Henry & June

It began so innocently.

He said it was strange that a woman...

would want to publish a defense of D.H. Lawrence...

and that his words are considered an incitement to sex.

- Then he said, "You write about sex..." - ...with some authority, Miss Nin.

You must have led a rather free life.

- Free? - You must have had a lot of experience.

You know, affairs.

What I'm interested in is how you came to have such insights into the erotic.

Through literature. Yes, I love Proust, and...

But I suppose my real awakening came...

when my husband Hugo and I first arrived in Paris...

and rented a bachelor apartment for the summer.

One day, I was tidying up...

and as I was going through the closets...

where the owner had left his personal belongings...

I discovered...

In that closet...

I became familiar with the endless varieties of erotic experience.

Come here.

- Hugo! - I thought you might need a lift.

Are you all right, Pussywillow?

- He kissed me, Hugo. - What?

Oh, my God.

It was just one kiss.

He kisses me once...

then he caresses all of my body.

He seeks my breasts...

and my most secret, sensitive part.

His hands are deft.

I'm tempted by unknown pleasures.

When I see that I have let him be aroused...

I let him release his desire between my legs.

I just let him, out of pity.

I tell Hugo only part of the story.

Merci, Emilia.

Pussywillow!

Remember to meet me at 8:00 tonight.

Hugo, would you mind very much if I didn't go this evening?

Yes, I would mind.

I'm sorry, but all that crowd talks about is bad loans or trusts or estate planning.

Estate planning can be very creative.

Look, the bank is how we got to Paris.

I need this job.

I admit, I sometimes enjoy it. Why not?

Why not?

You're changing into someone else, Hugo.

You're even beginning to smell like the bank.

I'm working so that you can write.

I need to know people who are alive, Hugo.

No, no, no!

You are not concentrating. You are holding back. Do it again.

I can't seem to concentrate anymore, Eduardo.

My life...

Sometimes I think I need something else...

an older man, a man stronger than I am.

You like to make me suffer.

I've loved you since we were children, Anaïs, but I've always had a fear that...

- I wouldn't be able to... - No.

Look at them, Eduardo. They're so exquisite.

If I were a man, I'd be swept away.

They don't move me like you do.

Hell of a place you got here, Hugo.

Peaceful.

- Been here long? - Just since the Crash.

Since the Crash? How did you live before?

We lived well.

This is Henry Miller, the American writer Osborn is putting up.

My wife, Anaïs Nin.

How are you, Anaïs?

- Eduardo Sanchez, Anaïs' cousin. - Anaïs, you should read Henry's stuff.

For my money, he's got it over D.H. Lawrence.

- I'd love to read your writing. - He hasn't been published yet.

You're comparing him to Lawrence?

Don't compare me to Lawrence. Lawrence would've hated how I write.

- Henry writes for the common man. - Just like I don't like his writing.

Anaïs is writing a book about Lawrence.

Perhaps his sexuality is too strong for you.

Too strong? He's childish and prudish, if you ask me.

The French have written about this stuff all along. Rabelais, Flaubert...

I can't imagine a modern writer not to owe a debt to Lawrence.

Let's eat.

He makes too much out of sex. Makes a damn gospel out of it.

In my way of thinking, sex is natural, like birth or death.

Besides, I'm not interested in literature or poetry as we know it.

What are you interested in?

- Henry writes about fucking. - Fucking?

I'm writing about self-liberation.

Nope. It's definitely about fucking.

- Osborn! Hold on. - We should eat something.

- Emilia is waiting. - What are you doing?

I flip through a few more pages and I realize...

this is my own novel I'm reading, with some joker's name on it...

Written in French, being sold in the best bookstore in Paris.

- Unbelievable. How's that possible? - How's that possible?

Remember last year when some guy stole my briefcase with my manuscript in it?

This guy swiped my manuscript, but this joker doesn't realize I'll get him.

- The soufflé is from an old family recipe. - Soufflé? So this is a soufflé.

I hope it's substantial enough.

I'll get this joker because I'm a copyright lawyer.

I'll go after him like I went after the other joker.

- The guy who stole your play. - Yes.

- That's on Broadway. - That's on Broadway.

I told you this already?

About this guy who stole my play right out of my briefcase?

I'd be a well-received writer if it weren't for these jokers.

I'll get him. I'm not taking any chances. This is my new baby in here.

You laughing at me?

I just feel so good. Wonderful. What a fine moment we have.

A free lunch, a fire in the fireplace, wonderful wines...

the colors blue and orange. It's wonderful! Wonderful!

No other word for it.

So, what do you write? Poetry or something?

Most of my writing is in these diaries.

No.

No, I never let anyone read it.

I never show it to anyone...

except Hugo...

sometimes.

I've always wanted to read "The Captive". "La Prisonniere".

Please, I want you to have it.

I'll borrow it. Thanks.

Pussywillow!

I used to go to the six-day bike races we had in Brooklyn.

Yeah, I love bikes.

- But I couldn't take it. - I want you to have it.

- What will you use? - I'll borrow yours, Hugo.

You can't ride a man's bike. In that case, Henry should take mine.

Hey, thanks, Hugo.

That's swell of you.

Yeah, I can really use this. I'll come and visit.

Come on, Eduardo. I'll race you to town before it gets dark.

On your mark. Come on.

I don't race anymore. For me, a bike is just a means of getting home.

Get set.

- You're no match for me. - Are you set, Eduardo?

- I must warn you that I used to race. - Go!

- I'd love to read something he's written. - Fat chance. He'll never get published.

I've met Henry Miller.

He's virile... flamboyant.

He is a man life intoxicates.

He is like me...

but he doesn't know it yet.

Henry's quite a character.

- Good night, Pussywillow. - Good night, Hugo.

- Let me help you. - Hugo, I'll be fine.

Osborn is home, and I want to surprise Henry.

Just thought you could use a hand. Sure you're all right?

Yes, I'm fine.

I'll take the train and meet you home later.

I'll wait a minute, just in case.

I don't want you to wait.

I'll see you tonight.

See you tonight.

Henry?

Osborn?

Henry?

- Excuse me. - Oh, God, Anaïs. I forgot.

- I'm sorry. - No, I'm sorry.

- I'm sorry. I'm sorry. - I'm sorry.

- I'm sorry. - I'm sorry. Wait!

Henry!

Hiya, kid. Slumming?

I went to Osborn's place. He told me where to find you.

I brought my typewriter. I thought you should have it.

Can we go and sit down somewhere?

Why not?

There's a little café back here.

Come on.

That actress in the film... she reminds you of someone?

A woman who obsesses you?

I know that feeling.

I'm often obsessed.

You ought to eat something, kid. You eat like a bird.

All right, I'll tell you.

June appeared like an angel, and I offered her a fool's faith.

She was a taxi dancer.

I paid my dime...

she put her head on my shoulder...

but then the lies began.

She told me her mother was a gypsy...

and her father was a count. Later, I saw a film and realized...

she swiped her whole childhood right out of the film.

And so?

So I married her.

She gave me the courage to quit my job so I could write full-time.

She believed in me.

Somehow she got some money to buy strawberries in the winter.

We're broke, living in a dump in Brooklyn...

but we're living like kings.

Then one day she meets an artist, brings her home to live with us.

Pretty soon, we're supporting Jean, too.

How is she getting the money?

- Pop. - Pop?

Pop's her scam.

I find out about Pop only after she comes barging in one day...

with a fistful of money and suggests I go to Paris to write...

then she'll join me later.

I take one look into her lying eyes and say:

"Anything you say."