Did you like it?
I've never had something wriggling
in my mouth before.
How does my tongue feel?
Like a slug.
It's disgusting.
You have to breathe, or you'll choke.
Should I open again?
Half open.
That's it.
Okay, get in there.
You're all slobbery.
I'm going to throw up.
If it's not wet in there,
it won't work.
Stick out your tongue.
Rub it against mine.
Breathe through your nose.
How do people do it?
Do you want to learn, or not?
No.
Open.
No.
Open.
No.
What do you mean, no? Kiss me.
Leave me alone. I'm all out of spit.
Some other time.
See, you had spit after all.
Check the tires at the gas station.
Pump them up if they need it.
You've got a passenger today.
An engineer.
Arrives at 10. You'll drive him
around for a while.
Sure thing.
Your dad, is he doing okay?
We started his treatments.
They admitted him?
No, we go back and forth.
Something like huge prickly-pear trees.
Except instead of prickly pears,
they were hung with pricks.
What do you mean?
Big, small, medium-sized...
wrinkly...
erect and milky and juicy ones.
Some bent to the left,
some to the right,
some with foreskins, others without.
Trees with pricks. Prick-trees.
Some were small and shriveled,
but swayed slightly...
as if they were breathing.
Did you taste them?
The hard, juicy ones.
A strange taste.
Like bitter almond.
And an intense smell of spunk.
What is "spunk"?
Semen stink.
What's that like?
Like a thousand men jerked off in
the same spot.
And you like that?
You know, it's one of
those things you like,
but at the same time
makes you feel guilty.
I don't know...
Seeing genitals in your sleep
is a bad omen.
It terrifies me.
Because you're ignorant, that's why.
They're like those animals you love,
in those documentaries by
Sir Attenberg.
Sir David Attenborough.
They're like little animals too.
They act with a mind of their own,
it's just that they're
attached to men's bodies.
Do you ever imagine me naked?
No, never.
A father's mind represses such
thoughts about his own daughter.
Is it taboo?
There's a reason why we
mammals have taboos.
It ensures the propagation of our
species, without defects.
I have imagined you naked.
Shame on you.
It bothers me as an image,
but I don't reject it.
I prefer to think of you...
as a man without a penis.
You're right.
Some things should stay taboo.
- To the hotel?
- Right.
Can you be here tomorrow
morning at eight?
I don't work tomorrow morning.
Only the afternoon.
Four o'clock at the factory, then?
- Okay.
- Bye.
Bye.
You smell like bleach.
And you smell like gasoline.
Eat your pot-roast, mommy's girl.
I'm not a mommy's girl.
I don't have a mom.
Daddy's girl, then.
How's Spyros?
You mean Mister Spyros.
It annoys me when you
become so familiar.
Bella, you little slut.
Do you want more bread?
There's a lookout sitting
on that tree...
and he's already seen me.
There is more...meaning, and...
mutual understanding, in
exchanging a glance with a gorilla,
than any other animal I know.
And so if ever there
was a possibility of...
escaping the human condition,
and living imaglnatively...
in another creature's world,
It must be with the gorilla.
You still have her photos.
You were good together.
Keep this.
And this.
And this.
And this, and that's it.
If I drive too fast, tell me.
Okay.
Eye to eye
Hand in hand
My heart will be happy
Without fear of tomorrow
There will be a day
When my soul
Is without sorrow
The day when
I will also have
Someone who loves me
Like the boys and girls my age
I will soon know what love is
Like the boys and girls my age
I wonder when that day will come
Eye to eye
Hand in hand
They head off in love
Without fear of tomorrow
Yes, but I walk the streets alone
My soul in sorrow
Yes, but I walk alone
Because no one loves me
My days, like my nights
Are the same in every way
Without joy and filled with boredom
With no one to whisper
"I love you" in my ear
All the boys and girls my age
Make plans together for their future
All the boys and girls my age
Will know what it means
to love someone...
Goal.
You know babifoot.
"Babifoot"?
Foosbal .
Goal.
Goal.
- Bye.
- Bye.
Will you ever get married?
I don't think so.
Don't you like men?
Not particularly.
I don't blame you.
You don't like them either?
- I prefer women.
- Me too.
Not that way, not like you.
I don't desire them.
I have never desired.
I've never done it with anyone.
I find it disgusting.
Repulsive.
A thing inside me, moving in and out
like a piston...jamming me...
I refuse to imagine you've got
one of those things too.
I don't have one of those things.
Never did.
You really are an extraterrestrial...
just as I thought.
Nutless.
Gutless.
Heartless.
Fartless.
Snotless.
Spitless.
Witless.
Have you ever desired anyone,
since mom?
Yes.
Have you done it?
What?
You know...
That. The "piston."
Yes.
You disappoint me.
- A little compassion.
- I hate compassion.
I'd like you to start living
along with others.
That's not how you taught me to live.
Why are you asking me to do it now?
What are you doing here?
I had a passenger.
Want to come up?
For a beer?
I've got to take the Volvo back.
Just for a little bit.
What's your name?
Marina.
You like Suicide.
Yes. A lot.
Me too.
Alan Vega's a god, right?
Yes.
You're too young to be
listening to Suicide.
What's your favorite song?
"Be Bop Kid."
"Surrender"?
It's good.
A little melodramatic, but good.
Want to sit down?
Here.
Beer?
No.
- Can I kiss you?
- What?
- Am I doing it right?
- Fine.
Do you like it?
Very much. You?
I've never done t before.
With a man.
With a woman?
With my best friend.
She's very experienced.
- You don't smoke.
- No.
You taste nice.
You too.
Keep going.
I met someone.
Who is it?
Someone.
Someone you like?
I think so.
- Do you want me to meet him?
- No.
Then why are you telling me?
I don't have anyone else to tell.
- You have Bella.
- She'd flirt with him.
She flirts with you too.
Haven't you noticed?
Bullshit.
Don't swear.
I'm not.
You are.
Fine.
You want to fight.
Your problem is Bella, or the
guy you met?
My problem is your swearing.
I hardly ever swear.
And I feel awkward about all this.
All what?
Do I know him?
- He's not from here.
- You like him?
I already said. Yes.
Does he like you?
- No.
- How do you know that?
I'm guessing.
But does he know he likes you?
No.
- Are you going to tell him?
- No.
I think you should.
I don't agree.
Fine.
Don't tell him, then.
OK.
I like women's breasts.
The way they bulge under blouses.
I can't take my eyes off them.
It must make the women
feel uncomfortable.
But I don't lust after their breasts.
I admire them.
If I had dreams like yours,
I'd dream of breast-trees
instead of penis-trees.
Tit-trees. Prick-trees.
Keep on correcting my Greek...
idiot.
Do you like my tits?
Yes. They're very beautiful.
- Do you envy them?
- No.
Why not?
They're too small.
Want to touch them?
To try them out?
Bella, you little slut.
Touch them to be sure.
They don't arouse me.
Am I asexual?
Do men arouse you?
Yes.
You haven't touched one.
- I have.
- When?
- Recently.
- Who?
- Someone.
- You're lying.
I'm not.
You're a sea-urchin. You
don't let anyone touch you.
- I let someone touch me.
- Then why didn't you tell me?
- It's none of your business.
- I'm your friend.
You're a predator.
You're one of those women who can't
stand women.
We women are the wondrous mystery
of the animal kingdom.
You haven't seen the documentaries
of Sir David Attenborough.
You're insufferably pedestrian.
You can't stand women either.
...and ignorant.
- You can't stand them either.
- Yes. But I admire them.
I admire you and you're
insufferably pedestrian.
Don't mimic the way I speak.
Stop repeating what I say, please.
Who is he?
You don't know him.
You haven't got your claws
nto him yet.
Does Spyros know him?
It is Spyros.
You fell for it, didn't you?
You have the hots for my father.
It's as if we were designing ruins.
As if calculating their eventual
collapse...
with mathematical precision.
Bourgeois arrogance.
Especially for a country
that skipped...
the industrial age altogether.
From shepherds to bulldozers,
from bulldozers to mines, and
from mines, straight to...
...petit-bourgeois hysteria.
We built an industrial colony on top
of sheep pens...
and thought we were making
a revolution.
A small revolution.
I like it.
It's soothing, all this uniformity.
Because deep down you're an
optimistic bourgeois modernist.
Bourgeois.
Bonjour, bourgeois.
Bonjour, bourgeois.
Fright.
Flight.
Fight.
Bite.
Bright.
White.
Light.
Night. Sight.
Light.
Shite.
Shit.
Sit.
Seat.
Beat.
Bat.
Bet.
Bed.
Bled.
Dead.
Basically, you're eaten by the worms.
They start with the eyes.
They're the softest.
Then they go in through
the nostrils.
They get inside. They burrow.
After a while only
your skeleton is left.
Do we have to talk about this?
It upsets me.
I prefer not to go through it.
Anyway you always told me that
architects would burn in hell.
I'm trying to fend off your macabre
pronouncements with bad jokes.
I'm not ready.
I need your help to escape
the worms.
I hate those fucking worms.
If we lived somewhere else we
wouldn't be having this discussion.
Here, we have to arrange it through
some kind of provider.
Provider of what?
Alternative funerals.
A funeral home for alternative
Christians who are scared of worms.
Exactly.
The worms devour you. All that
remains are bones.
Then you're dug up. Packed in a
tin box and placed on a shelf.
And then they bury someone else
in your allotted space.
Urban planning for the dead.
Do I have to send you away?
Abroad?
Yes.
And once...
once you're there... what happens next?
What do I do?
They'll send me back to you...
and you'll scatter my ashes in the sea.
Which sea?
This one here.
You've thought of everything.
I'm sorry if I'm shocking you.
What shocks me is that you plan
things without me,
and then announce them in the end.
It's not the end yet.
Right.
Do you like it?
You don't have to constantly
ask me.
Sorry.
Don't say sorry.
Sorry for saying sorry.
I don't exactly know what I'm doing...
but don't show me what to do.
It annoys me when people
show me what to do.
I'm not embarrassed.
You make me feel unembarrassed.
I feel good lying on top of you.
You smell great.
I can feel your cock but it doesn't
bother me.
I always thought that when the time
came, it would bother me.
Until recently I couldn't even say
the word "cock."
You're not hard.
No.
Why?
Interview over?
Yes.
Can you keep quiet for two minutes?
And then?
Kiss me.
Can we turn off the light?
No. I want to be able to see you.
I can't concentrate.
Close your eyes.
I want to look at you.
With the light off, you won't
be able to.
We'll leave the bathroom light on.
Now will you get hard?
Not likely. You're stressing me out.
Sorry.
How about you, got a hard.on?
I think so.
Want to help us out a little?
How?
Stop talking so much.
So...
I purse my lips slightly...
and stick out my tongue.
I beg you, stop describing what
you're doing.
I'll give you a blow job.
No, no, it's okay. Later.
It's moving slightly.
On its own? Or is it you doing it?
They met as five-year-olds...
when they returned to these cliffs
where they had hatched.
While their elders nested,
they joined with groups of others of
their own age, to dance.
As the dance parties proceeded,
the male and the female began to
dance with one another habitually.
After a few weeks of these
courtship games,
the young birds flew off,
back to sea.
During the year that followed, they
cruised the ocean separately,
looking for fish. But the following
year, they were both back.
And here we have a more
modern range.
Oak, walnut, cherry, pine
or mahogany...
Excellent finishes,
clean lines.
The fabric swatches are in
these catalogs.
This one here...
and this one.
All top quality.
It can't be synthetic. He's allergic.
The synthetic fabrics are in a
separate catalog.
And as far as which countries
I can send him to?
Well...
we work with Bulgaria, Monaco and
Germany.
Hamburg, to be exact.
I wouldn't recommend Bulgaria as
your first choice...
It's the cheapest option, if you
don't mind me saying.
They mainly serve people
from the Balkans.
We're Balkan too.
I mean from the former Eastern Bloc.
You know. Atheists.
I propose sending him to Hamburg,
where services are more advanced.
The deceased is sent ahead by air,
you follow on another flight
that day,
you are met by limousine,
and within three hours
of your arrival,
the cremation procedure takes place
in your presence.
We can also book a string quartet
for the ceremony.
Here is a selection of ecclesiastic
music to choose from.
He likes bebop.
I'm afraid pop-pop isn't
an available option...
Bebop.
Be that as it may,
the options are fixed.
And if I don't go with him?
The ashes are sent as
cargo to Athens airport.
We prefer Greek airlines, out of
respect for the deceased.
The urn is delivered
directly into your hands.
Do I pick out the urn here?
Of course.
We are the only undertakers who
offer such a wide range of urns.
I have a few samples here
that I can show you...
That's too fancy for my father.
One moment...
Right, my official consent form.
"I would like to become a member of
the non-profit Committee...
for the Right to Cremation in
Greece, and...
I'd like to receive free pamphlets
published by the Committee."
"Yes/no?"
Yes.
Good to keep abreast of
developments, where I'm going.
The undersigned...
I donate my body to our next
fish soup.
Spyrosoup.
Bouillabaisse.
I've never been to Hamburg.
Are you coming along?
If you want.
Whatever you decide.
I'd rather wait for you here.
I'm scared of airplanes.
When I'm delivered back to you,
don't forget to scatter me...
Shut up.
Hold on a moment.
We used to say that when I grew up,
I'd become a NASA astronaut.
And that I'd explore a new planet.
Pluto.
Are you ready to be an astronaut?
Yes.
Where are your loyal assistants?
Your little robots?
Here.
How many are there?
Will they be enough?
Yes.
I'm boycotting the 20th century.
It's overrated. And I'm not
at all sorry to leave it.
I'm an atheist old man.
A toxic remnant of modernism...
of post-Enlightenment...
And I leave you in the
hands of a new century,
without having taught you anything.
What is there, where you're going?
A giant, warm pussy waiting
to suck me back up.
Forgive me.
Sometimes I forget that you're
not my buddy.
You don't have any buddies, that's why.
I'm your only buddy.
I'd like you to do me a favor.
I'd like you to sleep with my father.
What do you mean?
Are you stupid or something?
You've been with guys older than him.
Your father asked for this?
Of course not.
My father isn't like those
filthy sleazebags you screw.
He hasn't been with a
woman for centuries.
I think he wants to, but
he's too shy.
Will you do it?
Yes or no?
I'm uncomfortable around him.
He'll want you.
Isn't that why you usually do it?
To validate yourself, to feel wanted?
Only this time,
you won't give me the details.
I don't want to know a thing.
It's a favor.
Ask one of me too, and we're even.
Say my name.
My little Marina.
Without the "little."
Marina.
Again.
Marina.
Again.
Again.
Marina.
Dad.
When can I pick him up?
Tomorrow after twelve.
I'll need the death certificate.
The undertaker will take care of that.
To which funeral parlor
do we deliver him?
What difference does it make?
We have a duty to
issue a shipping invoice.
Do you have their name
and address with you?
Shipping invoice...
Unfortunately there is also an
outstanding balance to clear...
Including extra meals
and the satellite TV.
We didn't have satellite.
We never even used the TV.
Here you are.
Have you collected his things?
Come on, throw him.
Now.