Yves Saint Laurent

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They torched the farm and vines.

Five acres.

What town?

Rio Salado. The army went in.

Help yourselves.

Here in Oran, we've been spared the events.

Algiers is in the thick of it.

Bombs, curfews.

And your son?

I'm happy.

He's showing his collection at Prom.

But we weren't surprised

when Mr Dior hired him.

He always wanted that.

With such a stylish mother...

Once, as a little boy,

he told Aunt Rene, who is very elegant,

"Change that dress. I don't like it."

How do you like it?

It's very pretty.

Did you work well?

I always work well here.

You must inspire me.

- Michle, stay.

- I'm done!

Seen your friends?

I'm making Simone's wedding dress.

I'm doing the sketches.

Who's she marrying?

A French settler, in Mascara.

They won't go there with the unrest?

They rented a place, Avenue Loubet.

It's wiser.

Sometimes in Paris, I think of here.

And I think of you.

And it makes me terribly nervous.

Mr Mathieu-Saint-Laurent.

Hello, Mr Dior.

Hello. Hello, Victoire.

How do you intend to tighten the waist

without taking it in?

May I?

How do you like it, miss?

I like it a lot.

Thousands of times around the Earth!

Extraordinary, isn't it?

In fact, I don't think I really care.

- What's it called?

- Sputnik.

Funny name.

Yes, funny for a dog.

If it works.

Sputnik, come to Victoire.

- Come, Sputnik.

- He's cute.

Victoire, phone call.

Okay.

Are you okay, Yves? You're all Grey.

Fine thanks, ma'am.

Take care of yourself.

And eat. Got to eat at your age!

The boss counts on you.

Yes, ma'am.

Pain in the ass.

She's right. Eat.

I'm not hungry.

Who's she on the phone with?

Therond from Paris Match.

He's wooing her like crazy.

What does he look like?

He's quite handsome.

Not very tall.

I'd like to see.

Are you coming? We miss you!

Victoire!

Karl, Karl!

Mr Lagerfeld!

What do you want?

What do I want? I don't know.

You're hurting me.

Stop!

How juvenile!

And you, drinking Coca-Cola from a straw!

- You beast!

- What do you say now?

- I want to marry you.

- What?

I said, "I want to marry you."

Yves,

you were so young,

so handsome,

so shy,

so luminous.

I had not met you yet,

and you fought your first battle alone.

An art collection is a

moment in one's life.

And today, I am selling our collection.

We bought many objects in pairs

because we chose them, observed them,

loved them, as a pair.

Now that I'm alone and you're gone,

I can't stand seeing them.

This auction is taking up all my time.

I keep answering the same questions.

"How did you build this collection?

"Which was his favourite painting?

"And yours?"

I repeat the same answers.

You loved beauty, Yves.

We do not know where taste comes from,

or instinct.

No one can teach you.

Wherever we come from,

we are born alone with it.

With the death of Christian Dior,

haute couture loses a pioneer.

His name meant prestige.

Even princesses accepted his laws.

His life was devoted

to that manifestation of human genius,

ephemeral, fugitive, yet long-lasting,

which is called fashion.

Yves.

They're waiting for you.

The company's future will proceed

with the staff

that Christian Dior himself engaged.

The studio will be run by

Mrs Raymonde Zehnacker.

The salons will still be managed

by Yvonne DE Peyerimhoff,

and Anne-Marie Muoz

will take over the ateliers.

The artistic direction will be confided

to Yves Mathieu-Saint-Laurent,

Christian Dior's assistant.

You don't feel too young to lead

France's greatest fashion house?

I don't know yet.

What do you intend to do

for your first show?

I'll do my best, of course.

I'll lock myself in my room

day and night, in order to draw.

How do you feel now?

I cannot say everything I feel.

Sadness.

Anxiety.

Joy, too, and pride.

Fear of not succeeding,

as well.

But I'll do my best, and relentlessly.

That I can swear to you.

Back then, I knew nothing of fashion.

I believed only in the major arts.

Literature, painting,

and a painter.

- Stop frowning.

- I've had enough. I'm tired.

Tell them all to leave.

Keep complaining! I've sold five paintings.

Bernard, you'll die under a bridge.

A gold one.

Your mouth to God's ears.

You're lucky. You found your Pygmalion.

It's all outlined in black.

It's not a painting.

It's a condolence card.

Remember Marie-Louise Bousquet,

editor of Harper's Bazaar?

I wanted to bring

Yves Mathieu-Saint-Laurent.

But the sublime child is busy.

You're his favourite painter.

I'll organise a dinner.

He admires you so. But he's shy.

So am I.

Amusing dinner.

Beware of shy people. They rule the world!

I'll plan this dinner.

But without you, Jean.

Number 32.

Very nice. Now it falls well.

We'll call it Bobby.

Thank you, miss.

Are you sure naming them after dogs

won't irk people?

Not at all.

I grew up with dogs. I love them.

They're part of my life now.

Hello, Victoire.

Number 42.

We'll call it Valentine.

Like Zizi Jeanmaire's daughter.

Very youthful. Happy-go-lucky. Tangy.

I like it a lot.

Thank you, Victoire.

He's so good-looking.

Forget it. He only likes guys.

Fortunately. Or we'd all

be fighting for him.

- Was she the last one?

- Yes, that's it.

We need to talk, sir.

- What about?

- The seating arrangement.

You must know that...

Not ruffling their feathers

requires diplomacy.

Not everyone can sit up front.

Yvonne, I cannot deal with this.

We must plan ahead.

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