Bloodsuckers (Blutsauger)

Today we're going to discuss chapter eight.

It deals with the working day. Have you read it?

I didn't have time.

The others?

Good.

Now for the first paragraph.

Marx reviews the basics

of selling labor-power.

Can anyone explain?

Excuse me. There's something I don't understand.

But it's about paragraph five.

Can't it wait?

It's pretty urgent.

Okay, read the passage out loud.

Marx writes... I'll start a bit earlier.

"The capitalist has bought the labor-power at its day-rate.

"He has acquired the right to make the laborer

"work for him during one day.

"But what is a working day?

"The capitalist has his own views

"on the limit of the working day.

"As a capitalist, he is only personi-

"capital personified.

"But capital has one single life impulse:

"to absorb the greatest possible amount of surplus-value.

"Capital is dead labor that, vampire-like..."

And this is the point.

"...that, vampire-like, only lives

"by sucking living labor,

"and lives the more, the more labor it sucks."

I'll skip down a bit.

Here it says,

"The prolongation of the working day into the night

"only slightly quenches

"the vampire thirst for the living blood of labor."

And then, in the footnotes it says:

"In fact, the vampire will not let go as long as there's a muscle,

"a nerve, a drop of blood to be exploited."

Interesting passage. What didn't you understand?

Is the capitalist really a vampire?

I mean our vampire. The real one.

Who flies around at night.

Is it Miss Flambow-Jansen?

Bruno, it's just a comparison.

Schnösl is right.

The capitalist acts like a vampire

in the sense that he "sucks" labor-power from the laborer

to produce surplus-value.

It's only meant metaphorically.

To describe this structure

he uses an image, albeit an unfortunate one.

But Marx explicitly says that the capitalist sucks blood.

BLOODSUCKERS

On a Tuesday in August, 1928...

Excuse me, Miss Octavia,

but wouldn't it be advisable to turn back?

- Stop calling me "Miss." - As you wish.

Give that gentlemen my card.

But what if it's him?

Enough of that peasant gossip!

And who will hold your parasol?

Tell the gentleman to come at once.

I shall inform him.

1. A GUEST FROM THE CLASSLESS SOCIETY

Miss, will you find time to look at the Oklahoma Investment offer?

I could send an overseas telegram tomorrow.

Will you please stop calling me "Miss"!

I'm sorry. I'm not accustomed to it yet.

He surely fled from the Communist camps in Siberia.

What do you think?

He has yet to broach the topic.

Do you think a baron would entrust such confidences to a simple employee?

That would indeed be a contradiction.

Baron Kobersky!

I'm overjoyed that you've come to pay me a visit.

But how did you find your way?

You even brought champagne.

Oh, you shouldn't have!

I had a premonition, and went hunting for you.

Your vegetarianism is to blame.

They think you're walking lettuce.

You'll have to overlook my assistant's lack of dexterity.

But I'm still too much the daughter of a Protestant industrialist

to feel comfortable hiring staff at aristocratic quantities.

You're used to a different standard from St. Petersburg, I imagine?

Actually, we don't have servants anymore.

What do you mean?

Because of the Revolution.

How silly of me!

I only know revolutions from newspapers.

But tell me, Baron. I'm so terribly curious.

Are pretty daughters of industrialists being guillotined in public?

Like the court ladies in Paris once were?

Not exactly.

Where are my manners?

I'm surely stirring up unpleasant memories.

No.

For one, St. Petersburg is now called Leningrad.

Leningrad?

See, Jakob? That's how it is now!

Strangle me in my sleep, and they may name the town after you.

But all jokes aside,

I guess many abominations are being committed in that Lenin...

I shudder to speak that hideous word.

Leningrad.

It almost sounds poetic when you say it in that beautiful voice.

Over there, you'd have to share this house with seven lumberjack families.

Appalling!

But why lumberjacks?

Just an example.

You're a true man of letters, Baron. A regular Count Tolstoy!

I can see them, those grim axe-wielders,

chopping down my conservatory.

Although I must admit how thrilling contemporary Russian painting is.

See that one?

Now tell me,

what is your personal opinion of these Communists?

I hate them.

With what passion you suddenly speak!

Do you like the model?

It's a design for a new house.

I'm suffocating in this imperial doll house.

There's not even a telephone.

But the house is very beautiful.

You certainly are a man from centuries past, Baron.

I bet you still send love letters by homing pigeon.

Are you very shocked by my somewhat American manners?

Sharing your table with a servant is indeed a bit unusual.

But Jakob isn't a servant!

He's my personal assistant!

I even told him to stop calling me "Miss." What do you say to that?

- You're nearly a Bolshevik. - On the contrary.

You just don't understand our democracy.

But that's enough of politics.

Tell me about your passions.

I like to collect mushrooms.

Mushrooms?

I'm nearly in love with you, Baron.

I forbid you to stay at a hotel.

Don't misunderstand me, but...

The guest room is ready.

It's a fait accompli.

Stop resisting fate and...

offer me a glass of your champagne instead.

Trouble sleeping, Baron?

It's the sea air. You have to get used to it.

I was just looking for something to read.

Jakob, why didn't you put anything to read on the Baron's nightstand?

You are a strange baron, though. You don't know how to eat snails,

nor can you tell a champagne flute from a martini glass.

He's not a vampire.

I can see his reflection.

Simpleton!

Now tell me

who you really are and what you're doing in my office by candlelight.

And don't you dare bore me.

My name is Anton Inokentovich Petushkin.

But they call me Lyovochka.

Cut! Ten minute break!

I was given the nickname by the film director Eisenstein.

Listen, Sergei, we could film the apple trees.

Apples? Nonsense!

Let's film the lions.

Thank you.

Give me that flag.

What do you think of Eisenstein?

I prefer working with Vertov.

Why is this flag lying around?

Sorry, comrade cameraman.

And what about Pudovkin?

I'd rather work with Kuleshov.

Dovzhenko?

He's great!

Damn!

Lyovochka, you idiot! You're a stain on OCTOBER!

Lyovochka is the diminutive of Leon.

In Eisenstein's film OCTOBER

I played the hero of the Revolution

Leon Trotsky.

Eighty minutes until sundown.

Fog.

Fog.

Fog!

Excuse me, comrade director.

The fog machine is on strike.

Sabotage!

Quiet on the set!

Places, everybody.

One, two,

blow!

It was the best time of my life.

Hi, Lyovochka.

Hi. Lyovochka.

Hi, kids.

- How's it going? - Great.

I was a person of great respect

and moved in the highest social circles.

He went through this door right in front of my bicolored eyes.

Shortly before the premier a rumor circulated

that Stalin himself had come to the studio