Not My Type (Pas son genre)

NOT MY TYPE

Go now, please.

Go, Clément.

You're hurting me, you understand?

Yes.

So say nothing and go.

Hello, Mr Le Guern.

You're up early today.

How are you?

I'm well.

Thank you.

What's so funny?

Shit!

Why?

You know why. You're single.

No kids. Not enough points to choose your posting.

Why Arras, Antoine?

It's a punishment.

A favour. 90 minutes from Paris.

90 minutes from Paris doesn't exist!

Outside city limits, it's the 19th century.

You're lucky.

It could have been a backwater.

Make it the country!

Why not? It's not the end of the world.

Arras is the town of Robespierre, Vidocq...

Verlaine loved the place. Camille Corot too.

De Gaulle...

And who stayed there?

Who?

You see. Anyhow, Arras isn't the problem.

It's me. I hate being away from Paris.

You understand?

Whenever I'm away, I feel I'm missing out on something big.

I'm a Parisian, Antoine.

Anywhere else, I get bored.

I fall apart. I languish. I fade away.

I die.

One year.

Arras, two-minute halt.

Clément Le Guern?

Hélène Pasquier-Legrand.

I teach philosophy with you. Welcome to Arras.

Thank you.

A friendly presence is always nice.

It is.

Shall we go?

You live here?

God, no. My husband says no one lives in Arras, you die here.

He has a way with words.

It's his job. He's a lawyer in Lille.

It's not Paris, of course.

But compared to Arras...

These are the squares.

This is the largest one. The belfry is on the other.

It's on the World Heritage list.

- UNESCO protects the belfry bats? - Here, yes.

Cats and dogs this weekend.

Are you sure?

Yes.

I heard drizzle.

I heard showers yesterday.

They said cats and dogs this morning.

I heard drizzle. Or spitting maybe...

A downpour perhaps?

It'll be wet.

One ray of sunshine in the week means rain at the weekend.

Don't exaggerate...

- I'll be going. - Thank you.

- You're welcome. - Coffee?

I don't have time.

Another day. See you soon.

Tomorrow.

I think so, yes.

Bastard!

Welcome to Arras.

Not your ideal posting, I suppose. At a hotel like your predecessors?

Temporarily.

Temporarily tends to mean permanently.

I've grouped your classes

on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

Very good.

- Thank you. - You're welcome.

However, you won't have the classes best suited to philosophy.

But it's a fair deal, believe me. And Hélène's happy.

That's true.

It's my pleasure then.

Epicurus, does that ring a bell?

- Epi who? - Epiclitoris!

Apart from that witticism?

Epicurean neither?

Look it up and tell me next time.

How about that coffee?

That group just wants to make money as fast as possible.

Philosophy is alien to them.

As my husband says, "What's worse than a nouveau riche?"

His kids. They don't have the excuse of having been poor.

You shouldn't waste your time on them.

All the same...

Are you writing?

Yes, of course. Always.

I read "Of Love (and Chance)".

I loved it.

It's so unsettling. You question our most intimate certainties.

Books rarely dissect love like that.

Deeply. Ontologically.

Viscerally above all.

You invented a visceral ontology, you know.

You're THE philosopher of the visceral from now on.

Forever.

Of the eros, surely?

I prefer philosopher of the eros.

Not at all.

In the eros, there's the intellect, thought.

The visceral comes before thought, before words.

You think what precedes thought, Clément.

You think the unthought. The unthinkable.

The raw. The rough even.

You think the bestial. The organic. The matter.

The flesh. Its absolute aspect. Its essence.

That's what's brilliant in your work.

The carnal overcoming the spiritual. Its beauty. Its searing intensity.

Is that stupid?

Not at all.

I'm lucky to have readers like you.

Really?

I'm glad to hear you say that.

That's why I said it.

- Hello, sir, for a cut? - Yes.

Jennifer!

Good evening. Follow me.

What will it be?

Cut it. Just a little.

How do you usually do it?

I don't really do it.

With your hands? Loose?

Yes, like that.

How about something more up-to-date?

With more structure?

That would suit your face.

I'd rather not.

We won't change anything then. Here we go.

Have a good evening.

Goodbye.

Philosophy isn't just intellectual masturbation.

It's a combat sport. A martial art.

The way to avoid being manipulated.

To avoid falling into the trap of people selling sodas or watches.

You can like clothes or watches

but it helps us to understand what we do and why.

It's important to be aware of what we do. All the time.

Philosophy is a liberation.

It frees us from alienation by freeing our thought.

Free thought is invincible.

A man is only free if he thinks freely.

No one should tell you what to think.

No one.

Ever.

If people tell you philosophy is useless,

they just want to stop you thinking. See you next week.

Hello, Clément.

Hello, Marie. It's been a while.

Not that long.

As beautiful as ever.

Thank you.

And you? As cowardly as ever?

I'm not a coward.

When I throw you a line, take it.

Better a coward than a shit.

I'm not so sure.

It's true.

You can forgive a coward.

You knew, Marie.

I didn't want a child with anyone.

All men talk crap like that.

All of them.

But not one woman believes you.

We know it's because you're afraid of commitment.

Afraid of your feelings, of love, of everything.

You're just incapable of loving.

You don't know what it is.

However much you write, you'll never know.

I love all the time, Marie.

I loved you.

I never lied or cheated on you.

I don't believe in the long term.

Love mustn't become a prison. It never works.

I pity you, Clément.

The New Eros

The New Flesh

We knew philology led to disaster.

Now we know philosophy leads to Arras.

I told you to study medicine.

Like my mother?

Why not?

Foreign Affairs or the ENA, rather.

Like his father!

Cut it out.

You'd be a sub-prefect by now, my boy.

In the sticks?