Modì, Three Days on the Wing of Madness

- Mr? - Yes, Madame?

Do you know that young artist?

Unfortunately, yes.

He's not famous...Is he?

Modigliani? Only in his mind.

It looks famous.

He's just another Left Bank rat.

And he's Jewish too!

A real bohemian. Very exotic!

- Belgian! - Yes!

How did you know?

Because, in Paris, artists are as exotic as pigeons.

They come in droves, selling crusts and splashes...

to buy wine and convince themselves that they are the next Picasso.

What did he say his name was?

Believe me, it's not worth remembering.

Tell me what you think.

Please, be honest, I insist.

It certainly is...

...unique.

Really? And what word would you use?

I do not know.

He looks like he has the eyes of a dead fish.

I find them lovely.

No! The pleasure of his company is enough.

I insist, I really do like it.

Thank you.

I will never forget his generosity.

Goodbye!

Hey, you little Jew!

Come here!

My wife desire as portrait.

I'll give you five francs.

Thank you for your offer,

...but I'm afraid I have to decline.

Painting his dear wife would be a battle for me.

...that I fear I cannot win.

I know I could never capture...

...the pain, the suffering that his poor eyes emanate.

What suffering are you talking about?

Did he say suffering? I don't suffer.

I suffer!

It's a matter of principle.

He wants me to show her.

What do I mean by suffering?

I don't understand how this beautiful women...

can live with someone so unspeakably,

...inexplicably,

...unbelievable...

- ...vile? - How dare you!!!

Come back here, boy!

Do you know who I am?

Don't kill the artist.

He's armed!

Not to mention the suffering his wife endures...

...for his inability to pollinate his flower with his limp sausage.

Madam, cover your eyes.

This is what he wants.

I have everything under control, I cut off his dick.

Those tables are reserved for members.

Bastard! Pig!

I correct you, neither bastard nor pig: Amedeo Modigliani,

Italian artist, Jewish, I speak French.

Stopped!

I'll take it now!

Don't worry, everything is under control.

You insecurities it!

Modi, remember me!

Don't look, dear.

Beatrice? Open up.

I know you're there.

Come on, I can smell you.

Please open.

I'm in deep shit.

The police are hunting me.

Beatrice!

Is there a man in there?

I know there's a man. Open up!

No, you're an idiot and I want to keep it that way.

- Listen, the situation is serious. - It's always serious.

And it's always a struggle and tonight I have neither the time nor the desire.

- I'm in deep shit. - Me too.

I have to deliver an article tomorrow morning and I haven't written a word.

They're going to throw me in jail, you have to hide me.

Stop being so dramatic.

Look at my hand!

Oh my God, honey, you're hurt!

That's what I was trying to tell you!

Poor thing! What happened to you?

I smashed the window of the Dôme.

- You don't mean that wonderful... - Yes!

Destroyed.

Here you are!

What?

Honey, you're a genius!

Am I? I mean, yes, but why?

How can an artist create in the face of so much destruction?

After all, it has to depict the world around it! Yours is a statement:

destruction is creation.

"The fear of external annihilation,

which manifests itself in the artist as conscious iconoclasm".

Or something like that.

- It wasn't a poster, it was an accident. - Yes, but they don't know that.

You've been a great help!

- Wait... - What?

Did you hear a single word I said?

I am dying!

I need you, open up, please.

- Come on, I'm dying. - Honey...

You're a spoiled child.

You want what you want when you want it.

You don't need me.

You want me.

Unfortunately what you need is a small glass, or rather more than one

and even some stitches.

And I need to write all this down before I forget it.

But I'll find you when I find you.

- Zbo was looking for you. - Zbo? Really?

Why?

He stopped by this morning, babbling about a collector.

- He wants to talk to you right away. - Which collector?

You know I never listen to it.

Now, please, see you tomorrow morning.

How can you call yourselves defenders of Art?

when the walls of the Louvre are empty,

for fear of German bombs?

You will become my friend...

What the fuck is he doing?

Utrillo enlisted.

It's all good, my friend.

And what the fuck are you doing?

Look, he's my friend Steve.

You know that Napoleon

he was constipated,

completely, for two months?

Yet he continued to fight.

Two months!

It's been nine weeks!

Beautiful brown.

That's what I think too.

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

Who's with me?

Leave me alone!

You are not going to war!

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

What do you know, asshole?

Asshole?

I know quite a few things, to tell the truth.

For example I know that the man you carry on your shoulders

has a big problem that could become yours, at any moment.

This man is sick.

Everyone knows that you urinate on yourself

every three minutes.

So, if I were you...

It's very true, I swear.

- I have to go to the bathroom. - Shut up!

Nobody going to the pee tonight!

I'm going to... now

urinal, okay?

Right decision.

But you're wrong about one thing: asshole...

We both know what an asshole is.

- Right? - How?

I'm not an asshole.

But if you insist, we can go deeper into the topic.

Guys, it's time to go.

- Fuck you, asshole... - Damn!

Your hand is bleeding.

- Yes, I'm bleeding. - You're bleeding.

I heard about the catastrophe you've caused.

at the Café Le Dôme.

- How did you know? - The men in blue uniforms.

They came looking for you here.

He means the police.

Fuck you, did they say my name?

- Fuck me? - Fuck you!

- Fuck me? - Fuck you!

Sure, they asked for you, what can I do?

I have to leave Paris, I have to hide.

And where will you go?

Everywhere.

Maybe in Livorno.

- I'm starving. - Me too.

Is there any pasta?

And another bottle, please.

Fun!

As soon as you pay that...

and the one from last night and the three o'clock from the evening before.

Three?

A poor one!

Soutine, I hate to ask you...

Me too be...

to red.

To green.

- Why do you have a fly on your face? - Fly?

Yes.

Which fly are we talking about?

Yes, I see!

A fly!

What's the crazy thing going on in my face?