Little Ashes

Made by Ana Marija

Dry land

Quiet land of immense night

Wind in the olive grove

Wind in the Sierra

For Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice

- Here we are, the three musketeers.

- Did you miss us?

- Luis Buuel.

- It's Louie this term.

More chic, don't you think?

- Published?

- I signed it for you.

-And he would never have managed it

without your supportive comments.

-He's waisting his education with bad

company in disreputable night clubs.

My parents were so pleased.

Thank you sir, thank you so much.

- The soul of the west wind

- Just say what you want to say, Louie.

- What?

I was having a lovely time reading about

all the butterflies and thrills...

Oh, look! Here's God!

It's just a bit... andalusian.

- I am andalusian.

- You know what I mean.

- You think it's bad.

- No, not the writing. The writing is

bloody good.

It's the subject.

What does Federico Garca Lorca feel

about all this bloody butterflies?

What makes him angry?

What turns him on?

Oh, come on. Don't be such a prude.

I am trying to be constructive here.

... the other flag in between her leg ...

... and waived the flag ...

... it was a victory for ...

- Holding all this brilliance isn't very

neighbourly, you know?

Name?

- Salvador Felipe Jacinto Dal Domenech.

- Studying?

- Fine art.

- Clearly.

Interests?

Affiliations?

- Only dada, anarchy and the

construction of genius.

- Whose genius?

- My own.

- Bravo.

- Luis Buuel.

- Pleased to make your acquaintance.

Excuse me for a moment.

Private view at number seven!

Where is everyone? Come on!

This here... Sergio.

Pechuga. Like it?

Ah, look! A strategically placed

copy of Freud.

Very good, very good, my friend.

That's Federico, resident poet.

- Garca Lorca.

He's famous.

- Really?

I wonder if he knows.

Come on, let's tell him. Federico!

My new discovery. Salvador, may I

introduce you to resident poet,

playwriter and another self-titled genius,

Federico Garca Lorca.

- We've met.

You're a cubist.

- No.

- This is cubist.

You're going to be something else?

I'm putting together a magazine.

Would you let us have this

for the cover?

She is beautiful.

- She's dead.

- Federico, where have you been?

- Have you met Paco?

- Hours ago.

- What have you been doing?

- Trying to find a subject.

Louie thinks I'm a danger of

becoming bourgeois.

- Well, you've read the poems, apparently.

What do you think?

- I like them.

- Of course you like them, everybody

likes them.

I just think you should write about

something modern. Something politics or...

...the decapitation of the putrid priest

in Zaragoza or...

Come on!

- Eiffel tower.

- Sex!

- Aeroplanes.

- Anything! Everything! Nothing!

- A recent acquisition?

- Salvador Felipe Jacinto Dal Domenech.

- Catchy.

- New, but showing considerate promise.

This is Adella.

Federico the Famous,

where are the drinks?

- Federico!

- Your hair!

- It's gone.

- It's wonderful.

I'm very shocking, apparently, because my

grandfather refuses to let me in the house.

- Quite right. I wouldn't.

- I've missed you.

The holidays were terrible! There was no one

here, nothing to regret!

I read 80 books!

- 80?

- 40.

- I've missed you, too.

This is Salvador.

He's just arrived. He's a painter,

a very good one.

- Well, ain't we lucky to have you.

- Champagne!

- You all live like kings!

- Surely, you're not suggesting we live like students.

Magdalena is a writer.

- At the women's college.

- What do you write?

- I didn't tell you, did I?

I'm getting an apartment!

- How will you ever get your parents to

agree to that?

- By not telling them.

All lies are elaborate deceptions.

Anyone got a match?

- Spain is rotting from the inside.

Fated monarchy crash and dement our

religious culture

- Something has to give.. Look at

Russia!

- Look at Paris!

Dance, my dove.

- I thought you'd never ask.

- Manuel de Torre.

Great artist of the idiot people.

Once told a singer

You have a voice

You know the styles

But you will never triumph in your art

Because you have no...

'Duende.'

A passion, on the very edge

of life and death.

Everywhere else in the world, death comes

and they draw the curtains.

But not in Spain.

In Spain... They open them.

- And I tell you this.

There is no beginning and we do not

tremble.

We are not sentimental.

Like a furious wind, we rip at the fabric

of clouds and prayers.

And we shape an epic spectacle.

Of disaster, fire and decomposition.

- Ideal, ideal, ideal.

- Knowledge, knowledge, knowledge!

Dada! Now, that is what I call poetry.

- Yes, you know when I took the exam

for our art college..

...I worked for three days on the drawing

and then I erased it.

And I had one hour to get it right, just

imagine - one hour...

.. and I gave it to our professors..

... and they said "This painting..."...

... "This painting, Salvador, it's"...

- No, no... Don't worry.

- They told me, this painting...

"It's perfect."

- Whose idea was this?

Federico's.

- No. He's your discovery.

- Faggots!

Better hide! They're coming

to get you!

They should be more careful.

The boys are starting a gang,

do you know?

Going to clean things up!

- Thinking of joining them?

- I prefer to see the marricones

locked away.

He'll freeze.

I can't stay here much longer, Federico.

Can't breathe.

We should be in Paris, mon ami.

You can write, I can work

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