They torched the farm and vines.
Five acres.
What town?
Rio Salado. The army went in.
Help yourselves.
Here in Oran, we've been spared the events.
Algiers is in the thick of it.
Bombs, curfews.
And your son?
I'm happy.
He's showing his collection at Prom.
But we weren't surprised
when Mr Dior hired him.
He always wanted that.
With such a stylish mother...
Once, as a little boy,
he told Aunt Rene, who is very elegant,
"Change that dress. I don't like it."
How do you like it?
It's very pretty.
Did you work well?
I always work well here.
You must inspire me.
- Michle, stay.
- I'm done!
Seen your friends?
I'm making Simone's wedding dress.
I'm doing the sketches.
Who's she marrying?
A French settler, in Mascara.
They won't go there with the unrest?
They rented a place, Avenue Loubet.
It's wiser.
Sometimes in Paris, I think of here.
And I think of you.
And it makes me terribly nervous.
Mr Mathieu-Saint-Laurent.
Hello, Mr Dior.
Hello. Hello, Victoire.
How do you intend to tighten the waist
without taking it in?
May I?
How do you like it, miss?
I like it a lot.
Thousands of times around the Earth!
Extraordinary, isn't it?
In fact, I don't think I really care.
- What's it called?
- Sputnik.
Funny name.
Yes, funny for a dog.
If it works.
Sputnik, come to Victoire.
- Come, Sputnik.
- He's cute.
Victoire, phone call.
Okay.
Are you okay, Yves? You're all Grey.
Fine thanks, ma'am.
Take care of yourself.
And eat. Got to eat at your age!
The boss counts on you.
Yes, ma'am.
Pain in the ass.
She's right. Eat.
I'm not hungry.
Who's she on the phone with?
Therond from Paris Match.
He's wooing her like crazy.
What does he look like?
He's quite handsome.
Not very tall.
I'd like to see.
Are you coming? We miss you!
Victoire!
Karl, Karl!
Mr Lagerfeld!
What do you want?
What do I want? I don't know.
You're hurting me.
Stop!
How juvenile!
And you, drinking Coca-Cola from a straw!
- You beast!
- What do you say now?
- I want to marry you.
- What?
I said, "I want to marry you."
Yves,
you were so young,
so handsome,
so shy,
so luminous.
I had not met you yet,
and you fought your first battle alone.
An art collection is a
moment in one's life.
And today, I am selling our collection.
We bought many objects in pairs
because we chose them, observed them,
loved them, as a pair.
Now that I'm alone and you're gone,
I can't stand seeing them.
This auction is taking up all my time.
I keep answering the same questions.
"How did you build this collection?
"Which was his favourite painting?
"And yours?"
I repeat the same answers.
You loved beauty, Yves.
We do not know where taste comes from,
or instinct.
No one can teach you.
Wherever we come from,
we are born alone with it.
With the death of Christian Dior,
haute couture loses a pioneer.
His name meant prestige.
Even princesses accepted his laws.
His life was devoted
to that manifestation of human genius,
ephemeral, fugitive, yet long-lasting,
which is called fashion.
Yves.
They're waiting for you.
The company's future will proceed
with the staff
that Christian Dior himself engaged.
The studio will be run by
Mrs Raymonde Zehnacker.
The salons will still be managed
by Yvonne DE Peyerimhoff,
and Anne-Marie Muoz
will take over the ateliers.
The artistic direction will be confided
to Yves Mathieu-Saint-Laurent,
Christian Dior's assistant.
You don't feel too young to lead
France's greatest fashion house?
I don't know yet.
What do you intend to do
for your first show?
I'll do my best, of course.
I'll lock myself in my room
day and night, in order to draw.
How do you feel now?
I cannot say everything I feel.
Sadness.
Anxiety.
Joy, too, and pride.
Fear of not succeeding,
as well.
But I'll do my best, and relentlessly.
That I can swear to you.
Back then, I knew nothing of fashion.
I believed only in the major arts.
Literature, painting,
and a painter.
- Stop frowning.
- I've had enough. I'm tired.
Tell them all to leave.
Keep complaining! I've sold five paintings.
Bernard, you'll die under a bridge.
A gold one.
Your mouth to God's ears.
You're lucky. You found your Pygmalion.
It's all outlined in black.
It's not a painting.
It's a condolence card.
Remember Marie-Louise Bousquet,
editor of Harper's Bazaar?
I wanted to bring
Yves Mathieu-Saint-Laurent.
But the sublime child is busy.
You're his favourite painter.
I'll organise a dinner.
He admires you so. But he's shy.
So am I.
Amusing dinner.
Beware of shy people. They rule the world!
I'll plan this dinner.
But without you, Jean.
Number 32.
Very nice. Now it falls well.
We'll call it Bobby.
Thank you, miss.
Are you sure naming them after dogs
won't irk people?
Not at all.
I grew up with dogs. I love them.
They're part of my life now.
Hello, Victoire.
Number 42.
We'll call it Valentine.
Like Zizi Jeanmaire's daughter.
Very youthful. Happy-go-lucky. Tangy.
I like it a lot.
Thank you, Victoire.
He's so good-looking.
Forget it. He only likes guys.
Fortunately. Or we'd all
be fighting for him.
- Was she the last one?
- Yes, that's it.
We need to talk, sir.
- What about?
- The seating arrangement.
You must know that...
Not ruffling their feathers
requires diplomacy.
Not everyone can sit up front.
Yvonne, I cannot deal with this.
We must plan ahead.
Mr Dior's instructions were...
I am not Mr Dior!
Sorry to insist, but...
So don't. I can't!
Very well, sir.
Good Conduct.
Canada.
Who's next to Edmonde Charles-Roux?
Carmel Snow, Harper's Bazaar.
On her right, Hlne Lazareff, Elle.
Nice hat.
Zouzou.
She's overdoing it, but it's pretty.
Thank you very much.
Victoire, turn around.
It's fine. Thank you, Victoire.
You don't like it?
It's nice. Very classical.
It's Dior.
Valentine.
So wonderfully simple and supple.
Almost neglectful.
And in Dior's temple of rigidity.
What's the dory served with?
Homemade ratatouille.
Can I have the dory
with pommes dauphines?
No.
I'll have
the Chateaubriand with the ratatouille.
No.
- A salad.
- I'll let you choose.
People who don't know what they want.
I can understand them.
Besides work, I can't do anything.
I'm lost.
Thank you, Yves.
Really?
If only you knew. A true cripple.
I can barely write out a cheque.
Right, Yvonne?
- You have other talents, sir.
- How kind of you.
So you're a spoiled child.
Exactly.
Aren't you?
My mother is a teacher.
Stricter with me than others,
so I did nothing.
He ran away.
Very young.
Where was this?
La Rochelle.
I'm from Oran.
When you took your bow,
you looked like a seminarian.
Yes, I went to Catholic school.
When are you heading south?
Next week.
And you, Yves?
I have to go see my family in Algeria.
Algeria...
This war...
Enough of it. It's France's dirty laundry.
You're hurting me.
So I apologise.
I shouldn't have brought it up.
It's nothing.
Actually, I'd rather not go this summer.
I feel like a change.
Join us.
Pretty countryside,
excellent cook, crickets.
And you, too, I imagine.
No, thank you. I don't drink.
I've finished your portrait, Yves.
Thank you.
How many for dinner tonight?
Eight.
Cancel.
I thought I belonged to
the cult of fidelity,
but with you...
Remember?
It all happened so fast.
It's gorgeous.
We had the living room redone.
- Hello, Zizi.
- Hello, Victoire.
- Are you well?
- Excellent, thanks.
- My husband, Roger.
- A great admirer.
Come see the study.
- Nice?
- Very.
Pierre's is over there.
And the bedrooms?
There's only one.
So you really do live together?
Why didn't you tell me?
You're married to Paris Match, aren't you?
Come. I'll show you the terrace.
Pierre, Pierre.
You know my friend, Victoire?
Your face from the magazines.
The woman I wanted to marry.
Enough with that.
I prefer to see Karl.
She's jealous?
And it amuses you.
You know, I'm not that nice.
But maybe you should leave, Mother.
And go where?
It's our home. It's our country.
What does Dad say?
What's there to say? He agrees with me.
I can't imagine...
What's wrong, honey?
I'm not sure I'll be deferred.
If I get draughted, I can't go.
I just can't.
No one expects you to hold a gun.
I'm sorry.
Lift your arm delicately, like this.
How does it feel?
- It's tight in back.
- In that case...
Karl is now artistic director of Patou.
Give him a kiss for me.
Let's go dancing. He misses you.
And Roger is busy.
Yves must finish London.
- The press office needs to see you.
- What for?
An appointment.
Why did you tell them I was in?
You can see them, Mr Saint Laurent.
Stop harassing me! I have to work!
Leave me alone.
This dress is no good.
Can you leave us alone?
Leave us alone.
You, too, Yvonne.
I need the Grey shantung. I have to finish.
What's going on?
Yves?
I'm sketching.
I'm sketching so I don't hear.
To stay strong.
Hear what?
The shouts. The silence. Same thing.
It's always been the same.
- Always the same.
- Calm down.
- I'm here.
- I have to stay strong.
You have the talent.
I'll see to the rest.
I'll always be here for you.
Really?
I received my enlistment papers.
You've been asked to serve.
What about your new collection?
Are you still fashion's little prince?
Save the questions for later.
- Who are you?
- Pierre Berg.
Mr Saint Laurent is busy. Enough.
As for the events in Algeria,
any comments?
My only combat is to dress women.
A combat? As you pose for pictures?
My son died in Algiers.
He was your age!
How shameful. Shame on you!
"Yves Saint Laurent
hesitates to take up arms.
"Political choice or opportunism?"
Clearly, they don't understand you.
Mr Boussac, give me time.
I don't have any time.
The press will destroy us
if we don't respond quickly.
Perhaps you're too young
to resist attacks of the sort.
I feel perfectly fine as artistic director
of the House of Dior in Paris.
I'm not the type to flee criticism.
Fleeing your civic duty doesn't bother you?
- You already got me a deferment.
- It's not so simple.
A few days later,
you responded to your enlistment orders.
But the army wasn't your thing...
Empty your pockets.
You never made it further
than military hospital.
This isn't a prison.
Dr Steinler, head of psychiatry.
I called you.
It's no mere anxiety attack.
Mr Mathieu-Saint-Laurent
is manic-depressive.
Who exactly are you to him?
His friend.
His companion.
Will you be able to stand this?
Hello, Pierre.
Don't stay long.
I feel like sleeping.
They did a good job on you.
Your mother is nearby
at the Hotel Frontenac.
Why won't you see her?
I'm tired now.
I just want to be left alone.
I'm tired.
Are you okay?
Want to drink something?
I'm fine.
I won't offer you anything to eat.
The food here...
A real ordeal.
You wouldn't like it at all.
You know, in Oran,
being a faggot was like being a criminal.
At Saint Louis...
At Saint Louis, they...
They beat me up.
Locked me in the bathroom. "Fairy!"
I heard them shout "fairy".
I went home bruised all over and...
She didn't protect me.
She didn't protect me.
- Look at me.
- Go away.
I need peace and quiet.
Go now, please.
Go.
Please look at me.
Do you want to live or die?
Because if you want to die,
there's nothing I can do.
Boussac took advantage of your breakdown
to suspend your contract
and have you replaced.
They can't just fire you.
- We'll fight!
- Pierre...
I want to draw, to create in total freedom.
Understand?
With my dresses, with my sketches,
I try to express myself,
but stopping me will kill me.
I'll die of boredom.
You need to rest.
- You're still frail.
- But not you.
You're strong.
We have to open our own fashion house.
I want to live.
But I want to live with you.
Counsellor...
Mr Berg.
You're late.
It's complicated at the moment.
- A drink?
- No, thank you. I'm due in court.
What's this about?
I want to sue Dior for breach of contract.
Boussac behaved miserably.
I want him to pay.
What are you thinking?
700,000 francs in damages.
You realise he's the richest man in France?
Exactly.
Boussac is persuaded we wouldn't dare.
He suspects nothing. It's his weakness.
It wasn't easy.
The Baron is a friend of Roger's.
So listen to them.
Don't get all high and mighty.
Counsellor...
Gentlemen...
Good to see you.
I was just telling the Baron
how much I admire you.
You're very kind.
You don't know fashion.
And haute couture entails huge investments.
Business requires taking risks.
Business isn't Russian roulette.
Indeed.
Gentlemen, our capital here
is Yves Saint Laurent.
His talent.
A psychiatric hospital
is not a great guarantee.
Pardon me?
Today, Mr Berg,
your project seems to me
simply risky.
I hope you don't take it badly.
But one day we may solicit you.
If you say so.
This will never work. There's no leeway.
And it's the least expensive.
I don't know what to do.
Look at this. They said it would stop.
It's the side-effects of the treatment.
That's utter nonsense! Look, clumps!
I'm losing clumps of hair!
What a temper!
No one will invest in you,
but spare me your hair shit!
The problem is
you haven't found one red cent!
Two Hamburg whores.
Karl, it's tough enough as it is.
- Sorry, Roger.
- Come to New York.
And do what? Make underwear?
Why not? At the point I'm at...
What is this? It's funny.
Very funny. It's for Zizi Jeanmaire's show.
A man's sweater and black stockings.
Amazing.
- I'm the last to know?
- No one interests you.
Because I work.
You're lucky.
You're brilliant.
What is it?
We won. That's the good news.
And the bad?
We didn't get 700,000.
Only 680,000.
No problem.
I'll deduct it from your fee.
Just kidding.
How much do we need now?
- Twice the amount.
- Is that all?
Money is nothing.
As long as we have it.
Paris Match, please.
We needed investors at any price.
Victoire helped. Paris Match proclaimed,
"Yves Saint Laurent opens house."
An enormous bluff, two million copies.
Then a billionaire from Atlanta bet on us.
So who else?
Maryse. She's great at dealing with orders.
Denise would love to head sales.
She's very loyal.
- We need Ferdinand.
- Who's he?
The doorman. He knows everyone's habits.
But he retired six months ago.
- I can ask him.
- No, I'll do it.
Bohan worked with lists.
It was boring. No soul.
Now we'll enjoy it.
That's nice.
I think...
The long dress is good for Raphalle.
The sheath dress for Esther.
The pleated skirt for Anne.
It will be very elegant.
The frills for Victoire.
Girls,
after the show, you can wear them out
for the entire season.
Come this way.
Thank you, girls.
This is awful. Why did you do it?
It's nothing at all.
What's wrong?
Look at this wreck!
I dared get my hair cut.
It's not sophisticated.
You have no more face or chin!
But I have a hat!
- And the other outfit?
- We'll get her a wig.
Did you have a nice trip?
Such pretty girls!
- Mrs Mathieu-Saint-Laurent.
- Saint Laurent, since he changed it.
- May I see my son?
- He's with his models.
Don't put Elizabeth Arden
near Helena Rubinstein.
- Enemies.
- Don't worry.
Zizi, Roland isn't here?
- No, he's on tour.
- He works too much.
Fernando, straight from New York.
The lingerie?
Every woman on Park Avenue wears it!
Excellent.
Hello, how are you?
Karl isn't here?
He's doing ready-to-wear now.
Like Cardin,
he thinks haute couture is history.
Is everyone here? Is Marianne done?
Where is Pat?
Concentrate. Calm down.
We're on in five minutes!
Play with the scarf.
Victoire, hurry up.
Turn around.
Victoire.
Yves.
Bravo, everyone!
"Supple forms, nonchalant elegance.
"To rival Chanel, Saint
Laurent chose purity.
"But despite a nice collection,
"he has brought nothing new.
"It is meticulous, boring.
"The future will tell us
if he is a flash in the pan."
Idiots!
High expectations.
I could only disappoint them.
You're right. It's best not to care.
Fashion is not a major art.
It's not even an art at all.
The way you do it, you
have to be an artist.
The artist gets me hard.
How true.
I don't lie.
I see.
I love you.
What?
I love you.
I don't understand.
Go to the mirror. Let's do it right.
There's nothing to do.
It's perfect as is.
Your idea of perfection
leaves me speechless.
For your meeting...
I'm on the phone. Beat it.
I'm on the phone!
He's in the studio? Send
flowers to Yvonne...
I already did.
Thank you.
...my dinner with the Duchess of Windsor.
I sold 25 dresses to Hartman.
Ask Pierre to take you out.
You can go dancing, bar hopping...
Actually that's not his thing.
He likes spaghetti at home.
- That's not bad.
- It has its charm.
Pierre, be nice and cook
dinner for Victoire.
- She's all alone.
- All alone.
Poor little thing.
- Who's alone?
- I am!
She is.
I am!
It's almost ready.
Pretend, at least.
- Pretend what?
- You can stand me.
I like you, Victoire.
Really?
Whenever I speak to Yves,
you get all tense.
- You become nasty. You snap.
- I do not.
You always snap.
Yes, I snap. No, I don't like you.
You simper.
- You play boss.
- You named me.
You're not good enough.
No more dinner!
It's over!
What are you doing?
Don't keep reporters waiting.
Already you're shouting. Stunning, no?
Very nice. Come.
How much was it?
I don't know. They'll send the bill.
Here he is.
At 26,
you already have your own fashion house.
What do you want to do now?
To get in trouble, mostly.
In the sense that,
from early on, I had many responsibilities.
I sometimes get the impression
I never experienced youth.
It's not too hard being a fashion prodigy?
What a pretentious expression.
Without seamstresses,
my drawings would be stillborn.
It's a craft above all.
Group work.
It's better to shut up than talk crap.
Excuse me.
I have work to finish.
Mr Berg will answer your questions.
Would anyone like juice or champagne?
Why not?
Albert!
Don't mind Mr Saint Laurent.
He's so modest.
At times he could apologise for existing.
It's moving.
I agree.
But he's right. Fashion is not talk.
It's work.
In point of fact,
instead of this interview,
wouldn't you rather see the work?
Backstage, the ateliers, before the show?
Let's do that.
We can still have champagne!
It was harmless. We were just hanging out.
You're angry with me now?
It's not that big a deal.
It was funny. We were in a cell,
waiting to have mug-shots taken.
Very funny.
Madame really is angry!
- It never happened to you?
- Soliciting? No.
I forgot. You're a real man.
If you say so.
How does it manifest itself?
Ask Victoire. She loved it.
We never said pied-noir.
I feel French. French, from Algeria.
I can't forgive France.
Have you decided?
Not yet.
After Oran, nowhere interests me.
What about you, Brigitte?
We're considering Menton or Monaco.
- You, Dad?
- Near my daughter.
That'll be fine.
Go. I'll stay in Paris.
So you won't be alone.
I'm not alone, you know.
I'll leave you all.
Pick an apartment or a house.
I'll take care of it.
Honey, want me to stay in Paris with you?
Of course.
Is it leather?
Yes, with a faux-crocodile finish.
It's modern.
Thank you, miss.
Sports ensemble, black oilskin slicker,
brown suede pea jacket.
The new Saint Laurent look.
I'm wearing it to the Elyse garden party.
Thank you, Victoire.
They're not here for tea.
The Saint Laurent woman
moves freely and elegantly.
She humiliated me in front of those Chinks!
Japanese, not Chinks.
They're not here for your jokes.
My English didn't get the better of me.
Of course I can ask for that amount.
I can count, even in English.
Talk to you soon.
Going well?
Why so glum?
You told him?
- About what?
- He's odious.
You told him about us.
Thanks for calling back.
Why did you sign without me?
Why didn't you at least call?
Eva, please.
The stockings, too.
How graceful. Thank you.
Do we have to see this?
Your hair makes you look slovenly.
You're so vulgar, poor thing.
It's terrifying.
Let her go.
Her style, what she represents is
yesterday's news.
Get back to work.
Death must resemble this.
Lack of inspiration.
The few seasons which followed
were very drab.
The world was changing.
People spoke only of Courrges.
Chanel wanted to hire me.
I refused, of course.
I knew you would never give up,
that you'd keep at it,
that you'd continue to invent.
Your Mondrian collection was pure genius.
Never had a dress been copied so much.
The owner of Charles of the Ritz
bought out the American from Atlanta.
And our house of fashion took off.
Bartender!
I like you.
What?
I like you. I've been watching you dance.
You're beautiful.
You're modern. You're long.
Would you agree to model for me?
I'm Yves Saint Laurent.
Betty, please!
Betty, this way!
I refuse to lock myself
in the ivory tower of haute couture.
I think ready-to-wear
is an opening on everyday life.
It reaches a much larger group of people.
More varied, as well.
Who designed the 300 outfits
in the collection?
Just one person.
You, I imagine.
You're opening your first store. What next?
I'd like to go away.
Go away for a long time.
Then come back to see
if I still want to make dresses.
- Stop drinking. You're plastered.
- I'm alone.
No, you're not.
Will you do my four collections a year?
I'm exhausted.
It's what you wanted.
I made the noose
and you're putting it around my neck.
What do you want?
You have it all and you're a lush.
What do you want?
I wanted to tell you I miss you.
That's all.
In Marrakech, you discovered sunlight,
other colours.
In the street,
on the walls, in the clothing
of the women of the Atlas.
Maybe you also found
the scent of your youth.
My friend, Loulou.
Loulou DE la Falaise. Nice to meet you.
Welcome.
Your home is beautiful.
Gorgeous jewellery. Costume stuff.
I love it.
- Where is it from?
- London.
And I made this one.
A little insect
that goes round and round the world.
Impressive. You did it yourself?
Yes, sir.
Taste.
It's great.
Where are you taking me?
What is this? A secret meeting?
- What is it?
- Taste it. It's majoun.
What's majoun?
Mixture of dates, pistachios...
Just taste it.
- If Loulou does. To reassure me.
- I had some.
I'm not at all reassured.
It's just cake?
You'll see.
See?
Not bad.
Easy as pie.
Stop staring at me!
- Who wins?
- I do.
Again? It's not a game. It's humiliation.
We'll see.
Stormed by police, barricades ablaze...
Where is this heading?
No idea.
If it continues, we'll look like idiots.
With our Left Bank store.
It's closed. The area is blocked.
I see my future as a financial catastrophe.
If communism prevails, what will you do?
I'll make dresses.
And work overalls.
And smocks.
And smocks.
And smocks. Mostly smocks
for the first few years.
Your turn.
I'll take the winner.
Your favourite real-life heroines?
My models.
Favourite poets?
Pierre Berg.
How cute.
Your ideal of earthly happiness?
A large bed, filled.
Your favourite quality in a man?
Body hair.
In a woman?
Body hair, too.
Your main character trait?
Kindness, I'd say.
What do you appreciate most
in your friends?
Joy.
What would make you the most unhappy?
Losing his hair.
He's right.
To be bald.
The gift of nature you'd like to have?
Physical strength.
How would you like to die?
In my bed, filled.
Your current state of mind?
Hilarity.
Your favourite season?
I'd say, the spring.
I love May the most.
It's over. It's June.
See you next year!
The "Liberation" collection
sparked a scandal.
For the new Saint Laurent woman,
a tuxedo spells defiance.
She is more than man's equal.
She's his adversary.
You developed a taste for insolence.
Mistreating the bourgeoisie
was a social and revolutionary gesture.
Revolution sold like there was no tomorrow.
A smashing success.
You were gorgeous as Christ
and as a superstar.
A far cry from the seminarian.
Cover me.
Stop talking. Come dance.
Thade, I'm off.
I'm leaving.
- Hi, honey.
- Hey, you.
I'm off.
- Why?
- His bullshit drives me crazy.
Let the star remain anonymous!
How are you, Karl?
I hear you've started working out.
Is that why your thighs hurt?
Cheeky boy!
Yves Saint Laurent,
Jacques DE Bascher, my man.
Why did Pierre leave?
I don't know. I'll go get him.
Wait for me, Loulou.
A picture, please.
Do you have a cigarette?
Cute friend.
Can I touch?
Your bullshit is great advertising.
Sales are up. Charles of
the Ritz is thrilled.
What got into me?
I can't control myself.
Only you can help me.
You listen to no one.
I listen to you. I swear.
What do you want me to do?
If I isolate you, people
will say I'm a tyrant.
A tyrant is fine.
A pimp who found his all-star hooker.
You made it all happen.
You're a genius, Yves.
You'd have succeeded one way or another.
That's no excuse.
You had the stuff of genius. As for me,
I knew how to accompany you.
Whatever happened between us,
this pact was never thrown into question.
"He belonged to that magnificent,
pathetic family of neurotics
"which is the salt of the earth.
"All great things we know
come from neurotics.
"They and they alone founded the religions
"and composed chefs-d'oeuvre.
"The world will never know
what it owes them
"or how much they suffered to give it."
That gets your ears buzzing.
You're seeing the shrink on the 15th.
I put it in your calendar.
Someone for Mr Saint Laurent.
He's not in for anyone.
I'll deal with it.
No, Loulou. I trusted you.
Giving drugs to Yves is forbidden.
Get going.
He asked me to work with him.
Work?
You can't cloister him. He has friends.
There is no victim, no torturer.
Or there are two of each.
I can't search you.
Go see your friend.
Take care of him.
Everyone, look at the camera!
Smile, girls. Happy family reunion!
Perfect.
One more.
With your mother.
Smile, lovebirds.
Beautiful.
Three months.
You isolate him from those who love him?
I'll send you the pictures.
How dare you?
How's your plant nursery, Dad?
I'm closing it.
I've lost my knack for business.
I can see the sea. It's enough.
You think of Algeria?
I never thanked you for the car.
What car?
The one you gave me.
A Fiat.
So you like it?
A lot.
I'm glad.
Here! Here!
Lawrence of Arabia!
Jacques, stop humiliating your cousin.
He likes it.
You think I'm a harlot?
I'd say rather
a whore.
"Harlot" sounds very 19th century.
That's my century.
So there's an explanation.
You must cost Karl a fortune.
Karl gave it to me.
For you, a token of my admiration.
No, I refuse it.
Marrakech lost its sparkle for us.
I was there. I followed you.
I tried to help and protect you.
I protected you from everything.
Probably too much.
No need to shower me with gifts.
No need to buy me.
A bad habit I've taken on.
And stop sending all these letters.
I'd rather see you every day.
You're the man I want to grow old with.
You say the same thing to Karl.
With him I'm a clown.
It's comfortable.
You confuse me.
You perturb me.
When we're in love, we're in danger.
That's what I like.
Wake up. Wake up.
Open your eyes! Look at me!
Don't fall back asleep.
Wake up.
I'm awake.
Leave me alone!
I'm awake!
Why do you do this?
You think you're Christ on the cross?
Do you enjoy being like this?
I find him handsome.
I find him elegant.
He has a nice body.
He's graceful.
I love him.
But you're the love of my life.
Jacques DE Bascher kept our meeting
a secret until his death.
He was right.
I may have no principles,
but I'm a man of my word.
Jacques? It's me.
Why?
What did you do? What did you do?
Good evening.
Where are we going?
- Folies?
- A party.
Excellent. I'll get my jacket.
Get up and get lost.
Get lost. Beat it.
You're not going out.
I'm not going out?
Not going out!
Loser!
You're a parasite!
You're pathetic!
Salima?
My medicine.
It's fine.
I found it.
- I must finish.
- Are you okay?
Must draw.
Are you okay, sir?
You entered illness as one enters religion,
but saved your last ounces of strength
for your collections.
You were happy only twice a year,
in the spring and in the fall.
Anne-Marie!
He's fussing with the gabardine
and Eva's not ready.
I didn't make the order.
Jean-Pierre, why are you fussing with this,
and Eva isn't ready?
We switched the order. Coats come second.
Mr Saint Laurent said they go
after the cocktail dresses.
Very well. Continue.
You okay, Loulou?
Very pretty. It's very elegant.
Very nice.
- You okay?
- Fine.
Come, miss.
They're waiting for you.
Pierre?
Here I am, Yves.
That's beautiful.
YVES SAINT LAUREN DIED ON JUNE 1, 2008.
IN A CAREER SPANNING
NEARLY FIFTY YEARS,
HE REVOLUTIONISED WOMEN'S FASHION.
HIS WORK IS NOW
THE SUBJECT OF EXHIBITIONS
IN THE WORLD'S GREATEST MUSEUMS.