Modì, Three Days on the Wing of Madness

[patrons chattering indistinctly]

Monsieur?

Oui, Madame?

That young artist, do you know him?

Unfortunately.

He isn't famous. Is he famous?

Modigliani? Only in his mind.

He looks famous.

He's just another Left Bank street rat.

And he's a Jew.

-Hmph! -A real bohemian.

How very exotic.

-Belge? -Oui!

- -How did you know?

Because, Madame, in Paris

the artist is no more exotic than the pigeon.

- -They come here in droves,

selling scraps and sketches so they can buy enough wine

to convince themselves they are the next Picasso.

What did you say his name was?

Take my word for it, Madame, it isn't worth remembering.

Tell me what you think.

And please be honest. I insist.

- Mm-hmm. - Well...

it certainly is...

unique.

Really?

And what word would you use?

I don't know, uh...

It-- It looks like she's got the eyes of a dead fish.

I think they are lovely.

No, no, no. The pleasure of your company was payment.

I insist.

I really do like it.

Thank you.

Your generosity won't be soon forgotten.

Adieu.

Hey you, Jew boy!

Come here!

My wife desires a portrait.

I will give you five francs.

Thank you for your offer, sir,

but I'm afraid I must decline.

To paint your good lady wife would be, I'm afraid,

a great battle.

One I fear I could never win.

Because I know that I could never capture...

the true pain and suffering that emanates

from this poor creature's eyes.

What suffering do you speak of?

None. Did he say suffering? I don't suffer.

I suffer. I suffer.

This is a matter of principle now.

Shall I show you

my definition of suffering first?

Mon general, I cannot comprehend

how this beautiful woman could ever live

with someone so ineffably,

so incomprehensibly,

so unbelievably...

vile.

How dare you?!

No! No, no, General!

{General] Oh, get back here, boy!

Do you know who I am?

Don't kill the artist!

He's got a weapon!

Not to mention the suffering

your poor wife endures,

shall we say, of your inability

to pollinate her flower with your overcooked noodle.

Madame, please cover your eyes.

This is what she wants.

I hate the artist!

I have everything under control!

I'm going to cut his dick off!

- -

Hey, those tables are for members only.

You bastard! You swine!

Correction, sir.

Not a bastard, not a swine.

Amedeo Modigliani. An artist, Italian, Jew.

And I speak French.

Oh...

[upbeat discordant music playing]

Monsieur...

Don't worry. Everything is under control.

Go after him!

[woman singing in French over phonograph]

Beatrice. Open up.

- -I know you're in there.

Come on, I can smell you.

Beatrice, please open up.

I'm in fucking trouble.

The police is looking for me.

Beatrice!

[music playing on phonograph continues]

Is there a man in there?

Oh! I know there is a man in there. Open!

No, you idiot, and I intend to keep it that way.

Listen, this is very serious, okay?

It's always serious, and it's always a bloody fight

for which I have neither the time nor inclination.

-I'm in fucking big trouble. -Yeah, so am I.

I have a column due in the morning,

and I haven't written a word.

Listen, they're going to put me in prison, okay?

-I need you to hide me. -Please stop being so dramatic.

Look at my hand.

Oh, my goodness, darling! You're hurt.

Hello? That's what I'm trying to say to you.

You poor thing. What happened?

I smashed that beautiful window at Le Dôme.

-You don't mean that exquisite-- -Yeah.

Completely destroyed.

That's it.

What?

My love, you're brilliant!

Am I? I mean, I am, but why?

How can the artist be expected to create

in the face of so much destruction?

After all, he must reflect the world he inhabits.

What you did was a statement.

Destruction is creation.

Fear of external annihilation,

manifesting in the artist as conscious iconoclasm.

-Or something like that. -It wasn't a fucking manifesto.

-It was just an accident. -Yes, but they don't know that.

Oh! This has been such help.

Mwah! Really.

-Wait, wait, wait... -What?

Did you hear a thing I said?

I'm dying. I'm dying.

You don't understand. I need you.

Open the door, please.

-Come on, I'm dying. -My love.

You are a mama's boy.

You want what you want, when you want it.

You don't need me.

You want me.

Unfortunately, what you really need is a drink,

likely several,

and I would suggest some stitches too.

And what I need is to write all of this down

before I forget it.

But I'll find you when I find you.

Oh, and Zbo has been looking for you.

Zbo? Really?

Why?

He came by this morning,

jabbering on about some collector or something.

-Wanted to see you right away. -A collector? What collector?

Darling, you know I never listen when he talks.

Now, please, I will see you in the morning.

Je t'aime.

[man sings in French over phonograph]

Je t'aime aussi.

- -

How can you call yourselves defenders of art

whilst the walls of the Louvre stand empty,

evacuated for fear of German bombs?!

You are going to be my friend...

What the fuck is he doing?

Utrillo is joining army.

It's okay, my friend.

What the fuck are you doing?

Look, my friend...

Steve.

Did you know that Napoleon was constipated?

Completely plugged for two months.

And yet, he continued to fight.

Two months!

Come on, guys. It's nine weeks!

Beautiful brown.

That is exactly how I am thinking.

And if you must draw, I said draw a line in the sand.

So, who's with me?

Whoa, whoa, whoa! Let go of me!

You're not going to war.

You're going straight in the river.

Hey, hey, hey.

I would listen to him, if you knew what I know.