Ginger & Rosa Page #3

when you just gobble it up?

Oh, for God's sake.

I've been working all day.

But I made it for you.

There's emotional

blackmail again.

If the transitory nature of cooking

and eating offends you so much...

then why don't you take up

your painting again...

and make something

for posterity?

And with what?

I'm scraping to pay the bills,

with the money...

Yes, with the money I earn.

- But it's not enough for paint.

- Get a job!

Why don't you sod off

to your bloody yacht?

It's a boat.

It's a small boat.

Your bloody boat with some

blonde student again...

for all I know.

Anyway, what kind

of job could I get?

Roland's moving out.

They're separating.

Again.

Not that it'll make

any difference.

He's hardly ever

at home anyway.

At least you have a dad...

who takes you out and stuff.

I'm sure he wouldn't mind if

you came with me this weekend.

You don't want me tagging along

with your beloved Dad.

Don't be silly.

But anyway,

I have a Roland, actually.

- He won't let me call him Dad.

- I know.

You told me.

Lots of times.

Did I?

Did I also tell you

he says the word "dad"...

makes him think of

slippers by the fire...

and other bourgeois

death traps?

He has a point, of course.

What's Natalie's view

on death traps?

She just bursts into tears...

as usual, when he

says stuff like that.

Which he then says is...

Emotional blackmail.

Rosa!

Rosa, can you bring

the girls up now?

Hello.

Our mothers are pathetic.

They don't believe

in anything.

Or do anything,

more to the point.

Except moan about stuff.

At least your mum has a job.

Cleaning?

You call that a job?

She hates it.

She moans on and on.

Roland really hates

the moaning thing.

It's no wonder.

- No wonder what?

- It's no wonder they can't keep their men.

What could be

better than this?

Isn't she marvelous?

Am I right, girls?

It's lovely.

It's so romantic.

Indeed.

There is a poetry in small spaces,

isn't there?

Confinement can be

utterly beautiful...

but only if it's a

matter of choice.

What do you mean?

Well, what I mean is...

a prison cell,

on the contrary...

is the ugliest expression

of minimalism.

It must have been

really terrible.

Ginger told me about it.

Did she?

We tell each other everything.

I have nothing to hide.

Prison was pretty brutal.

First they strip you

of your clothes.

And then,

if you dare to protest...

they strip you of

all human contact.

But the worst thing

about solitary confinement...

is not that they make you feel

like an abandoned child...

but that you start to

doubt your beliefs.

I understand.

The Soviet defense

minister said today...

that their missiles could,

with one blow...

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes