For Ever Mozart

You're late! Kiss me.

We're waiting!

The French franc

keeps dropping, Baron.

Is it yes or no?

We'll soon find out.

This is me.

"A Prisoner of Love".

That's why you changed

"Man's Hope" to "expectations"?

Sh*t, the cinema!

36 CHARACTERS

IN SEARCH OF HISTORY

Expectations...

That's the word I'd like to write.

Modern life is too fast-paced

to allow any room

for a feeling so ardent,

so tender.

We shrug our shoulders

at this chaste betrothal with the future.

Modern man has no time to hope,

nor to love.

It's the little people who hope.

Not the modern world.

Like the saints

who atone and love for us.

Everywhere in our poor Europe,

the tradition of modest expectations

is in the hands of the poor.

Like old seamstresses,

whose lace work

no machine could ever match.

You'll say that these poor fools...

Living on expectations, are no more

laudable for hoping than for living.

Probably...

Next!

Mr Vitalis, I'm Baron Felix.

"War is easy. It's... "

So is it yes?

What's your film called?

"The Fatal Bolero".

100,000 francs.

Go on.

1,000,000 francs.

Good thing I'm not serious

or I'd think it over for another year.

"War is easy. It's sticking

a piece of metal in a piece of flesh. "

No, not at all!

Tonight at 10.

I booked a table at Edgar.

We're expecting you.

No, Father! It's not for you anymore.

You have to turn the page!

We'll start over after vacation.

I need to speak to you.

She sent me a letter.

You're lucky.

Yes, but I'm scared.

Too much of her

brings me bad luck.

Will you be at your mother's

for vacation?

Yes, Uncle.

I'm going to Madrid to get a book.

I'll come to see you

before going to Paris.

- How old is it now?

- 35. You should know.

Either you're faithful

or you aren't.

Each in his own way.

I was in Spain.

I found Azana's book

about how Don Quixote was invented.

I haven't forgotten.

With the communists

I'll go to my death.

But I won't go one step further.

Something's wrong.

Is it her or is it him?

- You'll have to push.

- I'm tired!

I know, I know.

You saw Sollers' article in "Le Monde",

"Sarajevo and Marivaux".

Let's go by foot. It's not far.

She's given him the idea

of going to Sarajevo

to put on

"The Game of Love and Chance".

As if France needed that!

That screwy philosophizing

daughter of yours!

He says he'll find a sponsor,

if I lend him the car.

Can you imagine?

The car in which Albert Camus got killed

drives on to Sarajevo.

I may have Corneille or Racine.

We said no tragedies!

How about Musset?

- "One Mustn't Play at Love"

- In Sarajevo.

I heard Musset

was mean to George Sand.

Serves her right.

And what's more, Camille...

that's me!

Happiness is such a rare pearl

in this earthly ocean.

I know her. Three years ago,

she wanted to deliver Jerusalem.

In the meantime, she's unemployed.

In Madrid, candles are forbidden

in every church.

- What do they use?

- Electricity.

Good God.

- I agree.

- I don't.

"We begin by defending a Republic

and end up robbing stagecoaches": Hugo.

I don't like guerillas,

that ass Guevara, 2 or 3 Vietnams...

Yeah, Dad. 2 or 3 Americas.

Kings lunch, princes dine,

paupers sup.

That's right.

So, who starts?

I, Albert Camus' granddaughter,

decide to put on

"One Mustn't Play at Love" in Sarajevo.

It's suicide.

"Suicide is the only

serious philosophical problem. "

"The Rebel", page one.

To do so, I've asked

the help and support

of my cousin, here present.

Children were once parental property.

Yes, but when children are grand,

they belong to their grandparents.

Say something.

No, he'll take his $100,000

for the "Fatal Bolero".

Ridiculous!

Shameful!

How horrible.

I have their word.

We'll never see that money.

This is what Juan Goytisolo

told me in Madrid:

Is the history of Europe

in the 1990's a simple rehearsal

with slight symphonic variations

of the cowardice

and chaos of the 1930's?

Austria, Ethiopia,

Spain, Czechoslovakia:

a dreadful, unending Bolero by Ravel.

Anyway, the war is over.

So what?

It was a civil war!

What you're saying is irrelevant!

Anyway, he's right.

What about the forests?

The fish? The wolves?

What's she talking about?

You heard me.

They'll rebuild it any which way.

No use voting green.

I'd like to go away.

With them.

It's not good enough here?

No, I'm not happy.

She can be Rosette.

There's nothing more to say.

Yes, there's more.

Now that I'm unemployed,

during these slow, empty hours,

a sadness rises into my mind

from the depths of my soul.

Bitterness that everything is

a sensation belonging only to me

and also something outside me.

Something I'm incapable

of changing!

Alas, life's a nightmare bad enough.

Leave our dreams out of it.

Articulate!

Yes, Uncle.

How often do my own dreams

rise before me?

They represent what's most intelligent

in the young generation,

in this Europe,

not purified,

but corrupted by suffering...

To tell me how

they resemble reality.

Not exalted,

but humiliated

by its new-won freedom.

...because I refuse them

and they appear suddenly

from the exterior.

You too,

nothing but youth for sale.

Who's the father

of characters in a play?

It was your idea

to do theater there...

It's the author, Dad.

And who is the mother?

The actor.

Come with us... please.

I have to stop by Paris.

Listen to my idea.

Remember Hemingway's house?

My Lord,

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