in a caf??
A prost*tute who drinks heavily
earns very little.
She's undesirable
because she creates a scene.
What if I get pregnant?
One might think a prost*tute
would seek an abortion at any cost.
That's not the case.
They do try to avoid pregnancy,
by chemical means or any other.
But once pregnancy is confirmed,
abortions are rare.
Must I accept anyone?
The prost*tute must always be
at the client's disposal.
She must accept anyone
who pays.
That man...
that man...
Are there clients every day?
Lower-grade prostitutes
average
five to eight clients a day,
earning 4,000 to 8,000 a day.
However, some manage
exceptional turnover.
Sixty clients is not unheard of
on Saturdays or holidays.
A YOUNG MAN -- LUIGI -- NANA
WONDERS WHETHER SHE'S HAPPY
Do I get days off?
Usually after the medical check.
Her man usually takes her out,
often to see her child
in the country.
Afterwards, they go out
to a restaurant or a movie.
- Is Luigi here?
- Upstairs.
I'll be five minutes.
The movie already started anyway.
A white wine.
Got any Gauloises?
- You have cigarettes?
- Yes. What kind?
I was just wondering.
- Got any cigarettes?
- They've got some downstairs.
- How are you?
- So-so.
What's wrong with her?
We were supposed
to see a movie.
I'll cheer you up.
I'll do the kid
blowing up a balloon.
He's got a balloon,
and he blows it up.
You ought to be my man.
Happy now?
Will you let us talk?
THE STREETS - A GUY -
HAPPINESS IS NO FUN
Did you see inspector Fleytoux?
He bought a BMW.
They could have provided chairs.
It's always like that.
How much?
3,000.
5,000 if I undress.
Can't you give me one more?
- I have to keep some.
- One of these, then?
- It's all I've got.
A little one.
It would be so nice.
You come here often?
But I've seen you before,
haven't I?
Maybe.
What's your name?
Dimitri.
Nice name.
Yes, I'm fond of it.
What line of work are you in?
I sh**t pictures for ads.
You mean like in the movies?
No, still pictures.
I was in a movie with
Eddie Constantine two months ago.
No Pity.
Did you see it?
You don't say much.
Are you the romantic type?
If you give me more,
you can stay.
That's what you want?
I'll go see.
Never mind.
- Are you leaving?
- Yes.
- Can you spare five minutes?
- Ask Monique. She's in 41.
- What's up?
- Nothing.
The elevators never work.
See you Tuesday
at the Olympia.
- What are you doing?
- Going downstairs.
- Can you spare a moment?
- How much?
I don't know.
We can discuss it.
All right.
Room 45.
Work it out with her.
- All right?
- Yes.
- What's your name?
- Elizabeth. Like the Queen of England.
Shall I strip too?
Actually, don't bother.
So you don't need me any more?
I don't know.
Like that.
PLACE DU CH?TELET - A STRANGER -
NANA, THE UNWITTING PHILOSOPHER
Do you mind me looking?
You look bored.
Not at all.
- What are you doing?
- Reading.
Will you buy me a drink?
If you like.
Do you come here often?
Occasionally.
Today I just happened by.
Why are you reading?
It's my job.
It's funny.
Suddenly I don't know what to say.
It happens to me a lot.
I know what I want to say.
I think first about whether
they're the right words.
But when the moment comes
to speak, I can't say it.
Yes, of course.
Have you read
The Three Musketeers?
No, but I saw the movie. Why?
Because in it, Porthos...
Actually, this is from
Twenty Years Later.
Porthos is tall, strong,
and a little dense.
He's never had a thought in his life.
He has to place a b*mb
in a cellar to blow it up.
He does it.
He places the b*mb, lights the fuse,
and starts to run away.
But just then he begins to think.
About what?
How it's possible to put
one foot in front of the other.
I'm sure that's happened to you.
So he stops running.
He can't move forward.
The b*mb explodes,
and the cellar caves in around him.
He holds it up
with his strong shoulders.
But after a day or two,
he's crushed to death.
So the first time he thought,
it k*lled him.
Why do you tell me
things like that?
No reason. Just to talk.
Why must one always talk?
I think one should often
just keep quiet, live in silence.
The more one talks,
the less the words mean.
Perhaps,
but can one do that?
I don't know.
It's always struck me,
the fact we can't live without speaking.
But it would be nice.
Yes, it would be nice, wouldn't it?
Sort of like we loved
one another more.
But it's impossible.
No one's been able to.
But why?
Words should express
just what one wants to say.
Do they betray us?
Yes, but we betray them too.
One should be able
to express oneself.
We manage
to write things quite well.
It's extraordinary
that someone like Plato
can still be understood.
People really do understand him.
Yet he wrote in Greek
2,500 years ago.
No one really knows
the language, not exactly.
Yet something gets through, so we
should be able to express ourselves.
And we have to.
Why do we have to?
To understand each other?
We must think,
and for thought we need words.
There's no other way to think.
To communicate, one must speak.
That's our life.
Yes, but at the same time,
it's very hard.
Whereas I think
life should be easy.
Your tale about the Three Musketeers
may be a very nice story,
but it's terrible.
Yes, but it's a pointer.
I believe
one learns to speak well only when
one has renounced life for a while.
That's the price.
- So to speak is fatal?
Speaking is almost
a resurrection in relation to life.
Speaking is a different life
from when one does not speak.
So to live speaking,
one must pass through
the death of life without speaking.
I don't know if I'm being clear...
but there's a kind of ascetic rule
that stops one from speaking well
until one sees life with detachment.
But one can't live everyday life
with... I don't know...
Detachment?
We go back and forth. That's why
we pass from silence to words.
We swing between the two,
because it's the movement of life.
From everyday life
one rises to a life...
Let's call it superior... why not?
It's the thinking life.
But the thinking life presupposes
that one has k*lled off
a life that's too mundane,
too rudimentary.
Then thinking and speaking
are the same thing?
I believe so.
It's in Plato, you know.
It's an old idea.
I don't think
one can distinguish a thought
from the words that express it.
A moment of thought can only
be grasped through words.
So to speak is to risk lying?
Lies too are part of our quest.
There's little difference
between an error and a lie.
I don't mean ordinary lies,
like promising,
"I'll be here tomorrow at 5:00,"
and then not showing up.
Those are just ploys.
But a subtle lie
often differs little from an error.
One's searching for something
and can't find the right word.
That's why you didn't know
what to say before.
I think you were afraid
of not finding the right word.
How can one be sure
of having found the right word?
One must work at it.
It only comes with effort.
To say what must be said
in the appropriate way,
that is, that doesn't hurt,
that says what must be said,
does what must be done,
without hurting
or wounding anyone.
One must try to act in good faith.
Someone once told me,
"There's truth in everything,
even in error."
It's true.
That's what France didn't see
in the 17th century.
They thought one could
avoid errors and lies,
that one could live
directly in the truth.
I don't think it's possible.
Hence Kant, Hegel,
German philosophy:
to bring us back to life
and make us see that we must pass
through error to arrive at truth.
What do you think about love?
The body had to come into it,
and indeed,
Leibniz introduced the contingent.
Contingent truths
and necessary truths make up life.
German philosophy
showed us that in life,
one thinks with the constraints
and errors of life.
One must manage with that.
It's true.
Shouldn't love be the only truth?
But for that,
love would always have to be true.
Do you know anyone who knows
right off what he loves?
No. When you're 20,
you don't know.
All you know are bits and pieces.
You grasp at experience.
At that age, "I love"
is a mixture of many things.
To be completely at one
with what you love takes maturity.
That means searching.
That's the truth of life.
That's why love is a solution,
but on the condition that it be true.
THE YOUNG MAN AGAIN -- THE OVAL
PORTRAIT -- RAOUL TRADES NANA
What shall we do today?
I don't know.
Shall we go
to the Luxembourg Garden?
I think it's going to rain.
"I thus saw in vivid light
a picture all unnoticed before.
It was the portrait of a young girl
just ripening into womanhood.
I glanced at the painting hurriedly,
and then closed my eyes.
It was an impulsive movement
to gain time for thought,
to make sure that my vision
had not deceived me,
to calm and subdue my fancy
for a more sober and more certain gaze.
In a very few moments
I again looked fixedly at the painting.
The portrait, I have already said,
was that of a young girl.
It was a mere head and shoulders,
done in what is technically
termed a vignette manner,
much in the style
of the favorite heads of Sully.
The arms, the bosom,
and even the ends of the radiant hair
melted imperceptibly
into the vague yet deep shadow
which formed
the background of the whole.
As a thing of art,
nothing could be more admirable
than the painting itself.
But it could have been
neither the execution of the work,
nor the immortal beauty
of the countenance,
which had so suddenly
and so vehemently moved me.
Least of all could it have been that
my fancy, shaken from its half slumber,
had mistaken the head
for that of a living person.
At length, satisfied
with the true secret of its effect,
I fell back within the bed.
I had found the spell of the picture
in an absolute life-likeliness
of expression."
ls that your book?
No, I found it here.
Can I have one?
It's our story:
a painter portraying his love.
Shall I go on?
"And in sooth
some who beheld the portrait
spoke of its resemblance
in low words as of a mighty marvel,
and a proof not less
of the power of the painter
than of his deep love for her
whom he depicted so surpassingly well.
But at length, as the labor drew
nearer to its conclusion,
there were admitted none
into the turret.
For the painter had grown wild
with the ardor of his work,
and turned his eyes from the canvas
rarely, even to regard his wife.
And he would not see that the tints
which he spread upon the canvas
were drawn from the cheeks of her
who sat beside him.
And when many weeks had passed,
and but little remained to do,
save one brush upon the mouth
and one tint upon the eye,
the spirit of the lady again flickered up
as the flame within a lamp.
And then the brush was given,
and then the tint was placed.
And, for one moment,
the painter stood entranced
before the work he had wrought.
But in the next, while he yet gazed,
he grew tremulous and aghast,
and crying with a loud voice,
"This is indeed Life itself!"
turned suddenly to regard his beloved:
She was dead!"
I'd like to go to the Louvre.
No, I don't like looking at pictures.
Why? Art and beauty are life!
I adore you.
And I love you.
Why not come and live with me?
Yes. I'll tell Raoul it's all over.
Let me at least put my coat on
or I'll catch cold!
Stop acting hysterical.
No, Raoul, not now!
Stop acting hysterical!
You know each other?
What did I do wrong?
You must take anyone who pays.
Not anyone.
Sometimes it's degrading.
See? That's where you're wrong.
The movies are a drag.
Weekdays we're too busy,
and on Sundays
there's always a line.
- Where are you going?
- Taking them back to their car.
Why did you make me come?
You're going with them.
HADES AND SONS
Well, are you going?
First the girl.
First the money.
Get the money.
There's 100,000 missing.
Don't move.
Don't think I won't sh**t
just because of the girl.
No, don't sh**t me!
You sh**t.
I forgot to load.
My Life to Live (1962)
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