A Magnificent Life (Marcel et Monsieur Pagnol)

Yes, you're right, it's impossible.

We must accept our lot in life.

Life isn't beautiful, but it can be pretty.

Great passions only last one night,

the nicest breasts only come in pairs

and the most charming are the least known.

The bells are ringing,

the lamps are lit...

Here comes the music,

and the party will begin again.

Bravo!

Bravo!

Bravo!

Don't leave your seats.

We have a surprise for you.

Mr. Pagnol.

Mr. Pagnol!

Where is he?

Oh! He is here!

This way, monsieur.

They're expecting you.

Ladies and gentlemen, the author of Fabien,

Mr. Marcel Pagnol!

- Bravo! - Bravo!

The Suez Canal crisis,

people are struggling to find petrol.

We'll do better tomorrow.

You can't blame everything on the oil crisis.

I guess this old Pagnol doesn't interest people anymore.

How dare you even say such a thing?

It's the youth that drive the world, Pierre.

Leave your father alone, Frederic.

Come. Fernandel has a surprise for you.

By the time you finished smoking that pipe,

the youth will have swept us

-under the carpet. -Hmm.

And who could blame them?

We did the same in our time.

Gone are the times of accordion waltzes, amusement parks,

mahogany pipes.

Mr. Lazareff, one has to know when to bow out.

Never! I will not let you give up writing.

My dear Helene,

what's the point of writing things

that people no longer wish to read?

Marcel, you do know the ladies magazine

I'm in charge of, don't you?

The magazine Elle.

Elle?

As it happens, my readers love your work.

And they want to know all about you.

Your childhood,

early romances...

So, for instance, we could imagine

somehow serializing it in episodes.

Possibly, say,

on a monthly basis?

Just a suggestion.

Elle...

Marcel?

Still on that machine of yours?

The Academy called again. I'm out of excuses.

Well, my darling, you can tell them

that one of their members is on the brink

of inventing perpetual motion.

It's freezing in here. You'd be warmer in your study.

My study is full of paper thirsting for ink.

At least here, French literature bloody well leaves me in peace.

I have to go.

I told the maid you'd be up here.

What is it?

Sir, there's a young man outside,

who's here to pick up a manuscript.

A manuscript?

For the magazine Elle.

What should I say to him?

- You can say, uh... - don't know.

Tell him he'll have chapter one in half an hour.

I wasn't aware, sir,

you'd started writing your memoirs.

Memoirs?

-You'd need memory for that. -Oh.

Wait a minute.

His wheel is buckled.

You'll bring him tea, and biscuits, and these pliers.

I'll have at least three hours

before he gets his wheel straightened out.

Three hours is a bit long to fix a wheel.

For most people, I would agree.

But this young lad doesn't seem very good with his hands.

If I'm right, in three hours, his wheel will be square.

Pencil case

Pagnol!

Pagnol! Pagnol!

Pagnol!

Quicker!

Easy for you to say.

I'm sorry, my friends. That doesn't help much.

Pagnol, quicker!

"I was born..."

"I was born..."

Well, yes, I was born.

But they'll likely want to know more.

What came over me to commit to this?

You've never been able to say no to a woman.

Frederic?

Why are you not in school?

What? Son?

Is that you?

Whoa! Easy now!

Marcel?

Marcel?

What are you playing at?

Why have you come back, Marcel?

I must have changed, eh?

So, how old are we now?

Sixty-one.

Crikey, that's a shedload!

What are you here for, Marcel?

Well, with stirring up our memories,

you've only gone and knocked me off the shelf.

And I don't just want you rambling on about us,

because everywhere you've been, I've been too.

I'll have to invent some of it.

My memory is like some very old tape recording

that has been half erased.

Do you still believe it's possible,

a machine that will never stop?

I don't know.

But it helps me get up in the morning.

You don't sound too well.

You don't understand.

Old folks are like chimpanzees,

swinging from branch to branch

in constant pursuit of their memories.

What are you doing?

Giving you a leg up.

-Grandpa? -Hmm?

What's it like to be old?

That's some question to ask, my lad.

When I grow up, I want to be old like you,

and carve stones like you do.

It's not your trade that'll matter.

What matters is that you work well,

and that your craft is beautiful.

Because all that is beautiful is true.

And all that is true has earned the respect of the divine.

Your grandfather hated preachers with a passion,

and here he is, sounding like a prophet.

I opine that respect is a very good thing,

but it needn't come from the divine.

Our Republic respects its children

just as much as any god

whose existence has yet to be proven by science.

You can tell that to people

who are educated, like you.

But those less clever, well, God is enough for them.

Furthermore, this Republic of yours

has never been proven by science either.

Well, you don't say!

What does Marcel want to be when he grows up?

I don't know.

You do know, Joseph.

He told you he wanted to become a millionaire

and that made you angry.

Augustine, I became angry

because I do not know a single honest millionaire.

That's because you don't know

any millionaires in the first place.

My dear Jules, for a tiny minority to get rich,

a huge majority must be pushed into poverty.

It's one of the basic laws of nature.

Marcel can be whatever he wants.

He told me he wanted to become an engineer.

In that case, he'll never step out of his workshop,

his complexion will be pallid,

he'll have large bags under his eyes,

and he'll die a poor man, addled with consumption.

A poor man, but an honest man.

Exactly my point, Jules.

A poor man, but an honest man.

I promise you, Mum, one day I shall make you proud.

I am already proud of you.

You write me such lovely poems.

They're nothing. You don't know all the things I can do.

And I can't wait to discover them.

My poor, dear Joseph.

Life is but a tragedy.

Why doesn't Mum come and say goodnight anymore?

We have to wait for her to get better.

When will she be better?

Papa?

Did she like my latest poem?

My dear sweet boy,

pay no mind to the naysayers.

Life is not a tragedy at all.

Life is full of beauty, full of light and color.

Like your poems, that make me so happy.

Once I've read them, I spread them around me on the bed.

Promise you'll write me thousands more.