Anatomy of Hell (Anatomie de l'enfer) (Anatomie de l'enfer)

A film is an illusion, not reality-fiction or a happening: it is a true work of fiction.

For the actress's most intimate scenes, a body double was used.

It's not her body, it's an extension of a fictional character.

ANATOMY OF HELL

Why did you do that?

Because I'm a woman.

I don't understand.

You understand very well.

Thanks.

Why did you go back down to the toilets?

People like you don't look at women.

When you touched me, on the stairs...

You touched me, right?

So what?

It was touching...

At first I paid no attention to it,

then I got scared: I was sure of what you did.

I was sure of what you did, too.

I know why you went to the can!

To get sucked, like all men.

Dumb bitch!

That's what you all do.

You're all alike.

What do you want to do now?

I'll pay you.

To what end?

To find out.

You don't like women, you can look at me...

I mean, impartially.

What's this about?

Just that.

Watch me where I'm unwatchable.

No need to touch me.

Just say what you see.

It'll cost you a lot.

I'll pay you.

That's how the deal was made.

First night...

Excuse me.

You're early: I didn't have time to undress.

I'm paid to watch.

That's all you can ask me to do.

You're right.

But I can still hope for more...

You didn't say it was an isolated house.

I had to take a train, then a cab.

That will cost you extra.

I'll pay for everything.

He'd been tricked into this meeting.

It sickens him to be here:

he hoped for something new, unexpected,

though he knows it won't be.

At last. It's about time!

Why do you exhibit yourself this way?

The fragility of female flesh

inspires disgust or brutality.

Women depend on one or the other.

What should we fear more?

Nothingness...

or brutality?

It takes ages between the offer and the demand.

Between the offer and when it's taken up.

That's what we call the first deception.

Thereafter, nothing flows,

it's all fake...

Artificial catching up,

the clumsiness of hasty brutality...

You talk too much.

Your words are inept reproaches.

Should I have shaved my armpits?

It would still show...

However much women shave.

Even if you removed the hair from your crack,

you wouldn't be rid of your obscene nature,

on the contrary.

The skin stays lumpy

like the neck of a plucked chicken.

Every pore exudes the irritation of pulled hairs

like microscopic sexual swellings.

So we can't do a thing about it?

No, you can't.

It's the depth of this obscenity,

its feminine depth,

that men who don't like women envy in you,

and that those who like you, hate you for.

It's not what we see,

though when you spread your legs, we're revolted,

by the overly bright color,

the sloppy, shapeless aspect of your hidden lips...

the thinness of their skin,

though...

here and there, it's lumpy,

a skin that sweats, that oozes,

a pestilential skin,

like the skin of frogs.

Frogs, at least, have the decency of being green,

but their thighs,

symbolically, can be spread as wide as yours.

It's not what we see:

your denial of the obscenity is what frightens us most.

Keep going...

So I wonder if what first turned me off women

wasn't the deep violence they provoke from their slumbering depths.

So far, I'd been honest.

But you must have an inkling of what I inevitably recall,

because thoughts tend to wander...

And you can't channel them forever in a course that isn't theirs.

You can't deny what those black tufts remind you of,

with their shiny putrid hairiness?

A just-hatched bird, still wet from the egg,

so touching

in its newborn weakness.

Still today, the child,

who would become all men,

retained his horror of the slime that mocked him...

Do you understand?

I was learning what I knew, but refused to hear:

that the body of women calls for mutilation.

And yet no part of it is excessive.

Men rant against something that's invisible.

It's late, and you still know nothing about women.

Why did you go and sit down?

Come take a closer look.

Isn't that what I pay you for?

Know why people drink when they're together?

Because they have nothing to say.

They hope a bedroom will make things better:

it's worse.

We drink because there's no communication.

Nothing...

You speaking for me?

Not at all!

Man or woman, it makes no difference.

When you offer up your perishable flesh,

when an opening in the flesh is promised,

I lack words and thoughts...

I need alcohol...

I need to forget that bestiality.

That loneliness.

Aren't you afraid?

No, I control my impatience.

The waiting has become part of my pleasure.

It's inherent in my demand.

Can you understand that?

It reminds me of a time

when I was still naive and far-removed from sex.

The silly local boys, who already went around in a pack,

descended on our garden behind the house

like a flight of partridges in the hunting season.

After a short period of hostilities,

since I was the only enemy, beating me wasn't glorious,

so we agreed to be friends...

To seal the peace, we played doctor.

I was the patient, of course.

A girl is a man's sickness.

So maybe all these budding young doctors,

were disgusted forever

of the sight of candid little virgin girls.

I bless the day I was born immune to you

and of all of your kind.

The elastic resistance of a boy's anus doesn't lie

about the tightness

of his lower intestine.

The lie about the softness of women is hateful...

the malevolent triviality,

that turns them into a trap.

The horror of Nothingness that is the imprescriptible All.

I'm sick of your dallying!

You've hardly looked at me.

Look at me when I can't see myself.

Look at me when I can't see myself!

The ocean, despite its misleading male image,

rolled in the darkness like a bitch in heat.

This ocean, like a woman, could engulf you

and make you vanish into its loins.