1
OUR LOVERS
Hello.
Can I help you?
Yes.
Will I come back?
Yes, give me a minute.
Got any brandy?
Sure. Which do you want?
I don't know.
I've never tried it.
Hang on.
This is the best I've got.
Try it, and if you like it
I'll give you a glass.
Good, isn't it?
It's Brand A.
Was that a joke?
It sounded better in my head.
- A glass?
- I'd prefer another of these.
Not taking any risks.
Under no circumstances.
- Can I have another?
- You don't want a glass?
No.
I don't know happened.
It was an impulse.
An act of passion?
I think so.
OK.
Hi, there.
Do we know each other?
No.
But I'd like that.
The routine with the brandy was...
promising.
All right.
- I'm...
- No, no!
Don't tell me your name.
I don't want to know.
Why?
I don't want to call you
what everyone does.
Why?
I want to give you a name
that means something to me,
one that only I know and use.
You'll do the same with me.
- Find a name for you?
- Yes.
But not now.
When we know each other better.
Do you think I'm crazy?
- Are you crazy?
- Perhaps.
Does it matter?
My pleasure,
whoever you are.
No, no, no.
- No kisses.
- Of course not. What an idea!
I don't like routine kisses.
- Any questions?
- Yes.
But you'll be disappointed.
They're clichs.
That's flattering.
- Asking clichd questions?
- No.
We've just met
and you don't want to disappoint me.
The first question is so obvious
I prefer you ask it yourself.
And if my question
isn't what your question was?
I'm sure it will be.
OK,
- but you answer it.
- It's a deal.
Can we shake hands?
Yes, because it means something.
Do I do this often?
- Do what?
- Chat people up like this.
At times,
when you see someone interesting.
- Why you?
- Why me?
Why did I pick you?
You think I'm interesting,
for some reason.
What reason?
You answer that.
Do you like parks?
Yes, I do.
I love going to parks
and watching children play.
Suddenly one child will go up
to another he doesn't know
and just say: "Shall we play?"
And they start playing.
When I saw you, I thought
you'd want to play with me.
Shall we play?
Sure.
Great!
What'll we play?
That's where
we're different from children.
They want to know
what the game is.
But you and I will find out
while we're playing.
How long does the game last?
Until we're bored.
Any rules?
Yes, there are.
I don't want you
to find out anything about me.
I don't want you to know who I am,
so no Internet and no phones.
But I suppose the idea
is that we'll meet again.
That's the idea.
So how do we arrange it?
We talk.
We set a day, a time, a place.
That's worked for centuries.
It shouldn't fail now.
No, it shouldn't.
Anything else?
Yes.
You like to go slowly.
I don't.
I don't want to waste time.
No beating about the bush.
If I ask you something,
you answer immediately.
And if I don't want to?
Lie to me.
Lying is much more creative
and fun than telling the truth.
I trust lies.
As someone said:
"A lie always tells the truth".
Who said that?
I did, two seconds ago.
Very well.
I'll lie to you.
Any more rules?
Yes, the most important one.
Whatever happens,
don't fall in love with me.
Is it dangerous?
Yes, very.
For me or for you?
I have to go.
So, today is Monday.
In a week's time we'll meet there.
Around this time.
Perfect.
You and I are going to have fun.
A drink?
Cristbal, are you there?
My dear partner,
we need the Anton Chekov within you.
This is the situation.
In act one, Ditsy and Bozo
are chased by Russian hitmen.
Pure Chekhov.
They think the girls are cops
pretending to be mental retards.
The girls are running away
because they think
the hitmen are in love with them
and the guys are... no, not ugly.
Take it up a level.
I'll ignore that provocation.
What's the dramatic conflict here?
They shake off the hitmen because
a) Ditsy vomits over them
or b) Bozo does one of her farts
and leaves them unconscious.
Not an easy decision.
If it were, any moron could make it.
- Vomit or a fart.
- That is the question.
Ditsy and Bozo.
A girl chatted me up today.
- Seriously?
- Yes.
- Are you sure?
- I think so.
- Ugly?
- No.
Up a level?
Stop provoking me.
Sorry, I mean, very ugly,
monstrous, hair-raising?
No, just the opposite.
She was really nice.
Remember what I told you
I'd thought of doing and you said
- I shouldn't do it?
- You did it?
No.
You did it.
You know,
you can combine intellectual
brilliance with such pure imbecility
that it has me fascinated.
The thing is, if I hadn't done it,
I wouldn't have been
where the girl who chatted me up
chatted me up.
What's her name?
- She didn't say.
- Of course.
You can just call her
"the girl who chatted me up".
- I didn't tell her mine.
- Excellent.
I mean, she can just call you
"the guy I chatted up".
She wants us
to give each other new names
when we know each other better.
You know she could be
fucking insane?
Yes, or what you ayatollahs
in film theory call...
- A Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
- ...a Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
So, your life is in chaos
and you decide to throw in a lunatic
to really fuck it up, right?
She may not be that crazy.
Take that!
Well, I don't think she'll get
the Nobel Prize for Sanity.
But you can try to screw her.
A quick tumble
could add some light to all that...
darkness.
- One thing I haven't said.
- Oh, God. About what?
About the Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
Has it got
anything to do with Maria?
No.
Yes, it has.
What would happen
if while they were escaping
from the Russian hitmen,
Ditsy and Bozo bump their heads
together and swap personalities?
Ditsy becomes Bozo
and Bozo, Ditsy?
It's an idea.
I like it.
I like it because
if Ditsy vomits and Bozo farts
now Ditsy would fart
and Bozo would vomit!
High comedy.
Careful, we don't want
to get too sophisticated.
- I'd rather die.
- Yes.
- I'm going for a shower.
- Yes, you've earned it.
I'm going to explore this line.
Fuck, I love writing!
One week later...
Hello.
Been here long?
Half an hour.
But don't worry.
I like waiting.
- I could come back later.
- I'm serious.
I think of all the stupid things
I don't have time to think about.
By "stupid things", you mean
the things you really care about?
Probably.
Look, this is
our first official date.
Are you going to do
a Paulo Coelho on me?
Don't play with fire!
What can I get you?
Why this excess?
Let's be daring.
We'll drink from a glass!
I'll have the same,
and to hell with the consequences!
Even though you compare me with
Paulo Coelho, I'm glad you came.
Did you think I wouldn't?
Wasn't that possible?
No. In fact,
I was looking forward to today.
Why? Do you like me?
- Is that a trick question?
- Like almost all of mine.
Then I'll give you a trick answer.
How could I not like you?
You're a classic male fantasy.
An attractive, funny, intelligent,
slightly crazy girl
who stirs up a bored man
with her passion for life.
Are you a bored man?
No. I said that
so you'd work at it.
Girls love redeeming
men with problems.
- You don't say!
- Especially tough guys,
bad boys, cretins...
This is more promising
than the brandy routine. Go on.
Someone should tell
the tough guys and bad boys
why they score with girls.
Don't stop now.
They think you melt
when you see them acting cocky
but really your maternal instinct
sees through their disguise.
- And we see the inner child?
- Exactly.
The timid, insecure child
trying to overcome his fear of girls
by pretending to be
the nasty hero of a nasty film.
You feel a tenderness for them
and you sleep with them.
You give them the prize.
And that's why
we like bad-ass guys?
Their inner child
arouses your maternal instinct.
I see.
So it's kind of like incest.
U.I.I.
Unconscious Incestuous Impulses.
This is the first time
I've verbalized it.
Yeah, well, you shouldn't
verbalize it much more,
especially in front of women.
And what's your seduction method?
I act cocky and tough.
- And does it work?
- Yes.
At times. Not always.
Hardly ever.
But, according to your theory,
you score because
you've aroused a feeling of pity.
And deep down, all guys know that.
But we never talk about it.
And never will.
It's our secret.
Do you and your inner child
mind if I go to the washroom?
No, we don't.
Our first official date
seems like the fourth.
Shouldn't it be more banal,
more superficial?
I've made an ellipsis.
I've jumped forward three weeks.
I see.
Come back to today for a minute,
and tell me
something about yourself,
as if we were
getting to know each other.
I'm an alien secret agent
sent by my bosses
to assassinate the most important
political leaders on Earth.
You'd be doing us a favor.
Not really.
The plan is to create chaos
and make our invasion easier.
Do you know
how you'll kill them?
I have to think about it.
It's mass magnicide.
And if I screw up, I'll face
an Intergalactic Court Martial.
- What planet are you from?
- One in the ass end of nowhere.
Yes, I know it!
Do you have a girlfriend there,
a wife...?
It isn't necessary.
we're hermaphrodites.
Listen, I'm bored talking about me.
Can I start lying?
Talking about lying,
do you have
a false Earthling identity
so as to go unnoticed?
Of course.
I can't go round saying
I'm an intergalactic assassin.
And what's your cover?
What do you think it is?
You pass yourself off
as a guy from Saragossa
who at first sight
isn't very remarkable...
Perfectly normal.
...with a job he doesn't like...
Frustrating.
...and a social life
that isn't fully satisfying.
Tedious.
Why did you go to the bookstore?
I've never seen you there before.
I like bookstores.
They're magical places.
Yes, of course.
Where you find girls like me,
stirring up intergalactic assassins
with their passion for life.
And that's your cover.
- You think so?
- I do.
Maybe I'm like that.
- No.
- Why not?
Because if you were,
you wouldn't be real.
You'd be a fictional character.
You'd only exist to help me
find a meaning to my life
without caring about
your own happiness.
What a writer friend of mine calls
a Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
And what's that?
Something that's hard to find.
- Am I a Manic Pixie Dream Girl?
- No.
That's your cover.
Like mine to conceal that
I'm an intergalactic assassin.
And what am I concealing?
Come on.
I think your heart was broken.
Very recently.
You were left,
which could happen to any of us.
But you feel
as if you've been torn apart.
How do you know that?
Are you all mind readers
on your planet?
Of course.
But, as well, I saw you.
What?
A few days before we met,
I went to the bookstore
and I saw you sitting with him,
crying your eyes out.
And you kept crying
for a long time after he left.
As well as an intergalactic
assassin, you're a cheat.
You played with an advantage.
Can you forgive me?
You changed the rules of the game.
I don't know if I like them.
While you decide,
can we keep playing?
I have to go.
Will you come with me?
Are you still in love with him?
I can't help it.
He isn't handsome.
He doesn't have to be.
He's a poet, you know.
- Accursed?
- Really accursed.
Is he good?
Yes, that's the problem.
How much are you in love with him,
from 0 to 10?
Nine?
I reckoned a seven.
He really worked on it.
He's the kind who doesn't stop
until you adore him.
And when you do,
he gets scared and leaves.
To look for another victim.
He may have had one
before he left me.
- You know him well.
- Yes.
It's the second time
I've let him destroy me.
I hope there won't be a third.
So do I.
Because there could be.
You'd go back to him?
If he changed, and changed a lot,
maybe.
Is that possible?
My problem is I don't believe in
God, but I do believe in miracles.
How big a fool am I,
from 0 to 10?
Four.
I was expecting an eight.
No, I'm sure that
even if he was a bastard,
you've had marvelous moments,
the kind we never talk about.
What do you mean?
I mean that we mostly complain
about our partners.
No one calls to tell you about
a romantic walk with his girlfriend,
hand in hand, picking flowers,
stepping on dogshit together.
But they do say:
"Look what the bastard did to me".
Or:
"Listen to what the bitch said".
That's how we are.
We moan about the bad parts and say
nothing about the great moments
that keep us hooked
on bitches and bastards.
You know when I had
my last great moment with my ex?
It wasn't the day he left you.
- The day before.
- A coherent guy.
Super-coherent.
We had a romantic dinner,
he said he loved me
more than anything,
and the next day, goodbye.
I can say it in two ways:
he's a sicko or he's a sack of shit.
You choose.
No, they both work.
And even so, I miss him.
Really?
That the difference
between real life and the movies.
In the movies
a bastard is a bastard.
In real life.
a bastard can also be wonderful.
Thank you.
How long were you together?
Long enough to make me believe
I was the woman of his dreams.
So why did he leave?
He started talking a load of shit
about karma, fate...
I asked if he'd stopped loving me
and he said he loved me so much
that a relationship as a couple
wasn't enough to show his love.
Why did he leave me?
I don't know.
He left for the same reason
we leave people and they leave us.
Which is...?
He thinks he deserves
better than you.
Fucking bastard.
Yes, insult him!
No, you're the fucking bastard.
- Do you realize what you said?
- Accept it!
The fact is, if someone leaves you
it's because they think
there's something better
waiting for them.
I'm not saying your ex will find it.
Have I disappointed you?
Why would you?
Because I'm not
the typical classic male fantasy.
I'm as screwed up as any
screwed up girl in the real world.
And in love
with a sicko and/or a sack of shit.
Yeah.
Not very glamourous.
Don't worry. You know what
I like most in a woman?
- Surprise me.
- Her defects.
Then you'll fall
head over heels for me.
No.
You forbade me.
It's dangerous, remember?
And you listen to me as well?
You might be
the classic female fantasy.
Are there any
Manic Pixie Dream Boys?
Who knows?
Why not find out for yourself?
I've told you lots of things.
Next week you'll have to answer
loads of uncomfortable questions.
It's best to get nasty things
out of the way quickly.
The day after tomorrow?
All right.
Do you know this place?
- Yes.
- Perfect, because I don't.
My partner recommended it.
How about lunch?
Sure. About 3 o'clock?
Yes. I'll be with Paulo Coelho,
thinking about our nonsense.
See you then, Manic Elf.
Goodbye, Manic Pixie.
I like our new names!
Hello, love.
I hear you've embarked
on a new professional undertaking.
Yes, mom, I've got a new job.
That's great.
Shall I open the champagne?
Turn on the tap. It only deserves
a toast with water.
It's not what you wanted?
Well, I don't need my degree.
Changing the subject,
is it cold in Teruel?
What's the job?
Something I do without describing,
or else I'd slit my wrists.
You're joking, aren't you?
Yes, and anyway
I can't afford razor blades.
Do you need money?
If you offered me 300 euros
I wouldn't say no.
- I'll send you 500 tomorrow.
- Thanks, mom.
And don't get depressed.
I'll see what I can do.
Love you.
Love you too.
Don't worry,
I haven't bled to death.
Hello.
I'm in the place where we met.
The night misses you.
What do you want?
Shouldn't you be on the lyre,
making rhymes?
Why do I have to want something?
Because, Jorge,
you always want something.
What do you think I want?
To know if I'm still hung up on you
after how you hurt me.
I just want to know
if you're all right.
- What?
- I keep thinking about you.
- You're joking, right?
- No.
Are you sure?
It would be easier to forget myself
than to forget you.
I remember you.
You're an asshole.
Listen, Irene,
it doesn't take an expert in Freud
to see you're in pain, but...
No, I'm not all right.
I'm a fucking mess
because an asshole sicko
and/or sack of shit
left me for something better!
Nothing's better than you.
- Are you seeing someone?
- Of course not.
So, several someones.
Maybe it was a bad idea to call you.
Not as bad as the Nazi holocaust,
but no, it wasn't good.
I'm hanging up
because I am seeing someone.
- Who is it?
- You know what?
- It's none of your business.
- What's his name?
Fuck you!
That's his name!
You want to make me jealous?
Don't dare flirt with me.
He has the only thing I need
right now in a man. He isn't you!
Don't bother firing me.
I'm quitting.
Sorry,
I hate you seeing me like this.
Ready for
loads of uncomfortable questions?
All right.
Are you married?
She hasn't asked if you're married?
No.
Is that good or bad?
Both things.
Good, if she likes you so much
she doesn't care if you're married.
Bad, if she doesn't want to sleep
with you and so she doesn't care.
I didn't say
I wanted to sleep with her.
- Yes, you did.
- No, I didn't.
Yes,
when you said she was really nice.
You're a guy.
If you like a girl,
of course you'd like to screw her.
Girls, on the other hand,
are a different matter.
They may like you,
but not to use you sexually.
It's for something more sinister.
- To devour our souls?
- Worse.
So that you listen to them.
Listen to them and...?
That's all!
They don't want you to solve
their problems, or to save them.
Just listen to them.
It seems easy.
But it isn't!
Listening isn't the same
as hearing what they say.
It's hearing and caring.
They have to feel you're interested.
If it seems you're listening
but you don't give a shit,
they'll realize
and then you're lost.
And then,
then they'll devour your soul.
- You're wise, Cristbal.
- I know.
But I don't see
the theme of this scene.
- The theme?
- Yes, scenes are about something.
- What's this one about?
- What do you think?
I don't know, I'm listening to you
like you were a girl.
- Do you care what I say?
- Do you think I care?
You'd better care.
I care.
Is this how you listen to her?
Yes.
Then don't worry,
she won't devour your soul.
And you might hook up,
or you might not.
That's the theme!
That we might or we mightn't?
Exactly!
- A hell of a theme!
- It's always been the theme.
The Great Theme.
Fuck the catfish!
Write, dear colleague!
Let those fingers gallop free
over the keys.
We've found the Grail!
God, I love going fishing!
The next day...
I owed you this.
I was expecting
"loads of uncomfortable questions".
Later.
Guess who rang me
the day before yesterday.
I'll say someone at random.
Your ex.
His name is Jorge.
Are you back with him?
No!
Then I'll keep calling him
"Sack of shit".
Fucking Sicko and/or Sack of shit.
I gave it to him with both barrels.
Why the display of violence?
It just came out.
I couldn't have done it without you.
If you hadn't said all that,
I'd have shit myself
when I heard him.
So thank you
for being such a bastard.
Why did he call?
He felt guilty and wanted to hear
I was OK so he'd feel better.
How bad did you make him
think you were, from 0 to 10?
10,000.
Before I hung up
I told him I was with you.
I wanted to make him jealous.
- And did you?
- Yes.
After I hung up and cried for a bit,
we talked.
- You and him?
- You and me.
You did me a lot of good.
Do you often talk to yourself?
Manic Pixies do things like that.
What did we talk about?
I asked you
loads of uncomfortable questions.
- Such as?
- Are you married?
Very?
Quite.
To a woman?
I think so.
Is she
an intergalactic assassin too?
Almost.
She's a bank manager.
Shit.
And you love her?
A lot?
When you asked me all this,
were my answers the same?
No.
What did I say?
That you were single.
Just a minute.
Yes, Cristbal?
Go ahead.
Yes, yes, Cristbal, of course.
No, no, no, Cristbal,
of course not.
I'm buying time.
For what?
A good question.
Did you fake the call?
What? No.
Yes.
How did you know?
1 . Your phone didn't ring.
2. I'm brilliant.
Why did you do it?
Because I'm a control freak.
I wanted to prepare
what I'm going to say.
And have you?
- You didn't give me time.
- Too bad. No matter, tell me.
Tell me.
I've been married for five years.
Do I love my wife? Yes.
A lot? Yes.
Does she love me? Yes.
A lot? I don't know.
Or rather, she doesn't know.
And while she's deciding,
she asked me to move out for a while
so I'm living with a friend,
in Voltania, no less.
When was that?
A month ago.
- What happened?
- That's what I asked her.
And the answer was insane.
Nothing.
Don't you realize? In eight years,
nothing has happened to us.
That "Nothing"
is her way of summing up
5 years of marriage
and 3 of dating,
which was quite a shock,
because for me
they're full of marvelous moments,
one of which is Laura,
our lovely four year old daughter,
who apparently
is part of that nothing!
That's enough, Carlos!
I'm sorry, the human being's
only commitment is to his passion.
What's the message?
You don't turn me on. Get out.
- She's a fucking cynic.
- What's her name?
Mara. Just Mara.
If you don't mind,
I'll call her "Fucking cynic".
That's fine.
She always wanted a middle name.
I keep wondering what I did wrong.
And the answer is...?
Nothing.
I followed the Instruction Manual
for a Perfect Life, step by step:
studies, work,
wedding, child...
How does the manual go on?
It ends there.
Supposedly, if you do all that
you should be happy.
Well, Mara isn't,
and I'm the reason why.
Where do I lodge my complaint?
But Fucking Cynic
asked for a bit of time.
Two months.
It's only been one.
Wait and see.
I'm doing that. But I know
that in the best of cases
in a month she'll tell me
to come home because...
I don't know.
She's discovered that,
despite everything,
she's still in love with you.
For example.
When what she really means is...
I didn't find the "something better
than you" that I think I deserve,
so I'll settle for you, my love.
I've got a whip
from the Inquisition. You want it?
Do you beat yourself with it
when you think of Sack of Shit?
Not since I insulted him.
You know what?
You should pick up a cutie,
the kind that would make
even the Pope a crack dealer,
and make sure your wife finds out.
She'd go mad with jealousy
and come back to you.
I see the happy ending,
the two of you kissing
like the Lovers of Teruel.
Last night I dreamed about you.
With what permission?
With none.
Have I screwed up?
No. I don't like
men who ask permission to dream.
We were sitting in a park.
Playing?
What else?
And suddenly
a boy and girl came up.
Hello.
Are you in love
or something like that?
No.
She forbade me.
Too bad.
We sing songs
for people who are in love.
We can sing one for you,
even if you're not.
- Can we pick the song?
- You don't have to.
It's a dream,
so we'll play one you like.
So they started singing.
What was it?
Kind of like Aretha Franklin.
- Your subconscious has good taste.
- Thank you, I'll tell it.
And what were we doing?
Watching them play.
That's all?
The girl sang very well.
And how did it end?
It didn't.
I suddenly woke up.
Nice dream.
Thank you.
Does the park exist?
Yes.
And the musicians?
If they don't, they should.
Any more uncomfortable questions?
- No.
- Really?
Come off it,
I've got thousands!
But I won't ask them here.
Are you from here?
No. I told you,
I'm from a very distant galaxy.
- And you?
- Me too.
I'm from Teruel.
How old are you?
What do you think?
More or less... forty?
Bang on.
- You?
- What do you think?
More or less... thirty.
Exactly.
I'm so old.
Ten years older than you.
Jorge is even older.
Am I too young for you?
I don't know yet.
What do you do?
I go for walks
with girls ten years younger.
- Do you always make bad jokes?
- Yes. I do that too.
And professionally?
I meant professionally.
Are you a comedian?
Almost.
Writer?
Writer-ette.
- Anything I might have read?
- No.
But have you seen a film called
"Ditsy and Bozo"?
Those two girls
who are fucking birdbrains?
- Well summarized. That one.
- Of course I saw it!
Did you write it?
I wouldn't call it writing.
My partner and I scrawled it.
You don't seem
very fond of your film.
If I had pancreatic cancer,
that would be mine too,
but I wouldn't be a fan.
Hey, Jorge and I
pissed ourselves laughing.
It's crap.
A lot of people
were pissing themselves.
It's still crap.
It was a big hit.
- So was Milli Vanilli.
- Tell me,
- have you written anything else?
- Sure.
We're doing "Ditsy and Bozo 2",
but we've also signed up
for the third, which is called:
"DitsyDitsyDitsy BozoBozoBozo".
Original.
Can you live decently from that?
And die intellectually.
I sense
that you'd like to be remembered
for something more serious.
Like the play
I've been writing for three years.
Three years?
What is it?
A reflection on nothingness?
Have you heard of Truman Capote
and Charles Bukowski?
Thank you for that subtle insult,
but I can appreciate
your crappy films
and read books.
My favorite by Bukowski is
"The Fuck Machine", and by Capote,
everything.
They're my two gods.
In fact, my play is called
"Capote and Bukowski in Hell".
What's it about?
Capote and Bukowski die
and meet in Hell.
I suspected that.
And why don't you finish it?
It's hard to write for your gods.
Writing dialogue for them
is like blaspheming.
And if you change writers?
They're perfect, we hardly know
what they thought of each other.
Bukowski wrote a poem about Capote,
tearing him to bits.
Yes, but he tore him to bits
with some respect.
- I don't know if they even met.
- I see.
And you want their first
official chat to be in Hell.
Yes, and I'm having trouble
recreating their voices.
Look, they're two geniuses,
they're your gods,
and you send them to Hell.
Of course you'll have problems.
I can't even get them
to start talking.
What have they done
these three years?
Bukowski looks at Capote.
Capote looks at Bukowski.
They look at me.
I look at them.
I think the three of us
are terrified.
Don't worry, they'll talk.
You think so?
They're Charles Bukowski
and Truman Capote.
Have faith in them.
I know it's against the rules
but I'd like to know
a little bit more about you.
You know enough.
Why more?
It's important for me.
I'm just a girl
who's done a bit of everything.
I've studied a bit,
I've traveled a bit,
I've had jobs
that weren't one bit interesting.
I'm unemployed now
and that's more thrilling
than talking about my jobs.
I've fallen in love a bit.
At times, I've been loved back.
To sum up,
I've lived, a bit.
And now, The Big Question.
What do you want to be
when you grow up?
I want to keep having dreams.
Even if they don't come true,
I want to keep having them.
What dreams do you have now?
I've got no money
and my heart's broken.
My dream is to be a bit happy.
Am I very ambitious?
Megalomaniac.
And your torrid relationship
with Capote and Bukowski?
Don't spread it around, but
the working class has its secrets.
For example,
my father was a humble bricklayer
all his life, but he loved reading.
He gave me the right books
at the right times.
The best gift he could give me.
What's your favorite book?
One?
- Are you crazy?
- Yes.
I could give you a list of ten.
- I'd love to have it.
- It's yours.
And I'll have a panic attack
trying to pick only ten.
So it wasn't by chance
I met you in a bookstore?
The longer I live,
the more I'm convinced
chance doesn't exist.
When Mara asked me
for two months of "temporary
interruption of cohabitation",
I immediately thought
there was someone else.
I thought that too.
- She denied it.
- No shit! And you believed it?
I preferred to.
But Mara doesn't dump
out-of-date yogurts
before she buys new ones.
You're the out-of-date yogurt?
Anyway, I did what my friend
and partner told me not to do.
- You didn't hire a detective?
- No.
I was the detective.
- Oh, God!
- Yes, I know.
Anyway, I started following her.
Room 237?
I'm on my way.
And there's another guy.
There's another guy.
And they meet in hotels,
in my home, in his home,
without bothering
to pretend about anything.
If I had any pride,
I'd just ask for a divorce.
As I'm not, what do I do?
Follow her.
To see what I did wrong,
to see what he's got that I haven't.
Apart from your wife.
And, following him,
I arrive at a bookstore
and see him breaking the heart
of a girl who is more or less 30,
and a fan of Charles Bukowski
and Truman Capote.
Are you saying
that Sack of Shit
is screwing Fucking Cynic?
You're right.
Chance doesn't exist.
He left me for your wife?
And my wife
left me for your guy.
The woman who thinks she deserves
something better than you
is with the guy who thinks he
deserves something better than me?
How many ways do you want to say it?
Yes, they're screwing!
Why did you wait so long to tell me?
Because I loved
the start of our story,
if you can call it that.
Look, our partners are
fucking each other's brains out,
so call it
whatever the hell you want!
All right, I didn't want
their story to ruin ours!
Is this the first time
someone's cheated on you?
Or the first time I found out.
And you?
Once Jorge thought he was in love
with someone else and he left me.
Who was she?
A kind of poetess.
They didn't rhyme well?
No, they didn't rhyme.
He came back to me, crying.
And you forgave him.
I'm all heart.
And he made such an effort.
He lied to me, to himself...
Not to forgive him
would've been unforgivable.
Why do you try so hard?
That's how I am.
I see an impossible guy like Jorge
who won't commit,
who screws everything, and I say:
You're going
to fall in love with me.
It's a girl thing.
Mara and I were in the same gang.
I never thought for a minute
she'd notice me.
But one night
she came up to me and said:
Give me 24 hours to prove
I'm the woman of your dreams.
- And she didn't need 23 of them.
- No.
That sentence was enough.
I met Jorge in Teruel, at a recital.
There he was, reciting verses
and looking into my eyes.
When he finished,
he came up to me
and you know what
his first three words to me were?
You're really hot.
No.
I love you.
Twice?
Twice.
A good sentence.
I have to say it more.
He uses it constantly
and he knows how to do it.
What's the best thing about him?
He's a man
who hasn't forgotten to be a child.
And the worst?
At times
the child forgets he's a man.
What's the best thing about her?
Just by looking at you
she makes you feel like a god.
The worst is
she doesn't look at me now.
She must have turned agnostic.
Why did he fall for you?
Jorge says he feels safe with me.
At the same time he needs risk.
He lives life like an adventure,
and I love that.
But I hate his selfishness,
and that he lectures me
and that he's always quoting
fucking Sigmund Freud.
Why did she fall for you?
I wish I knew.
What was it she said
when she left you?
"The human being's
only commitment..."
"is to his passion".
That's Jorge. Word for word.
- No!
- Yes.
She left me with a sentence
copied from Sack of Shit?
I wonder who he copied it from!
- Did he use it to seduce her?
- Definitely. It worked with me.
Hey,
I can get you boiling oil
as well as a whip,
if you want
to torture yourself more.
My wife was taken from me
with a sentence by... Who?
- Oscar Wilde?
- It sounds more like Paulo Coelho.
If that's how you console me,
I prefer the boiling oil.
Have you confronted her?
I wouldn't do that
even with the Avengers on my side.
You're that afraid of her?
No, I'm not afraid.
I'd say I'm terrified.
Introduce her to Stephen King.
He's looking for new ideas.
He'd love her.
Being with her
is like being in front of a mirror
where you only see disappointment.
Her disappointment or yours?
Hers, mine, even my daughter's,
and she doesn't know what it is yet.
One option is to call her and say:
"Hi, love, how are you?
Oh, I know who you're screwing."
And if I told you
I rang her two weeks ago?
Tell me.
I rang her two weeks ago.
I told her
I knew there was someone else.
You know what she said?
What annoys me
isn't that you're paranoid,
it's that
you're such a common paranoid.
Leave me in peace
and go with Ditsy and Bozo!
And after that constructive remark,
she hung up.
But she didn't hang up properly.
And you didn't hang up either.
You heard something?
Was she with Jorge?
They didn't start to...
right there?
And you didn't hang up?
How?
I was paralyzed!
How can you be such a masochist?
You're Torquemada's erotic fantasy!
At least
I'm somebody's erotic fantasy!
I hope you didn't tape the call
to suffer even more.
Of course not.
I'm not that demented.
You want to know
the craziest thing about the matter?
No, I don't, because the matter
is my ex screwing someone else.
That's the matter.
She seemed like someone else.
I heard them
in full sexual apocalypse
and Mara was nothing like
the lady I married,
who never let me experiment in bed.
We followed the same script
for eight years.
Look at the 007 films.
It's always the same script
but they change James Bond.
Well, Mara changed James Bond and
the script, and that pisses me.
She didn't let me rewrite it
and I'm a fucking scriptwriter!
The worst thing...
The worst thing
is that
while I was listening to them
I started to...
Get aroused?
I've never told anyone this,
but Mara
likes to
hit me
when she reaches...
When...
I heard her doing it to him
and I couldn't help...
While they...
Anyway,
it was the first time
Mara and I climaxed together.
Is there anything
more humiliating than that?
Look,
I know your greatest dream
is to summer in Guantanamo,
but all this isn't your fault.
Jorge is very good at
removing inhibitions.
He's dissolute.
Not dissolute,
take it up a level.
What is it with people and words?
Who invented
this shit of "up a level"?
The next level up from dissolute
has a name.
"Perverted", for example.
The next level is "depraved".
The next level is "sex maniac".
And the next level
is the Sack of Shit, your ex,
turning my ex
into the hottest porn slut
in the vilest brothel
in New Orleans!
- Why New Orleans?
- I don't know!
It sounded better than Amsterdam.
Do you know
how many times Mara did something
with me as progressive as oral sex?
Very few?
Not very few,
take it up a level!
And there I was,
with the phone in my ear,
listening to how
she gave your ex what he called
"the best blow job of my life"!
Now that's a title.
Forget "Hamlet".
Then Mara told him all the filthy
things she wanted him to do to her.
You know how many
she and I had done?
- All of them?
- Not one!
- Did you ever ask her?
- No!
- Why not?
- Because I thought...
Don't think so much!
I thought she'd see it
as a lack of respect...
Probably, but perhaps
your lack of respect
would have driven her wild.
Did you ever think that?
I couldn't ask her.
I couldn't say the words, even with
Capote whispering them in my ear.
No.
Not Capote.
Bukowski's better for that.
Try it.
Imagine I'm your wife,
you're Bukowski,
and you want
to make endless love to me.
Action!
No, no, no.
This is ridiculous.
Hey!
Play with me, Manic Elf.
Mara,
we have to talk.
Not now, Charles.
I'm reading the Bible.
I had a win at the racetrack.
I've drunk two gallons of wine
and I've just written
"The Fuck Machine."
Now
I just want...
Bukowski would say
"a piece of my ass"
A generous piece of your fresh ass.
I want to tear off your clothes,
rip your panties,
throw myself on you...
And thrust into me?
And thrust lecherously into you,
with euphoria,
with brute force.
I want to flatten your body
and drill it
until fucking Truman Capote
is blushing at the gates of Hell!
Well?
I really liked that kiss.
Wait till I take it up a level!
I've never slept with anyone
without knowing her name.
Nor I with an alien
possessed by Bukowski.
Replacing Capote with Bukowski
was brilliant.
A substitution
worthy of Vicente del Bosque.
We needed someone to score.
Why did we do it?
Chesterton said that a mystery story
is worthless without a corpse.
I think the same about a love story
without a good screw.
Is this a love story?
Well, it isn't
a paranormal thriller.
You know what?
I miss my mistresses.
Have you had many?
No.
Technically, only you.
I only slept with girlfriends.
That's why I'm saying it.
I miss the mistresses
I've never had.
My lovers were very unmissable.
But we'll drink to all of them.
To our lovers.
Carlos?
Hello, Mara.
Jorge!
Irene.
- My pleasure, Irene.
- Likewise, Carlos.
What is going on here?
Irene is the girl who was left
by the guy for whom you left me.
I didn't leave you for anyone.
Mara,
you're a cynic.
A fucking cynic!
What's so funny?
Nothing, nothing.
I'm sorry.
You had to bring him
to our favorite place.
You brought him here
when you started screwing his wife.
That's a very bitter metaphor,
especially for you.
It isn't a metaphor.
He followed his wife to you
and then followed you here
the day you left me.
Now do you get it?
How long have you been involved?
About two hours.
How many months
have you been with him?
I'm not with him.
He's just a friend that I met.
And what you did the other day,
what did he call it?
Oh, yes!
"The best blow job of my life".
That was a friendly gesture?
In two hours you've learned
all about being coarse.
You didn't give him
the best blow job of his life?
No, Carlos, no!
I didn't give him
the best blow job of his life.
Too bad.
Because a while ago
his ex gave me mine.
I wasn't the cause
of their break-up.
Who was?
Yoko Ono?
Irene, you don't have to consult
the entire works of Freud
to see that
their relationship is dead.
Jorge,
this may be terrible for your ego,
but reading a book on psychology
doesn't make you into Freud,
just like watching soccer on the TV
doesn't make you into Messi.
So don't try to be smart.
If you hadn't stuck your little dick
into that relationship,
I think they'd still be together,
and maybe even happy.
Stop denying it.
It's too pathetic.
When I rang, and you called me
a common paranoid,
you didn't hang up properly.
I heard everything.
No.
I don't know
what you think you heard,
- what you imagine, but...
- This.
It was probably a crossed line.
That isn't me.
You know that.
Mara... Mara...
Mara...
You're right, it's not you.
Forgive me.
- I'm a common paranoid.
- Stop it.
Turn it off!
What is there between you two?
I'm fine.
What?
You asked me the other day,
remember?
Don't worry about me.
I'm fine.
You hate me.
Not you.
But I'm not too fond
of the girl in the recording.
One day I woke up,
I looked around and...
I felt I wasn't alive.
That same day, he appeared.
Why him?
Why not?
It could have been anyone.
Anyone who wasn't you.
Thank you for that morale booster.
Ask me again if I hate you.
- I'm not saying this to hurt you.
- Just as well!
- Do you want the truth or not?
- No.
But tell me.
Seeing you with her
suddenly made me feel alive.
- Where's the logic in that?
- There is none.
I'm not trying to be logical
but it's like...
It's like I gave away my car
to buy one that's faster
but really it's worse.
"Give me 24 hours to prove I'm the
woman of your dreams" worked better.
Would you give them to me again?
What can they be talking about?
About how wonderful you are.
Thank you for your irony.
It's just what I need.
Look,
they've been together eight years,
they have a daughter.
What do you think
they're talking about?
How's Laura?
She misses you.
You tell better stories than I do.
Do you think they'll make up?
It isn't easy
to put an end to eight years.
Even for you.
It's hard to believe
you ever loved me,
to judge by your words.
It's impossible to believe
that you ever loved me,
to judge by your actions.
You, Sack,
go out and talk to her.
It's over, isn't it?
I loved you, Jorge.
I loved you.
Nice moment.
Thank you.
Was that goodbye?
Yes.
I thought about going back
but I reminded myself too much
of Ditsy and Bozo.
What can your wife be telling him?
That she saw me kissing a cutie,
the kind that would make even
the Pope become a crack dealer,
and she went mad with jealousy.
I told you.
She wants back with you?
Yes, she suggested it.
You see?
That's why I forbade you
to fall in love with me.
Imagine the mess you'd be in now!
I've got a pretty good idea.
Any questions?
All real clichs.
Shall I ask and you answer?
It's a deal.
Am I going back to her?
Your head thinks
your daughter and your marriage
deserve another attempt.
And what does my heart say?
That you should listen to your head.
Will we miss each other?
Every time we drink to our lovers.
Because I won't see you again,
will I?
She wouldn't understand.
But it isn't unusual for Pixies
and Elves to meet in dreams.
I hate soppy endings.
But don't forget me, OK?
I never forget a girl
who's impossible to forget.
That's a good last line.
"That's a good last line"?
She said that?
She said that.
I'll write it down, because
that really is a good last line.
She made an elegant exit,
with class.
She even said goodbye to Mara.
She's got guts.
And before she left, she gave me
a list of her ten favorite books.
Even though I had some already,
I bought them all.
Do you regret it?
Buying books I had?
Letting the one
who recommended them get away.
If I told you the truth,
I'd be lying.
I'll write that down too.
Fuck! I know
you can't have everything.
I know that. But it shouldn't
have ended like this.
We still had a month!
Do you know what we would have
done in a month?
Yes, made the video clip.
What video clip?
The one with music by, for example,
Norah Jones, with happy images.
Irene and you
eating face in the park,
laughing in the rain,
"we're falling in love" stuff.
That shit.
Shall we play?
It isn't unusual for
Pixies and Elves to meet in dreams.
Am I a Manic Pixie Dream Girl?
That's why I forbade you
to fall in love with me.
Will we miss each other?
Every time we drink to our lovers.
I never forget a girl
who's impossible to forget.
I see the happy ending.
The two of you kissing,
like the Lovers of Teruel.
DITSY BOZO
Cut!
Fuck!
I wanted my video clip!
Why can't I have my video clip?
Because that's in movies!
Real life has no video clips and
Norah Jones doesn't sing for you!
In real life, you're happy with your
lover, your wife appears with hers,
and everything's fucked!
Yeah.
In real life, Mara is a viper
and she's marvelous too.
You've got too many things in there.
Why have I gone back to Mara?
I'll explain it to you.
Young people fall in love
at first sight.
Romeo and Juliet see each other
and, wham, they're in love.
That's all it takes.
When you're older,
you question everything.
"Am I in love or just horny?"
"What if, after a month,
she tells me to fuck off?"
"What if I get bored
after 100 screws?"
So, just in case,
you let her get away.
Look,
you decided on Mara because...
because...
Because I don't think
I'm in love with Irene?
Is that what you're trying to say?
If I say
what I'm thinking of saying,
I'm regretting it already.
What crap.
I'm not writing that down.
Look,
I'm a practical guy,
I'm not passionate or romantic.
- I'm not!
- Not romantic?
No!
You're an incurable romantic.
So romantic that
all the love in the real world
won't match your romanticism.
That's your tragedy,
among many others.
- Among many others?
- Exactly.
Such as?
Mara.
- She's my wife...
- I screwed her.
- What did you say?
- I screwed her.
No.
Remember when you went to Ibiza
to discuss "Ditsy and Bozo 2"?
- No.
- That night Mara invited me
for dinner
and then seduced me
while your daughter
was sleeping in the next room.
No. No. No.
She said something
that made it very clear.
Give me two hours to show you
I'm the best lover you've ever had.
Sound familiar?
No, no, no, no, no...
- Why would I lie to you?
- I don't know.
I don't believe you.
I don't care.
We can talk about the two wallops
she gave me when she had her...
You know when.
It's true!
You did it!
But because of those wallops
everything went south.
No!
Tell me you resisted a bit.
Tell me.
Yes, when it was obvious that
Mara was giving me the come-on
I said a subtle phrase I have
for scaring off persistent women.
What is it?
I think my dick's gone to sleep.
It goes straight
to the subconscious.
I say it, and they leave me alone.
But Mara kept attacking
and I tried to keep my distance.
I said to her:
Is this a good idea?
What did she say?
You're Carlos' best friend.
Who'd treat me better than you?
If you think about it,
it was very logical.
Look,
I'm feeling like
I would really love to thump you!
What the hell
are you trying to say?
Saying no to Mara would have been
an insult to her and to you.
To me? Explain that!
It's like saying: "Your wife isn't
hot enough for me to betray you",
or saying she's ugly,
or insinuating
our friendship isn't strong enough
- to survive this shit.
- Don't twist things!
My best friend should never
screw my wife! Never!
Only your best friend would tell you
he did it in these circumstances.
Why tell me? I didn't want to know.
I didn't need to know.
No! You didn't want to know,
but you needed to know.
- Do it.
- Do what?
Hit me. Didn't you want to?
Well, go on.
Why?
Maybe you've forgotten,
but I screwed your wife.
How will hitting you help?
I don't know!
But it makes sense.
The real world is shit and we should
start living like our characters.
- Like Ditsy and Bozo?
- No, like the good ones,
the ones we haven't written yet.
A good character would hit me now
and then we'd carry on talking,
me bleeding like an anti-hero and...
That's great!
Thanks, man.
Did I hurt you?
Mara hurt me more.
You want to hit me twice?
I didn't want to hit you once.
Look,
your wife isn't a bad person.
You can spend the rest of your life
with her and be more or less happy.
Accept that occasionally she'll
establish her "areas of freedom".
You just do the same.
If you can live with those wallops,
you can live with this.
Your pal,
Truman Capote, would write
a hell of a story about you two.
A bit sad, yes,
but a hell of a story.
Well?
What'll you do?
Hey,
your suitcase has just said
the best last line in history.
Is this chance?
How did you know I'd be here?
I haven't come for a week.
Yeah.
I came the day after
we said goodbye.
I waited a few hours, and I left.
I told you it was a bad idea
not to swap phone numbers.
That's why
I gave mine to the waiter.
So he could call me
when you appeared.
You know,
Bukowski and Capote
have started talking.
I'm glad.
And they both agree
I have to tell you something.
I won't sugarcoat it.
If you have to say something tough,
you say it.
Go ahead.
I love you.
You've copied Jorge's method.
He took my girl
by copying Oscar Wilde,
I can take his by copying him.
How do you know I'm back with him?
- You're back with Sack of Shit?
- Yes.
In fact, he's due any minute.
You can say hello.
Seriously?
Fuck!
I haven't seen him since then.
How could we get back
after what I said?
It wouldn't be the first time.
The first and only time we got back
it took him three days to persuade
me, three days nagging at me.
Mara got you back in three minutes.
Not exactly.
How many? Two?
I never went back to her.
I kind of thought that.
I mean,
when you said "I love you"...
Suspicious, right?
A bit.
What happened?
May I use a metaphor?
I would never
inhibit your creativity.
At times, when you write a script,
it's hard to know when to stop.
You've reached the end
but you don't realize,
so you keep on and on,
trying to find the perfect ending.
And all you do is ruin everything.
My story with Mara
finished long ago,
but I couldn't see the ending.
And what about our story?
We should keep writing it.
And see where it takes us.
It seems like a good plan.
Are there rules?
No.
Just that we keep playing,
Manic Pixie.
Let's keep playing,
Manic Elf.