And now, let's meet our first contestant.
Will you come in and sign in, please?
All right.
Now with that, let's begin the general questioning
with Arlene Francis.
Are you associated with any of the arts?
Yes.
Would you ever have been seen on television?
Yes.
Are you a performer?
Yes.
Would you be considered a leading man?
Yes.
I think the last answer
is misleading, and we could not accurately describe our guest
- as a leading man. - He's a misleading man.
Do you have anything to do with...
sports or any form of athletic endeavor?
Yes.
No, I think it would be too misleading
to suggest that our guest had a basic affiliation with sports.
Do you use anything in your hands
for your job?
Like a pencil or a typewriter or anything like that?
- Yes. - Oh,
would you be considered a writer?
- Yes. - Yes.
There's nothing this man doesn't do.
Have you had... I'm terribly lost.
- Does he write humorously? - Do you write humorously?
Yes and no.
Oh.
Um...
Does he ever do any drawing like comic strips?
Yes.
Yes?
Is there something quite unusual about our guest?
Because everything that he does,
the audience laughs about.
You are a human being?
Very much so, Bennett.
- Very much so. - Yeah.
He's still maintaining that he's a performer?
Well, yes, in the degree that he was asked
if he had anything to do with the arts
and then was asked if he was a performer.
Oh! Ask if he could use his mustache to paint.
Oh!
Uh, have you a, uh, a mustache that is rather well known?
In fact, could you be almost caricatured just by that?
- Yes. - Oh, well thank you, Arlene.
Are you Salvador Dalí?
Salvador Dalí is right!
Salvador Dalí on the 1950s game show,
What's My Line?
The world's most famous living artist
has been gravely injured in a fire at his home.
Dalí is now in critical condition
in hospital in Figueres, Spain.
And Catalonia.
Yes, Gala. Yes, I understand.
You need the money now, but...
No, no, that was not what we agreed in the contract.
But I can't come with it now myself. I have...
Bring it now, you understand?
Yes, Gala.
- Yes. - You owe money.
Dalí's money. Bring it!
You bring money!
This is your first time,
so this is very, very important.
You are going to the St. Regis Hotel.
Salvador Dalí and his wife
spend every winter there.
He is a man of rituals.
Always the same suite, 1610.
For 20 years, that has been his home in New York.
Thank you.
Are you here for Gala?
How did you know?
They weren't supposed to send anybody until tomorrow.
- I'm sorry? - You're going to have to...
zhuzh yourself up a bit.
I work at Dufresne, I have a package for Gala Dalí.
Oh, you're from Dufresne. Forgive me.
I'm Captain Peter Moore. I'm Dalí's secretary.
James.
- Hi. - James Linton.
I can take this if you want.
Christoffe said I had to give it to Gala, so...
Very well.
How long have you been at Dufresne?
Just a few months.
What's your experience?
None, really. I was at art school.
- I... I dropped out. - Oh, why?
I realized I'm not an artist. I just love art.
Well, someone has to.
Well, James,
welcome to Dalí land.
Wait here.
Well, Dalí, we all know you're a genius.
Are you comparing yourself to God?
No, no. I do not compare myself to God.
Dalí is almost God.
Almost?
Not quite.
If Dalí was God, there would be no Dalí.
That would be a tragedy.
At least when you die,
you get to see if God looks like you.
Death.
It frightens me most,
and this is the basis of my inspiration,
of my creativity.
Every moment, death watches to catch me.
And every five minutes death no catch me,
I enjoy it tremendous.
I take some Vichy water,
you bring me some tea, a little bread or something,
everything becoming one tremendous pleasure
because... death surround me.
And because death is so close,
it's possible make erotic every single piece of my life.
You see? Hmm. I see. Do you see?
Who are you?
I'm James Linton from Dufresne.
Christoffe is coming to dinner tomorrow.
He will bring you.
He will?
You tell him.
It's important you can tell the difference
between an offset print and a lithograph.
Marks from a hand lithograph
will show a random dot pattern
created by the tooth of the surface it's drawn on.
The detail, every stroke.
Amazing.
But prints made from an offset press
have a mechanical dot pattern.
All the dots in the drawing, see?
A sure sign it's not an original.
- So, this is a fake? - No, no.
It's fine,
unless someone tries to sell it as a lithograph.
And that's fraud.
Exactly.
You know, you really don't need to be at this dinner tonight.
I don't know why Gala invited me.
You are a beautiful boy.
And she has the libido of an electric eel.
Really?
Yeah.
Back in the '30s, in Paris,
she was quite the sex siren.
The surrealist femme fatale.
The great muse.
Take this home.
But really, all you need to know is Gala is the power.
She does the deals and handles the money.
Always cash.
If she makes a pass at you, turn her down nicely.
Whatever you do, you must not insult her.
- No, I won't. - I know.
Because if you do, you are out.
No, no, Dalí does not want spinach.
Dalí abhors spinach.
Dalí can only eat food with well-defined shapes
that the mind can clearly grasp, like oysters.
Dalí needs money.
Then Dalí better start painting more.
There isn't enough to fill the gallery,
and we open in three weeks.
Dalí paint every day.
You give us money, we give you paintings.
Christ.
You enjoy this?
Yeah.
Christoffe is an idiot, but always, I work with fools.
But you...
you have a mind.
I see.
Oh, um, thank you.
You just begin work
for Dalí's gallery?
- Just a... a few months. - Good.
We won't let Christoffe ruin you.
- Tanqueray martini. - Amanda.
Amanda,
mon ange.
Mwah, mwah.
Come, sit. Sit.
That's Amanda Lear,
his new muse.
The rumor is when he first met her,
she was performing at a drag club in Paris.
And she was a he.
- But not for long. - Dalí,
what are you working on now?
At last, someone asks. I will tell you.
The world's largest penis.
- Really? - Yes.
There is a universal fixation on penis length.
No mortal penis can hope to live up to this expectation.
Therefore, I, Dalí, will build the ultimate penis
to relieve the world of its anxiety.
And how will Dalí make his penis?
Dalí's penis will be constructed of pink nylon mesh.
It will have a diameter of approximately two meters.
You will be encouraged to stand inside it.
And how long will Dalí's penis be?
It will circle the planet.
And how will your penis cross the ocean?
Like telephone cables on the floor of the ocean.
And when the penis, it is finished,
it will ejaculate over the United Nations.
My contribution to world peace.
Mais qu'est-ce que tu...
No, no, no.
He's autographing it.
They never cash the check.
Are you here for Gala?
Why does everyone seem to think that?
This face maybe?
I... I work at Dalí's gallery, actually.
But that's not why you're here.
If you're not here for Gala, then you must be here for Dalí.
There's always a reason.
What's your reason then?
Oh, I'm like Dalí's jewelry.
Something pretty.
Nice to wear at parties.
There she is.
Come on, darling. The ship is leaving.
Okay, sure.
Goodnight.
I'm coming.
- Did you see this? - He did that now?
Yeah, right in front of me.
- Just before he signed. - Wow.
Is this some little conceptual art piece?
Maybe you should be working downtown.
So, the whole idea of a signature
is that it should identify an artist definitively. Right?
- Uh, yeah. - But Dalí...
has a few dozen signatures.
Why? What does that say about him?
My dear boy, Dalí adores,
as he calls it, "to cretinize the world."
- Cretinize? - Yeah.
He wants to confuse,
to obfuscate, to fuck with people.
Or... to show people that nothing is what it seems.
Including himself.
Well, we're off to lunch...
...but first, Gala wants to see
how you plan to hang the new works.
Right.
But we can expect more prints and paintings this week?
- Yes, yes, yes, yes. - Show me the room.
How do you plan to hang the show?
Here, follow me.
"It's our pleasure to serve you."
This is a beautiful blue.
Blue is the color of oxygen.
- Excuse me, Señor Dalí. - Hmm.
- This is for you. - Hmm.
What is this?
All these, "Dalí, Dalí, Dalí"?
I made it for you.
I'm so sorry, Dalí. Dalí. My new assistant,
he's a fan. Don't let him bother you.
I saw that they were all different...
as if each one was a new version of you,
as if you became a new person each time you painted.
You have a face of an angel.
I do?
Not boy, not girl.
Are you Raphael?
No!
You are San Sebastian,
by Gustave Moreau.
Dalí can keep this, San Sebastian?
Yeah.
I need a new assistant.
I will borrow this boy until the show,
then you have him back.
Please let me do this, Christoffe.
One of the great artists of the twentieth century
wants me to work with him.
Oh, look at you. No one works with Dalí.
- They work for him. - Christoffe.
Come on, just think about this, okay?
I mean, I will... I will do overtime later, all right?
Look, I'll work free for a week. Two weeks, whatever.
I will make it up to you somehow, I promise.
All right.
Gala has committed him to too many contracts
that have nothing to do with the show
and now he's exhausted.
But we open in three weeks,
and I still have a whole wall to fill with paintings.
So, here's the deal.
You are going to keep an eye on him,
and tell me everything,
and make sure he paints.
He gets so sidetracked by his holograms...
- his parties and orgies. - Orgies?
Not part of the job.
Come.
Bring it here.
The Queen of Cups...
- I'll just leave this here. - Wait, wait.
Page of Cups.
Open it.
Sit down.
I'm sorry, I don't... I don't think I'm...
I just... I just... I don't, um...
I have a lot of errands and things, so, um...
Idiot!
Go.
Go work for Dalí.
Stop, stop, stop! Too much!
Gala!
I could find her if you'd like.
Galushka!
Gala!
Help.
Idiot. You don't learn?
One part linseed, one varnish, three paint.
What do you see?
There's more energy on the left than on the right.
Hmm.
- Hmm. - Your medicine.
- Take it. - Yes, yes, Galina.
Will you join us for lunch, my olivetta?
No. I go to the theater,
but keep working.
Keep painting.
I need her
to push me.
Without my Gala, I would end up in an asylum
or be a tramp under a bridge.
Bring me Naples Yellow.
It's my favorite color. Yellow is the color of proteins.
To find me the Naples Yellow,
Gala would walk all over Paris.
- Is that where you met? - No.
We met in Cadaques,
the most beautiful place on Earth.
The first thing I saw of Gala
was her wonderful back.
I was so beautiful.
See? Luis Buñuel was visiting.
And René Magritte and his boring wife.
And Gala!
My friend, the poet,
Paul Éluard.
Gala's husband.
I had many terrors and strange fits of laughter
when I was young.
People whispered I was mad.
Water.
That happens sometimes when I am tired.
Don't worry, San Sebastian.
Dalí only need a little air.
This will give me strength.
Are you sure?
Won't Gala be upset if you leave?
She is with Jesus.
She'll be gone for hours.
- Jesus? - You will meet him.
Tomorrow.
San Sebastian, you will join us at the Prince and Pauper's tea.
- Prince and Pauper's? - Yeah.
You, of course, are a pauper. You are young.
The old are there strictly for business,
otherwise, I cannot bear to look at them.
Where have you been?
It was my day at the gallery.
Dalí's done nothing today.
He's over there talking to Alice Cooper
about another hologram. How do you sell a hologram?
Yes, it is true.
Holographics is the ultimate art form.
What about painting, Dalí, and sculptures?
Yes, yes, Alice.
But Dalí create, at one and the same time,
the external and internal reality
through different methods.
Double images, stereoscopy,
holograms for seeking the fourth dimension,
penetrating more and more
into the compressed nature of the universe.
Compress-ed?
Compressed, compressed.
Did he say compressed?
Come, San Sebastian.
Meet my Ginesta. She's very Dalínian.
Ginesta.
You take care of San Sebastian.
- He is a new boy. - We've already met, Dalí.
So, are you a prince or are you a pauper?
Pauper, for sure.
I thought so.
Where are you from, James?
- Uh, Idaho. - Oh, my.
What was that like?
All I knew about art was from books and magazines,
so being here is kind of like a dream, I guess.
Do your parents know what you're up to in New York?
My mother says seven-layer cake is sinful,
so you can guess what she would say
about Dalí and... and all this.
My father thinks Dalí is a pornographer,
which I love.
Jeff!
Who's that?
Oh, that's Jesus Christ.
Jesus Christ Superstar. He plays him on Broadway.
- Dalí doesn't mind. - I'm so glad you made it!
A new lover will distract Gala, give Dalí more time to play.
Like I told you,
everyone is here for a reason.
You just don't know what yours is yet.
Well, I had a show.
I'm going to get a whiskey. You want a vodka?
Yeah, no.
Beautiful.
Sometimes I get very bored at these things.
But you're not boring.
Do you want to get outta here?
You can't keep doing this, Gala,
this is an impossible situation!
Americans are all porks. Greedy, Grade A U.S. porks.
You fix this, you call Desmond.
People are waiting for me downstairs. Dammit!
James, come in here, I need you.
Take this briefcase. You're gonna need it.
- What for? - Twenty thousand dollars.
Hmm, I shouldn't have said that, but it's all for Jesus Christ.
You'd think he'd have enough money
from that stupid show.
I'm sorry. Can you explain a little bit?
Gala has given her boyfriend, Jeff Fenholt,
the money meant to pay
for Dalí's hotel bill this month.
It costs 20,000 a month to live here?
Well, with room service and parties
with caviar and champagne flowing.
Plus, what Gala loses gambling in Chinatown.
So, take the briefcase to Desmond Carter, this address.
Get the money and bring it straight back.
These are all personally signed by the artist himself.
A few years ago,
I sold a Dalí print for 750 dollars.
Do you know what it's worth today?
- Ten times that. - Excuse me?
Captain Moore sent me.
Yes. He called. Uh, I'll be a minute.
Well, the price is really more than...
Did you know Picasso died last year?
Since then,
the value of his work has soared.
Salvador Dalí is 70, and he can't live forever.
That's awful, making money from someone dying.
It's the physics of art, Mrs. Thomas.
An artist dies and the prices go up.
It's how it is.
Excuse me, I'll be a minute.
Carter Gallery.
Okay, no, we're... we're not open then.
Hmm. Uh-huh. Sure. Sure.
You... like it?
I find it upsetting.
I mean, I can't figure how it's pulling me in,
but somehow it takes me inside of his dreams.
Just paint on paper, but...
it's so powerful.
It's kind of like magic.
I don't think I want to live
with someone else's weird dream on my wall.
But that weirdness, that's what makes it original.
It got to you.
That's why you'll never get tired of it.
And you'll never forget it.
That's Dalí.
You were fantastic in there.
Turns out her aunt left her 15,000 dollars.
Now she's going to spend it all on prints.
That's great.
Would you like some more light, Dalí?
No.
When I compare myself, San Sebastian,
to present day painters, I am way up,
up on the pinnacle.
But when I compare myself to...
Vermeer or Velázquez, my work is a catastrophe.
Modern painting has left behind Vermeer
and now goes about making things that are like posters.
Once you start...
...talking about squirting the paint
straight from the tube onto the wall,
the whole spiritualization process of art is lost.
It becomes an absurdity.
The paint,
it doesn't count
until it disappears,
and becomes an illusion of reality.
Abstract painting will one day be seen as a total disaster.
Now, San Sebastian,
Dalí needs a few hundred live ants,
some dead grasshoppers,
four dwarfs, and a suit of armor.
Spanish armor.
- For a painting? - No, a party.
A party?
I could kill him.
I wish he didn't make us so much money.
Is he getting any work done?
Yeah, he works every day.
Really.
Salut.
The Dalí... is... here!
Where is Gala?
Uh, Gala was a bit tired.
I think she's in her room, resting.
Jeff's songs will change the world.
Focus! I pay you to work.
Bravo, bravo.
Hey, help me.
I can't do this myself.
This is like armor.
Well, a woman does need her protection, James.
You know my name?
I know everyone's name.
Come on.
How is it working for Dalí?
It's like I landed on another planet.
But I belong.
Me too.
Do you have to work today?
Every day until the show.
- I can see you tonight, though. - I can't.
My parents are in town.
They're taking me to 21.
Fancy.
It's suffocating.
But I have to make a showing every now and then
or they won't pay my rent.
Hey, so, um, last night, um...
was Dalí, like, you know, watching us?
He likes to watch.
Don't you find that weird?
He is the man that painted The Great Masturbator.
So, is he gay?
I don't think they've invented a word
for what Dalí is.
What about him and Amanda? Do they ever...
The whole point about Dalí is that he doesn't have sex.
All of his paintings are about sex.
Well, maybe that's why.
He and Gala...
I think they had sex like a million years ago.
And I think she's the only one that he could ever do it with.
It must be so lonely.
Still...
his parties are fucking great.
Ooh! James, James. You need to...
Listen, boy. You will work.
You will not shave, no going home.
Stay with Dalí every hour until the show is finished.
- I lock you in, both. - Gala, I...
Shut up!
Shut your ugly mouth.
Do you want us thrown out of the hotel?
Into the streets?
Eat bones in the alley like dogs?
I will not eat from tin spoons.
I will never again live in a house that stinks of onion
or eat pig blood for breakfast.
I will not be poor!
- Olivina, please. - No, "please."
We need money!
Money, money!
We need paintings and drawings for this fucking show!
And you will paint,
and paint, and paint
for the next three days, nothing but painting!
No more parties!
No more play, no stupid friends!
The show is in three days.
Go!
Paint!
Um... Dalí?
Can I get you anything?
Is she magnificent, my Gala? Did you hear her yell?
She slapped The Captain, then she kicked me.
Such rage, like a fire.
I thought you would be upset.
Inspired!
I am inspired.
You young people think all you need
is peace, and love, and harmony.
No! It is anger makes us strong.
All fresh ideas burst from the shell of hatred.
Now, call my Ginesta.
Ginesta? Why?
For the angel's wings.
Dalí's angel's wings hang in the Vatican.
These wings I create with the perfect ass of a model,
so call Ginesta and some models. And Amanda,
tell her to come too.
I need many beautiful asses!
In here.
If it's here, add some.
So, quick down and then quick up.
Up.
No, no, no.
On the paper, Olivia.
Down. Up!
Perfect!
Good, good, good.
Up! Up! Perfect!
Every detail.
Now the paint will disappear, we have angel's wings.
James, James, it is not a party.
It is beautiful.
Maestro, what do you love more?
Painting or money?
Liking money the way I like it
is nothing less than mysticism.
Money is a glory.
Señor Dalí,
are you happy tonight to be showing in New York?
I'm always happy.
Sometimes I positively drool with happiness.
Aw.
And I have here my queen.
Gala!
She's my oxygen.
It is with her blood that I create my art.
I dedicate this exhibition
to Gala.
So, that's Alice Cooper's brain.
What's Dalí trying to say with this?
Don't ask me, man.
I haven't understood a single word he said
since I met him.
Everything's going really well, huh?
You are so self-involved.
Nothing is going well until I sell all these.
Go and look after Fenholt.
I need to keep him away from Dalí.
What I'm really missing in here is,
like, a Pietà, you know?
These are beautiful.
You know, I do a little painting myself.
Thank you.
And I'm making an album too.
All my own material. Not just pop songs, but...
poetic, meaningful things.
I'm building a home studio for the demos.
Cool.
I'm in Jesus Christ Superstar.
I was on the cover of Time last month.
Oh. Right, right.
You're Jesus, right?
Yeah, so you're going to...
perform miracles?
Jeff makes music that people will listen to
for hundreds of years.
Your music is ugly and dull. I don't know why people buy it.
His act is just a gimmick.
Anyone could put on freaky makeup
and spray blood all over the stage.
That's not music.
No one will remember him, no one.
Gala, this has been wild, but, um...
but I really gotta go.
- Oh... - Okay?
There's another party, and some of the cast is...
I come with you!
No, no, no.
Gala, it's Dalí's night.
Right?
It's cool.
Come down to the studio tomorrow.
Okay?
Hey, I thought you were going to be here hours ago.
Uh, this is Renaldo.
Renaldo, this is my friend James.
- He works here at the gallery. - Oh. Nice to meet you, James.
Great opening, don't you think, Lucy?
Oh, Ginesta is just a name
Dalí uses for all the blonde girls.
You never told me your real name.
Renaldo, I've barely seen any of the new work.
Let's look around.
Oh, here, drown your sorrow.
Where have you been? They won't come out.
We have to do something.
It's about Fenholt.
Get them out of there.
Oh! Oh, pardon!
Pardon. Chérie, pardon.
Another great Dalí performance!
But all good things must come to an end. Señor.
Perfect.
Huh? Perfect. Chérie, pardon, Chérie.
Tremendous.
Perfect.
Beautiful. Perfect.
Sometimes, San Sebastian,
it is so hard being Dalí.
Christoffe, I'm sorry.
Trains were delayed. It was raining.
The reviews?
- They're not good? - Worse.
"Who could imagine a day would come
when a Salvador Dalí exhibit comes to New York
and is almost ignored by the critical press?"
"The cause for such resistance can be attributed perhaps
to the... to a dismay
with the artist's perennial high jinks,
and that is a real shame, because the new show at Dufresne
has some remarkable pieces by an artist
who is in a category and class by himself."
But they're saying it was great.
She's saying none of the big critics reviewed it.
Not The New York Times, not Artforum.
The critics don't take him seriously anymore.
We sold almost nothing.
That's not your desk anymore, James.
It now belongs to her.
You're firing me?
For doing what you told me to do?
I told you to keep him painting,
not to become his adoring little acolyte.
You know, Christoffe, I learned more about art
from Dalí in three weeks
than I would have learned from you in three years.
I doubt that.
You have an eye, you know.
If you decide you're serious about gallery work,
come back and we'll talk.
Go fuck yourself.
The critics, San Sebastian, the bureaucrats,
they've never liked me.
I'm sorry, Dalí.
The critics attack
any tremendous original idea.
My problem, never with the people.
No.
They always know where to find true poetry.
Pack all the things,
paint, pencils, charcoal, brushes.
You're not painting today?
I go home to Portlligat.
I kiss the soil when I arrive.
This is where my painting is best.
Gala and I are always better there.
I hope you'll take this too.
You are sad Dalí is leaving?
Yeah.
Also, Christoffe just fired me.
I'm sorry.
James, James, James, James!
I've just heard from Christoffe.
What a wanker!
Now...
you've always worked hard for Dalí and me, I know.
And I owe you, so...
Do you have a passport?
There are a couple of things to deal with in Europe,
and I need somebody that I can trust.
So, I think that you could be of use in Paris
and Spain.
If you want to continue the ride.
You're going to have to collect some...
special paper.
A lot of special paper,
from a man in Paris.
His name is Gilbert Hamon.
- Bonjour. - Hi.
There is a lot to carry.
You have a car, yes?
Yeah, I'm parked out front.
I thought these were all supposed to be blanks?
On this side, blank.
On this, lithograph.
Well, they kind of look like prints, not lithos.
Oh, you... you think so?
Yeah, I worked in a gallery for a while.
Ah! So you're an expert?
Well, no.
My friend,
I'm the only print agent for Salvador Dalí in Europe.
I think I know what I have to sell, huh?
Right.
He is smart, huh?
The Captain.
Your face is so fresh.
No one will bother the young American tourist.
What's that supposed to mean?
Nothing. It's just smart.
Now, come on. Help me with those.
James, how are you?
Oh, I've been better.
- Was the drive good? - Yeah, it was all right.
Here we go.
All right.
You want me to bring the rest?
No, no, no. Bring the rest in the morning
when you come to the house.
You look exhausted. Get some sleep.
The, uh, the room's in your name.
It's not The Ritz, but it's... comfortable.
No!
It's already infected.
Look!
It's beginning to swell.
Tetanus.
There was something disgusting on that glass.
Some dirt has infected me. Look.
My finger is rotting.
I can feel the putrefaction like worms writhing inside.
The entire hand of the painter, Salvador Dalí...
will have to be cut off!
What will they do with my cut-off hand?
Will they bury it?
Where will they put it?
In a little box?
Do they make coffins for hands?
You'll have to go and get Gala.
She's the only one that can calm him when he's like this.
- Why? It's just a little cut. - To him, it's life threatening.
Total hypochondriac. You have no idea.
- Where's Gala? - In Púbol.
No, no, no!
Dalí bought her a castle
for her private time.
He's not allowed to go there without a written invitation.
♪ I don't wanna die ♪
♪ Cocaine in my veins Got me feeling all right ♪
♪ Devil on the line ♪
♪ His red is holding me Showing you my dark side ♪
All right.
I'm doing some heavy songs right now.
So, Dalí's bad shape, huh?
Yeah. Uh, it's quite the setup you got here.
It is.
This is my special place, where I find my sound.
♪ Devil on the line ♪
Amazing fucking acoustics, huh?
We're recording the album right here.
Album?
Well, I do the road tour of Superstar,
then I come back and make some magic.
All thanks to this amazing lady.
This is shit!
This is my time.
Go there. Wait!
I'm fine, Gala. It's fine. Go, really.
No, it's unfair. He makes me leave you.
Spend a couple days, then come back.
- I'll be here all week. - Worry you get depressed.
Stupid record companies,
the people don't see your amazing talent.
But do not... do not take drugs.
They only make it worse.
I promise.
I believe in you.
And soon, the world too.
Dalí does not remember
how I walked the streets of Paris
until my shoes filled with blood
to sell his paintings that no one wanted.
Knocking up on doors of...
fat, rich dealers.
I tell them...
"Salvador Dalí is a genius."
No one cared. Not in Paris.
They say, "Surrealism is over."
Idiots.
But that all changed when you came to America, right?
Yes, they loved Dalí.
We were in Hollywood, cameras go flash, flash.
They make Dalí like movie star. But me?
They look through me.
Like I am not there.
They say to each other,
"Why does Dalí have old wife?
- And Dalí? - Ah.
Dalí love Hollywood. Like a child, of course.
This man, um...
...uh, with stupid cartoon mouse...
Uh, Walt Disney?
Disney. He wants Dalí to make a film for him.
He does no painting there. Nothing.
Nothing for me to do but squeeze his orange juice.
Hmm.
Gracias.
Dalí!
San Sebastian.
Welcome.
You bring my Gala to me.
I am forever grateful.
Behold, La Emporda!
This sacred land that feeds me.
Nothing changes.
They fix their nets as they did forty years ago.
I feel like I'm in one of your paintings.
This place is of tremendous importance
to me and Gala.
Here is where we fused together
and became one.
Gala was a married woman and a Russian.
My father threw me out. We came here.
We lived in a fisherman's cottage.
We work, we ate, we slept, all in one room.
One night, we were invited to the cinema,
but I was tired,
so I stayed home to paint.
I knew this landscape
would be the setting for some spectacular idea.
Sit, please.
Everything's ready.
- We do this now? - Oui, oui.
I don't know. Something about signing that way
feels a little unusual.
What in the world of Dalí and Gala is not unusual?
Yes, but...
It isn't practical to sign after the prints
are made far away in France.
So, it's okay to sign the paper before the prints are made?
As you see.
How do you know
they're printing what they're supposed to?
Why would anyone print anything other than a Dalí?
He's the most famous living artist in the world.
- James. - Hey!
- Good trip? - Not too bad.
So, Jeff is at Púbol?
- Yeah. - That's why Gala was pleading
to get me here.
Keep Dalí company, so she can be with Fenholt.
You know, sometimes I think Gala and Dalí don't like
to be around each other because it reminds them
that they're old.
It's so difficult.
But tonight, I think we'll have fun.
Dalí promised to take us somewhere special.
Behold, San Sebastian...
The Cap de Creus!
Look there.
- This rock is in my painting. - Uh-huh. Oh!
The Great Masturbator.
Oh, yes. I see it.
The Tramontana, San Sebastian.
The wind is coming from Africa down the mountains,
but we must be careful.
It can blow for days.
Make you mad.
What are you doing?
When I was a child, and the Tramontana blew,
I'd go up on the roof,
and like this, I conduct the wind!
Ah! Woah!
Dalí!
Oh, my God.
Am I bleeding?
No, no. Just a bruise, maybe.
We go to the doctor then, to see.
No, Dalí. You are fine. Just get your breath.
I wish Gala were here.
This is where she asked me to kill her, you know?
I was very tempted that day to throw her off.
Do you really think Gala wanted you to kill her?
Even Dalí does not know everything about Gala.
She's the secret within my secret.
But that day,
I saw, in her heart,
the same madness as in mine.
I found my other half.
Hey, Captain?
Oh.
Sorry.
This is Sabater, the new secretary.
Where's The Captain?
He's gone. He steals.
Sabater is also younger and more intelligent.
What do you mean, The Captain steals?
He's gone. This is all.
With the prints, it's a mess.
No proper controls.
Too many dealers, unlimited limited editions.
Do you remember the... the Carter Gallery in New York?
The place I went to collect cash?
Well, I suspect that most of his stock
is unauthorized reprints.
Photocopies of lithos sold as originals.
When I was at the Carter Gallery,
I convinced a woman to buy some Dalí lithographs.
She spent 15,000 dollars.
You didn't know.
For that matter, they may have been authentic.
But you don't believe that, do you?
That was her inheritance.
God, how did they let this happen?
Gala never keeps track of the signed blank sheets.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Hamon in Paris.
He prints cheap copies too, doesn't he?
Passes them off as lithographs.
I mean, I try to keep some order,
but Gala's hunger for cash is insatiable.
And what does Dalí know?
Dalí doesn't want to know.
He wants Gala to look after everything.
He can't even pay for a taxi on his own,
- you know that. - And you brought me into this?
Well, you wanted the job.
They wanted the money.
It's a hungry market out there, James.
A painting's never just a painting.
Not anymore.
What did you think was going on?
Well, I suspected something, but...
But you stayed.
I stayed.
Dalí's hemorrhaging money,
you know, between their extravagances
and the money that Gala spends on Fenholt.
Do you know that she gave him one of Dalí's paintings,
a portrait of Gala, worth a fortune?
And I hear that he's just sold it at Sotheby's.
He sold it?
I gave Dalí 20 years of my life,
and when I was with him, he made millions.
But now I fear that he's...
he's going to die poor.
Gala told me you stole from Dalí.
Is that true?
Certainly not.
Hello?
Hi, Christoffe. It's James.
James.
How are you?
I have to ask you a question.
Rest your weight there. Hmm. Yes. Yes.
San Sebastian.
Dalí, I found something out from Captain Moore.
Thought it was something you should know.
Please.
He told me Gala gave a painting of yours to Jeff Fenholt.
What? What painting?
A portrait you did of Gala.
It isn't true.
Captain Moore told you this to hurt Dalí.
Gala would never give Jesus Christ
one of my paintings.
It's true.
How do you know?
I know because I called Christoffe.
You called New York?
Yes.
On my telephone?
He confirmed it with Sotheby's.
How dare you call long distance on my bill?
I employ you for weeks and months.
I allow you
to be in the presence of Dalí, of genius.
I give you this opportunity,
and you piss on me, waste my money
by calling long distance without permission!
How many of these calls did you make?
Just one.
I give you everything!
I am the master! I am the teacher!
I give, and give, and give!
And you betray me with your phone calls.
He was trying to protect you.
Protect Dalí?
Ridiculous!
And you, Amanda, are you with him?
I always knew you'd be a traitor in the end.
Dalí, there are bad things going on around you.
In the sale of your work, the prints.
All lies. You must apologize.
No.
- Apologize. - No.
I'm just trying to tell you the truth.
It was one painting.
Jeff needs money for his music and his demos.
What is "demos"?
I don't care, he's nothing.
You, everyone's kissing your feet,
running to your parties.
What do I do?
I bring you coffee, I cut your toenails.
Jeff needs me.
I do need you, my Olivina.
This is insanity.
I do need you. I do.
You say this...
but Jeff is young.
He has all his future.
I help him to be great.
- And you have Amanda. - Me?
I spend nothing on Amanda!
And here, like a school girl, you throw my paintings at him,
and he just takes money, money, money!
You're a jealous old man!
You have no gift for music.
You cannot play guitar like Jeff.
Stop!
- Stop it! - But you know
- how I love this painting. - You've done others better.
Much better.
I never liked that painting.
Rosa!
Never again will I see you in this life.
Ja... James?
They won't let me in to see him.
- But he loves you. - Just fucking vanity.
He doesn't want anyone to see him like this.
With his burns?
He thinks he's old and ugly.
He doesn't paint. He barely eats.
Ever since Gala died, it's like he's lost himself.
She died three years ago in Portlligat.
She always said she wanted to be buried
at her castle in Púbol.
But the local authorities would only allow that
if she died there.
So, they dressed up her body
and drove her back to her castle
as if she was still alive.
So, she was buried in Púbol.
Sorry, I have a train to catch. I have a...
show in Paris.
That's right. I heard.
You're a pop star now.
And you?
I have my own gallery in the East Village.
It's small, but I love it.
After all that happened with Dalí,
you still want to work with artists?
Maybe I'm a masochist.
I guess I found my perversion.
Dalí would be proud.
No, this is not possible.
Please. I... I used to work for Dalí. If you would give him
- my name... - I'm sorry, no.
You don't understand how important this is to me.
Dalí.
It's James.
James Linton.
I wanted to give you something.
San Sebastian.
I took this,
but it's yours.
It's your name.
You should have it back.
So, there. You're lucky, you have seen Dalí.
He remembered me.
Oh.
He said, "San Sebastian."
That was his name for me.
This was a name Dalí used
for many young men over the years.
I've known at least three San Sebastians myself.
Perhaps he remembered you.
Gracias.