Women in Love

We're going to see that wedding.

But you haven't been home five minutes.

You don't have a wedding every day, do you?

Now, look, Gudrun. Your Aunt Jessie's coming to lunch

and you haven't seen her for two years.

Now why don't you stay?

Two more days won't make much difference, now, will it? Come on.

It's a Crich wedding, Mum.

- Ursula... - Mm...

Do you really not want to get married?

I don't know.

- Depends how you mean. - It usually means one thing.

Wouldn't you be in a better position, if you were married?

I might be. I'm not sure, really.

You don't think one needs the experience of having been married?

Oh, Gudrun, do you really think it need be an experience?

It's bound to be. Possibly undesirable, but it is bound to be an experience

of some sort.

Not really.

More likely to be the end of experience.

- Morning, Miss Brangwen. - Morning.

Yes, of course, there is that to consider.

Hurry, Tibby, for God's sake. We really are late.

Here. Got it?

Gerald's going to blame me for this, you know.

- Where's Birkin? - With the groom. He's late.

Whoa, there! Steady!

- Hello, Gerald. - (Woman) Winifred.

- Hello, Hermione. - (Gerald) Mother.

Good morning, Christiana.

It's such bad form for the groom to be late. Gerald'll be furious.

Oh, don't worry about that. Something unconventional will do that family good.

Laura's not going to run away, you know. If you're late, you're late.

Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!

Father.

Hallo, Laura.

Tibby!

What a spectacle.

Does it hurt your sense of family pride?

Yes, it does, rather. Do something properly or don't bother to do it at all.

But it's a masterpiece of good form. It's the hardest thing in the world,

to act spontaneously, on one's impulses,

and it's the only gentlemanly thing to do.

Provided you're fit enough to do it.

- Do you expect me to take you seriously? - Yes, Gerald.

You're one of the very few people I do expect that of.

- Hello, Hermione. - What made you late?

The groom would talk about the immortality of the soul.

And he hadn't got a buttonhook.

"Immortality of the soul"?

More appropriate for an execution, I should've thought,

than for a wedding.

Perhaps it would be nice, if a man came along.

I mean, I wouldn't go out of my way to look for him,

but if there should happen along a highly attractive individual,

with sufficient means... well...

Oh, don't you find yourself getting bored with everything?

Everything fails to materialise.

Nothing materialises.

Everything withers in the bud.

Everything.

Frightening.

Do you hope to get anywhere, by just marrying?

Hm... well...

It seems the inevitable next step.

'But you see... it's just impossible.

'The man makes it impossible.'

'Now, sometimes, catkins are called lamb's-tails.'

Don't you think they look rather like them?

So lovely and tiny.

Soft...

Sorry, did I startle you? I thought you'd heard me come in.

No...

You're doing catkins!

Are they as far out as this already? I hadn't noticed them this year.

'It's the fact you want to emphasise, not the impression.'

And what's the fact?

Red little spiky stigmas of the female flower...

dangling yellow male catkin...

yellow pollen flying from one to the other.

'Make a pictorial record of the fact.

'As you do when you're drawing a face.'

Two eyes, nose, mouth with teeth...

I've been waiting for you for so long...

I thought I'd come and see what a school inspector does

when he's on duty.

How do you do, Miss Brangwen? Do you mind my coming in?

No.

Are you sure?

What are you doing?

- Catkins. - (Hermione) Really?

What do you learn about them?

Well, from these little red bits, the nuts come.

If they receive pollen from these... long danglers.

Little red flames.

Little red flames. Aren't they beautiful?

I think they're so beautiful.

- Did you never notice them before? - No. Never before.

Well, now you'll always see them.

Now I shall always see them.

Thank you... so much, for showing me.

I think they're so beautiful.

Little red flames.

Ooh, he's dropped his hat!

Fancy her barging into your classroom like that. What a liberty.

Oh, Hermione loves to dominate everyone.

- She'd like to dominate us, I think. - Hm.

Oh, so that's why she's invited us for the weekend.

Charming.

Hallo!

It's Gerald Crich!

I know.

So, Gerald's in charge of the mines now.

Mm... Making all kinds of latest improvements.

They hate him for it. He takes them all by the scruff of the neck

and fairly flings them along.

He'll have to die soon, when he's made all the possible improvements

and there's nothing more to improve.

- He's got go, anyhow. - Oh, certainly, he's got go.

The unfortunate thing is, where does his go go to?

Dreadful. Dreadful.

All this drive and dissension.

If we could only realise that, in the spirit, we're all one.

All equal, in the spirit.

All brothers, there.

The rest wouldn't matter. There'd be no more of this carping...

...envy...

and all this struggle for power.

Which destroys. Only destroys.

It's just the opposite, Hermione. It's just the contrary.

The minute you begin to compare,

one man is seen to be far better than another...

All the inequality in the world, that you can imagine, is there by nature.

Well, I want every man to have his fair share of the world's goods.

So that I can be rid of his importunity. So that I can say to him,

"Now you've got what you want. You've got your fair share of the world's gear.

"Now, you mind yourself and don't obstruct me!"

It sounds like megalomania, Rupert.

I must go and dress for lunch.

Don't be late, Rupert.

Oh. So this is Hermione's country cottage.

Well, there's one reason Rupert's attracted to her.

Oh. Do you think so? I don't think that.

Lovers have sold their souls for far less, my dear.

At least here you will have an opportunity to observe nature.

Gudrun Brangwen.

Gerald Crich.

Tibby and Laura Lupton.

Ursula Brangwen.

Rupert Birkin.

Rupert Birkin.

Peculiar names we all have. Do you think we've all been singled out?

Chosen for some extraordinary moment in life.

Or are we all cursed with the mark of Cain?

I'm afraid Ursula was a martyred saint.

It's always been rather difficult to live up to.

And who is Gudrun?

In a Norse myth, Gudrun was a sinner who murdered her husband.

Will you live up to that?

Which would you prefer me to live up to, Mr Crich? The sinner or the murderer?

Ah, I see the perpetual struggle has begun.

Oh, we all struggle so, don't we?

The proper way to eat a fig, in society,

is to split it in four,

holding it by the stump,

and open it,

so that it is a... glittering, rosy, moist, honeyed, heavy-petalled,

four-petalled flower.

Then you throw away the skin,

after you have taken off the blossom with your lips.

But the vulgar way...

is just to put your mouth to the crack

and take out the flesh in one bite.

The fig is a very secretive fruit.

The Italians vulgarly say it stands for the female part,

the fig fruit.

The fissure. The yoni.

The wonderful...

moist conductivity towards the centre.

Involved... in-turned.

One small way of access, only,

and this, close-curtained from the light.

Sap that smells strange on your fingers, so that even goats won't taste it.

And when the fig has kept her secret long enough...

...so it explodes

and you see, through the fissure, the scarlet.

And the fig is finished. The year is over.

That's how the fig dies.

Showing her crimson through the purple slit.

Like a wound.

The exposure of her secret

on the open day.

Like a prostitute,

the bursten fig makes a show of her secret.

That's how women die too.

Would you like to come for a walk?

Would you like to come for a walk?

The dahlias are so pretty!

Will you come for a walk, Rupert?

No... Hermione.