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Sorry, the children woke up.
Ah, OK.
Thank you, Conchita.
Emil, Emil...
Again?
Are you OK? - Not so loud. Mama's asleep.
You OK? Is he hurt?
No, he's fine.
He couldn't sleep. He woke up at 5 a.m.
He never sleeps!
Carlitos!
OK, Conchita. I have to go.
Please don't wake my wife. - Of course not.
I know this is an important day. - Yes, an important day.
Break a leg. - Thank you, Conchita.
What would we do without you?
Alright then. I'm off.
Bye, sweetie.
Say, "Bye, Papa."
Good luck.
Thanks, honey.
Go back to sleep.
When will you be back? - Tomorrow afternoon.
When? - At 2.
British Airways? - Exactly.
Mattis booked it. He'll send you a mail so you have the precise info.
Bye. - Bye.
GROUND FLOOR
NEXT DOOR
Hey Siri, call Mattis.
Morning, already on your way? - Morning. I've got a good feeling about today.
Tell the driver to meet me at the dive. It's always empty.
The airport lounge is too busy and the cafés are full of tourists.
Good idea: "Early booze, never blues."
But your driver's waiting. - The flight's not till 1:30. Why so early?
They never listen. I told them it's not LAX or Heathrow.
I fear they can't wait to see you.
You can go home. I'll get a cab later. - I can't do that.
Don't worry. We'll call them. Here.
Thanks. - Have a nice day. - You, too.
Be sure to call the company. I don't want him getting hassled.
Should I send a taxi to the bar in an hour?
No, I'll do it. - Fine.
Can I get the screenplay? - No, it's top secret.
Sure, but we could get something.
Together we can do this. Can you call Ada?
Fine, I'll try.
And get me a Beethoven biography. - I already looked, but...
A good one. - The best one, Daniel.
That's it: the best one.
The best one is the standard work and is 873 pages long.
Oh, shit.
Should I order it? - Is there a shorter one?
Lots of them. - Then get one of them.
Will do.
Here, 120 pages long. - Sounds good.
Super. - I'll go do my lines, but tell me if Ada calls.
Talk later.
MOTHER'S MILK BAR
Top of the morning.
If it ain't Tom Cruise.
Off on another world trip, Squire?
What powers of observation.
I wish I took that many vacations. - It's the opposite of a vacation, Madame.
Some would say your life is one big holiday, Squire.
I have a casting call. It's a big deal.
A relaxing beer would be unprofessional. Coffee, please.
You know my coffee's bad. It's just drip.
Everyone wants espresso these days. - Not me.
Good decision. - Espresso is overrated.
It's bitter and causes heart attacks. Don't ever do that.
I won't.
I reached Ada. She said there's no chance. - There's always a chance.
Sorry, but no way.
Fine, I'll talk to her.
It needs the Danny-Boy touch. - Yeah, apparently.
Milk? - Black.
Siri, call Ada. - Here I am.
Call Ada Miller.
Hey, Siri. Call Ada Miller. - Who should I call for you?
Ada Miller. Her cell.
Calling Ada Miller's cell. - Jesus...
Micha! Shut it!
You speak real good English.
Wonderful. - Come off it.
It tastes vile even if you're in love with me.
It reminds me of my mother's coffee. - As long as I don't remind you of her...
Where is the casting call? - London.
I've been there. I took flowers from the castle after the princess died.
You just took them? - There were so many, it didn't matter.
Great city. Free flowers. - But Berlin is better.
Berlin is the best.
Morning.
Do we know each other?
Can I get an autograph?
Yeah, sure. Got a pen?
Nope.
Got a pen? - For you, Squire? Course!
Got any paper?
Nope.
Thanks. - Any time.
Excited? - "Excited?"
Your casting call. - Ah, that.
Oh, a bit. You feel fine, even in the plane, but then you get the willies.
It's like a math test.
I know I can only give 50% under such circumstances.
50%? Of you?
That's not much.
Hey, Mirko!
Micha, please. Let him make his call.
And off he goes.
Cheers.
Oh, no, thanks. I'm on the early shift.
Coffee won't help your nerves.
Just a gulp.
You know, beer in the morning on an empty stomach...
I can't get tipsy before a screen test.
An empty stomach's no good. You're a regular here, huh?
I am. - Then you know the house specialty.
Fix him some. - The regular?
Is there anything else?
For variety, go to Hotel Adlon. - That's what I meant.
We'll fix your hunger for you.
Are you from around here?
You could say that.
And you? - Not exactly.
I'm from Cologne. And speak the dialect.
But in Berlin since 2002.
Watch the game yesterday? - Course.
Congratulations. Now we even lose to Hertha Berlin.
I'm a Union supporter.
You made that Stasi film here in 2002, right?
I wouldn't call it a Stasi film, but I know what you're referring to.
Then you fell in love with the city.
You could say that.
I didn't like it.
What? - Your Stasi thing.
Pure West German.
Western actors, western director, western writer, western production...
Only the gaffer was from the East.
I can reassure you: We had plenty of people from the former East.
It was all so inauthentic.
Opinions differ.
For example that scene
with your uncle from the Worker's Movement where he talks about solidarity.
About when solidarity still existed.
And you look at him as if he's the pope.
Them planes are a bloody scandal!
It's all rigged with the fucking gas! - Micha!
Cool it.
What about that scene?
Some people say it's the best one in the film.
They might even be right.
Well,
you're bad in it, too.
Sorry?
I should've interpreted the role differently?
Please speak up. I find feedback extremely important.
"Interpret?"
It'd be better to not even perform in such a film.
But if you must, then you should've performed differently.
But you're not the kind of guy who performs anyway.
So, Squire. Good it ain't, but better than nothin'.
Enjoy.
What do you mean, I don't perform?
Nobody in the neighborhood hams it up like that.
I should hope not.
You won't find that in London, but you already know that if you're always here.
Take your first film where you play the autistic character.
Black Velvet. Directed by your buddy, the great Morten Grün,
who got so famous afterwards.
My father liked it.
But I found it...
contrived on Morten's part.
You played the autistic guy well. - Thanks.
Maybe it was typecasting.
But that scene where you lambaste those hippies
is a repulsive attempt to curry favor with petty-bourgeois viewers.
But that's not the point.
What is the point?
I'm sure you're about to tell me what the point is.
You've been waiting so long to finally tell me what the point is.
You can't imagine how right you are.
I watch very closely. Always. Not only in your case.
So I'm watching and I see... you.
This way or that way. Different hairdos, a beard...
Always different costumes, but it's always... you!
Great!
Now you've told me.
Your day wasn't in vain.
Did I hurt your feelings? - No. No, no.
Though it's not complimentary to tell an actor you only ever see him.
But... it seems to work.
You're doing well.
Can we get two waters. - Fizzy.
Flat for me, please.
So I downloaded that new Money app.
Careful. Fish piss in water.
And I... - 3.80.
Don't drink it all at once. - Keep the change.
Will you do it? Or should I?
Will there be a second season of Mindful?
We don't even know.
Really? - They only decide after the Emmys.
They haven't told us, but...
Of course.
And how is Wes Anderson in real life? - Super nice. So chill.
Really? - Yeah, really.
Ah, can we get a pic?
Sure thing.
Would you be so kind?
Please.
I'm always kind.
And? - Turned out great.
It was a pleasure. - OK, cool. Goodbye.
Bye.
Live long and be good.
Mindful could've been a good series
if you'd done it ten years ago.
But that reconstructed 1900s Boston, well...
it wears me down.
Ah, it wears you down?
We'd have interpreted it differently in that case. The result would've been unrecognizable.
You should've spoken up.
Pity.
You don't recognize me?
I told you he doesn't recognize me. - That's true.
Should I recognize you?
Obviously not.
If you never noticed me, you don't need to recognize me.
Where might I have noticed you?
In our building.
You live in my building? - Ha, no.
You live in mine. I've been there a bit longer.
Back house. Sixth floor. Opposite you. Across the courtyard.
Though I don't have my own elevator.
I take the stairs like everyone else.
The delivery guy leaves your packages with me because I'm home all day.
You've never picked them up. - No, my assistant does that.
Mattis.
Nice guy.
Mattis is a nice guy.
Oh well, no offense.
But in your East German film, the Stasi are such monsters, such caricatures...
They were proper people.
They didn't look different from us, and they weren't embarrassing.
Take that street scene where you can recognize the Stasi by their faces.
Oh, they weren't that bad?
No, they were how they were.
Proper people.
Totally normal. Just how they are. Just how you are.
It wasn't all that bad?
Well, sometimes. But mostly it wasn't.
Mostly it wasn't? - No, mostly it wasn't.
Maybe not for you.
What do you know about me?
I now know East Germany didn't treat you too badly.
Oh, and you think you can imagine how it would've been for you?
To some extent.
You would've appeared in dissident plays and supported Biermann.
The Stasi would've bugged you, but you'd have been fearless.
I might not know what I would've done but now I know well what you did
and need no further information, dear neighbor.
I was in Hohenschönhausen.
As a prisoner?
No.
As a guard.
Of course as a prisoner.
Sorry. I beg your pardon.
No offense.
You haven't eaten your ham in aspic.
Looks delicious.
I'd love to, but I have no appetite before casting calls.
But it tastes fine, right? - Of course it does.
Have you ever had it?
I don't know, to be honest.
You gotta be kidding me.
It's Marina's specialty. - Well, in that case,
I'll definitely try it when I'm not flying to a casting call. I'll do that, next time.
But I can't right now.
Her name's not Marina.
You're a regular here?
You've never tried the aspic ham and don't know the owner's name.
No biggie, Squire. At least I know your name.
Now I've embarrassed myself.
My first girlfriend's name was Marina. Maybe that's why.
Is that a fact?
Should we start over?
Start over?
Most humbly do I greet you, mistress of this penumbral bower.
You who us errant souls offer libations and peace.
You're too multifarious for one name alone, and yet
I've been found wanting and beg forgiveness.
It really doesn't matter.
But you really do speak beautifully.
Speaking beautifully is my profession, but also my calling.
Is it thanks to the aspic?
Why were you in Hohenschönhausen, if I may ask?
I'm good at getting into trouble.
My father always said, "Bruno, you get into trouble wherever you go."
I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
That happened fast back in East Germany.
In that respect, it was a bit like your film.
My father had the top apartment in the front building.
Which one? - There's only one.
Your father lived in the apartment where I now live?
Until '99.
Then Hans Schüssel, an investor who rebuilt all the buildings around here,
bought him out.
For 8,750 marks.
8,750 marks.
Once he was out, he raised the roof and made it into a great duplex.
The only problem was, my father didn't want to move out.
"I've been here since '57," he always said. "I'm staying till I die."
What did Hans Schüssel say?
"Dying: sure. Staying: no."
At first he thought it was just talk.
Then he was forced to realize it was serious.
Investors always do the same thing if they want you out.
They have no imagination.
What's it called when people like you
move in... Gentrification is what you people call it.
Everything's in motion in the city. Panta rhei. All is in flux.
You might just get your hand broken by some guy at the front door.
Then go and prove it was Hans Schüssel.
Your father's hand was broken over my apartment?
The knuckles.
Middle and index fingers.
Like in the movies. They're not creative.
So he moved in with me, but I only have two rooms.
And we didn't get along even before that.
He needed nursing.
The usual.
Can I meet him? - No.
I had nothing to do with that.
If you look closely, as you say, you'll know it's not my fault,
but naturally it touches a nerve.
If your father goes to the police... - He's dead.
I'm sorry.
You needn't be. It went quick.
He couldn't stand your Stasi classic, either.
"It's completely inauthentic West German romanticism."
He always went to the movies. He had nothing else to do.
He liked Black Velvet somehow,
until you moved in.
"West German romanticism..." - That's what he said.
You'll have to discuss it with Morten Grün. After all, I didn't write it.
You only learned it by heart and parroted it. - It's a bit more involved than that.
By heart and then into the cameras.
If you have trouble remembering it, you repeat it until you get a wrap.
Take me, for example. I had myself retrained.
Right after the Wall fell. Programming.
I even studied assembly language. Know what that is?
It's machine language.
One step above the zeros and ones.
Nobody knows it anymore. They don't need to, either.
Computers have so much capacity now.
Retraining was a huge fraud.
Like everything else Kohl promised.
Like everything Merkel promised.
Do you know where I work now?
In a bank help center.
That's where programmers go when they believed Mr. Kohl:
on night shifts.
Help center?
Bank help center.
If some night at 3 a.m. you're at a party and notice
you've lost your credit card and call the emergency number,
you may think you're calling your bank.
But they're all asleep.
So your call is actually to us.
Blocking your card is always us. Me.
I'm the only guy sitting there at 3 a.m.
So I read out your last transactions,
and you say, "Yes, that's right" or "No, that's wrong,"
and I cancel the transactions and have a new card sent to you.
I do that all night.
That's why I'm home during the day, if I'm not in the bar.
And that's why I receive your packages.
They tell children there's a profession for everyone,
but then you realize
it's just a few lucky souls.
So anyone can do what I do? - Well...
Shall we read this?
Why?
I need to practice it and it might just interest you.
Top secret.
What is it?
Nothing to be proud of, but it pays the rent,
and many, many people will see it: over 100 million.
You pay rent?
I thought Papa's apartment belongs to you.
I still have to pay it off monthly.
Did you pay for that watch? - What's this now?
Your shoes, your jacket?
Firstly, that's none of your business...
Sure.
You've read we actors get everything for free.
Not every actor, of course.
You think I should tell the companies, "Keep your crap, I don't want it."
You could donate the crap, too.
You always give these concerned interviews.
About helping refugees. All the time. Well, not all the time.
But whenever a new film comes out.
You know how far that watch would get a refugee? - This is silly.
You might as well ask why I have no migrants in my apartment.
True, the watch wouldn't get him far. The cops would arrest him on sight.
He'd claim, "The actor from Mindful gave it to me."
Who'd believe him?
Do you speak English? Or only Russian...
Enough for this.
He's called "Darkman?"
Like I said: One needn't be proud of it and I won't win an Oscar, but it's a huge franchise.
It's a recurring role. Doesn't matter.
Right.
What crap.
Who's this Croy?
No idea.
But it says he's important.
It's confidential. I have only that page.
But if what you people say is true,
that you have to immerse yourself in a role and that it's hard work,
don't you absolutely have to know who Croy is? - Yes.
I've been trying to get the script, but they guard it like the philosopher's stone.
More like "dipshit's stone..."
I have to go.
Your flight's not till 1:30. You've got time.
How do you know?
We Stasi guys know things.
My God, I'm kidding.
You mentioned London, so I checked the times.
Turn it off.
Come on, you always like it.
Please turn it off!
How touchy!
You'd be gone if it was the earlier flight. - They insist you come early.
So, till next time, when there'll be no casting call, a lot of beer,
and the delicious house specialty. I'm looking forward to it.
It'll be grand.
Keep the change. - Thanks.
Can you call me a cab? - Course.
Can I get an autograph? - Sure thing.
Your name is? - Mirko.
My nephew. - Super.
What's the film? - Booster.
You were good in that one. I found you a credible pilot.
Can I get a photo, too? - Sure.
Your tears, I found them believable.
Almost. I mean, I know the make-up artist comes and does it.
Mother's Milk Bar here. I need a horse and buggy immediately.
Oh, no: It's dead. - Come on, we'll use mine.
Where the hell are we? This is unreal!
Micha! Shut it!
So how do I get it?
My assistant will bring it by tomorrow.
Plus the special edition DVD and a Mindful poster. How about that?
There's a convention. The city's full.
What convention? - Whatever the South Germans celebrate.
Let's chat some more.
Fine.
Let's chat, neighbor. I have something to tell you, too.
You know what really surprises me?
People like you who genuinely believe I'm interested in their opinions.
Oh, is that a fact? - Cross my heart.
Your opinion of my work, my face, my way of acting...
I know you're desperate to share it, but it's not the least bit interesting.
Don't take it personally, though your opinion is particularly uninteresting.
Everyone else's opinion doesn't matter either. Yours matters exceptionally little,
but they still don't matter. Sorry, that's just the way it is.
Tell it to your reviewers.
I see.
You're happy when I get bad reviews.
But that doesn't mean I get worse parts or less money.
But the few good reviews must make you happy.
Amazingly, no.
I don't believe a single word, be it good or bad.
I'm with you there.
Know what I call it?
Fake news.
It's me again. I've got that Janice on the line.
Mirko?
"Janice?" - Head of production.
Come here. - It's about the script.
Oh, shit. Put her through.
No, wait, wait.
Say, do you know a guy from my building?
Back house, top floor. You get my packages from him.
Bruno? The nice East German rocker?
Janice is waiting.
Put her through. - Good luck.
Hey, dude... - I'm on the phone.
Fine.
Bye!
Not now!
Oh, sorry. - You called a cab?
I'll be right there.
Are you done?
I'm done.
And I'm going to the airport.
I wanted to... - Ciao.
I'll grab my suitcase.
There was one other thing... - Nothing more.
I've heard enough from you for my whole life.
You shouldn't trust Conchita.
What's with Conchita?
That's her name, right? Your nanny?
What is this?
I'm not going yet. Sorry.
Fucker.
What manners people here have! - What about her?
About whom? - About Conchita.
She gets a lot of visitors.
When she's alone with the kids.
Lots of them.
They sit around your living room, eating and drinking.
It smells spicy. Cuban style. Not to my taste,
but to each his own.
Then she tidies up and uses that vile spray so you don't notice.
It stinks all the way to my place.
I can see into your apartment
from my window.
Her boyfriend comes, too. One of them.
She has two.
And he spends the night if you're both out of town. One of the two.
Or one after the other. Who knows? They all look the same.
That's not true.
Once, when she was in a bad mood,
she gave little Carl a slap.
Sorry?
"It's none of your business," I told myself.
But now you know.
Conchita hit my son?
I think I've already said enough.
If you saw that, you have to tell me. I need to know.
Don't you think I should mind my own business? - Of course not.
So if you see a misdeed, you should intervene?
Of course you have to.
Conchita was overworked.
It was one of the days, Danny, when your wife...
Excuse me!
I used your first name.
One of those days when your wife said she'd be back by 5, but arrived after 9 p.m.
Though she'd started work at 9 a.m.
Conchita was really tired, so it's understandable.
Carl just wouldn't stop.
He was really loud.
It almost drove me insane.
The yard is tiny. I hear everything.
That's when her hand slipped.
It's not alright, of course. But you can kind of understand it.
So?
Beethoven?
How's it looking?
Conchita really hit my son?
It was a slip of the hand. She was tired.
But what a film that would be! Beethoven!
You and Morten Grün back together, and you as Beethoven!
I can just see it. You'd be great.
Just don't be slimy about his deafness.
I heard you. On the phone. To Morten.
Your old friend, Morten.
It sounded so riveting,
so harmonious, like such a great idea.
But? - No but!
Great idea.
I'm glad it meets with your approval.
But... - Enjoy the rest of your life.
Don't worry, my packages will no longer be delivered to your place.
Don't you want to know when it happened? The slap, I mean...
maybe it's important.
April 27th of this year at 7:30 p.m.
That means nothing to you?
You were in Barcelona. But why was Conchita alone with the children?
It was unplanned. Your wife should've been home.
But look...
You're a stand-up guy. One of the good celebs.
Of course he is. What other good ones are there?
Course. Axel Prahl.
BANK STATEMENT
He sees me:
50 euros!
I said,
"That's too much, Mr. Prahl."
And he just goes,
"Pocket it, son."
But that "Mama Beimer" TV soap actress, the "mother of a nation," what a bitch.
She's sitting there with all these people.
I say I need to get to Charlottenburg,
so she gets them all to chip in for a taxi.
And I'm standing there like a hobo.
She could've paid for the taxi herself!
Gee-whiz.
Bruno always hands it over.
Old chum! Bet your bottom dollar on him.
If you ever need anything,
Bruno will see you through.
Alright, Guido, that'll do.
It's alright. I'm going already.
Jeez.
Alright. - Thanks.
See you, Guido.
Have a nice day.
Where did you get my wife's bank statement?
It's from April of this year.
Check the 27th.
Hotel Saint-Jacques in Hamburg.
315 euros.
That's the price there
for a double room.
The standard ones.
They have deluxe rooms, too, that are almost twice the price.
And a single room is considerably cheaper.
There. So my first question to you is:
Why was your wife in Hamburg,
though it was Conchita's birthday and she had the day off?
But then she didn't. How come?
Secondly: Why a double room? And thirdly:
If you don't know,
what does that mean?
You weren't paying attention.
I told you where I work.
You weren't listening.
I see all your account transactions.
And all the transactions on every other account.
Anyone might lose their card, so I need to be able to check
if something has been debited.
But even if no card is lost, I can still see all movements.
You thought, "I don't give a shit what this guy's telling me about his life." Right?
Could I have a water? - Carbonated?
Doesn't matter.
Just to be sure. In case
you think I'm inventing this.
On that day, you were in Barcelona, right?
You had lunch at the El Toro.
You took three taxis.
You probably had "meetings," as you people say.
You ate dinner at the Hotel Camper.
On your own, I guess.
You only paid 37 euros in total.
Which is the price there, I checked,
for a steak and fries.
Who knows if you ate the fries? Maybe you can't because of your figure.
You stayed another two days in Barcelona,
and the next day your wife came back home from Hamburg.
She bought her ticket at the station.
First class. Of course.
90 minutes in second class? No one could stand that.
So she was back home for lunch the next day.
Conchita was really relieved.
And tired, too. She thought she'd have off for her birthday,
but then spent the whole day with the children.
The whole night, too. - They closed the dining cars.
Only the Poles have delicious fried eggs now!
Micha, shut your trap.
I've had enough.
They think they can just close the dining cars and no one will do a thing.
Should we just take it all like sheep?
Not this time!
The Kaiser wouldn't have allowed it. - Shut your mouth!
Micha, please. You'll have to go if you can't stop.
Well, Danny. Clara changed all the plans without a word to you.
Oh, sorry. I used your first name again, but...
it just happens because I know you so well.
This is called stalking.
And I swear, it'll cost you your job. You'll be hanging out in bars at night, too.
Nothing will stop you from going to the dogs, you pig!
Keep the change.
There are taxis by the park close by.
Fine.
CALL A CAB
The airport, please. - Of course, friend.
Everything alright?
Stop. - What?
Stop the car. I'm getting out.
What the...
Thanks.
You were right, Bruno.
Welcome back, Squire.
How do you do it!
Was the room in Hamburg just once?
Do you really want to know? - Yes.
Didn't you say you're calling the police? - Tell me.
You called me a pig. - Tell me!
Because you have to know.
You don't want to live with a lie.
How long have you been doing this?
Initially, I didn't want it.
I just heard it all. I couldn't do otherwise.
While you were talking, arguing, talking on the phone...
You always leave the window open.
Even in the winter.
At first,
it only annoyed me.
But then things became conspicuous and I started looking into them:
where you go when you travel and what Clara's up to.
If you see every transaction, you see a lot.
Suddenly I could no longer look away.
Nine years.
My wife cheated on me for nine years.
And like a dipshit, I noticed nothing. I didn't want to.
Friends hinted at it.
I didn't want to hear it, for nine years.
You must be confusing me with someone else, Bruno.
With whom? - Someone who cares about your shitty life.
That hurt.
I don't want to hear about your wife who rightfully left you.
Or how you're doing in your filthy pad.
We're not friends. We're here because you want to tell me something, hence the print-outs.
So put up or shut up.
I'll shut up. No, alright! Alright!
You win.
You're right. I do want to tell you.
It's too darn bad about Beethoven.
It'd be your role.
It could be a great film. I can really imagine how
he hears less and less and grows more and more introverted.
Then you could win the Oscar and you'd both have one.
Oh well, Morten can still do the film.
He could even play the lead. He's handsome enough.
What are you saying?
June 3rd.
The meal with the Netflix people
in Frankfurt.
The producers were there, but Morten canceled.
June 15th:
You two were due in Budapest,
but you had two days of re-shoots for Mindful.
But he didn't go.
So you thought to yourself,
maybe he wants out.
That's what you told Clara over Skype:
"I think Morten doesn't want to do Beethoven anymore."
That was August 17th.
And she replied,
"Maybe it's not about Beethoven, but something else."
Boy.
Maybe she's right.
Maybe it really is because of something else.
The previous month in Taormina: you and Clara at the film festival.
You were nominated.
Suddenly Morten was there, too.
Why, I don't know. He wasn't nominated for anything.
Did you two talk about Beethoven?
Oh well, maybe he wasn't there for that.
But let's return to the 27th,
when he was also in Hamburg,
and ate, what a coincidence,
in the Hotel Saint-Jacques.
He booked no room. Who knows where he stayed? With a friend?
Does he have friends in Hamburg?
Maybe he paid cash, though I know he's got cash flow problems:
92,000 euros tax arrears
paid on March 17th.
Which is why he went second-class to Hamburg,
and was surely glad not to have to pay for the room in the Saint-Jacques.
But going back to June 3rd,
the meeting with Netflix he didn't show up to. He was actually in...
Berlin.
Where did he tell you he was?
Because, and this is the funny part, look:
He withdrew money right here.
On this corner.
While you were all in Frankfurt for his film.
Clara was here, too.
She wanted to go to a doctors' congress in Geneva,
but she actually stayed in the city.
Look: Here's her Swiss Air payment
and the chargeback for her cancellation.
It was a morning. The children were at daycare.
This could all be lies, as you know.
All of it.
Bats in the belfry or what?
Sorry, I'll pick them up.
This could all be faked.
But I mean,
if you consider how things had been in recent months
with Clara, Morten, Beethoven...
If you think it all through,
will you still believe I'm lying?
I told myself, "Be quiet."
"It's none of your business." But I know how it is.
I went through it for nine years.
One can hardly believe it's possible:
that the two of you are there every morning, afternoon and evening,
thinking you share a life,
then it's suddenly all a lie?
You won't make your flight anymore.
Look!
HAPPIER AND HAPPIER
Hey, Siri. Call Clara.
Calling Clara.
Hey, are you already in London?
Daniel? - No, I'm still on the move.
Are you OK? You sound strange.
Everything OK with you? - You know, lots of patients today.
There was this weird guy. I said, "You need an MRI appointment."
He said, "I don't have the time." I said, "You have to."
He said, "Don't tell me what to do." What can you do with someone like that?
What did you do? - I said, "It's your life."
Maybe he was afraid.
Of what?
Of what he might find out.
Possible.
Sure.
Are you still there?
Carl was restless last night.
He sleeps so badly at the moment.
He has nasty dreams, poor thing.
Emil didn't want to go to kindergarten today.
I asked what he wanted to do instead, and you know what he said?
What did he say? - He said...
What?
Sorry?
You vanished. - No, you did.
No, you did. - No, you did.
You.
I think I have to go.
Good luck. I'm crossing my fingers for you.
Thank you.
You sound funny.
It's just nerves.
No need to be nervous. I love you.
Love you, too.
Sorry, can we get a photograph?
Of course.
I meant a photograph of us.
The two of us.
Sorry.
You forgot this. You'll be needing it.
I really like Denise.
Weren't you meant to be in London, Squire?
Can you fix me another coffee? - Sure can.
Denise is a real top girl. Supports two children.
You wouldn't know, but her older daughter takes saxophone lessons.
Of course:
We need to talk about Denise, too.
She was married in the Ukraine.
Ran away from her husband.
He gave her the scar on her neck.
She said you think the scar's pretty,
but never asked how she got it.
I wondered for a long time about those money transfers.
500 euros, 1000, 850...
2,300 euros on four occasions.
That's not cheap.
www.personal-fans.com
A porno site, sure. But so much money?
It took me a while.
I didn't know it was possible.
I mean, I watch the odd porno film.
But I didn't know you could have a Denise all to yourself.
Online sex with her boyfriend!
And you as the only viewer!
Completely exclusive!
That costs 2,300 euros.
You only did it four times.
Thank God you have separate accounts,
Clara and you.
But you could've had a terrific call girl for that money.
The whole works! But you preferred a tablet?
That tiny screen?
Of course you know about my tablet.
I contacted her as soon as I figured it out.
You download the app and pay the 50-euro starter fee,
but it was worth it.
I told her I'm your brother. She believed me at once.
I said I'm worried about you
and she told me all about it.
She even gave me five free minutes,
because Denise is really, really sweet.
She said you always tell her about your films
and whine about Clara, so I concluded
you hadn't used your cell.
So I searched your apartment while you were in Taormina.
You were in my apartment, too!
It was really funny, seeing it from the inside.
It felt like I was in a dream,
because I'd only ever dreamt of being there.
You'll go to prison for that.
Not for that.
Mattis gave me the key.
He was supposed to water the plants, but wanted to attend the Paintball Championship.
As I mentioned, we got kind of friendly.
So he asked me to do it. Just imagine!
I said, "You're playing paintball? That's fantastic. Sure.
I'll water his plants."
And what fun it was!
I thought, "Where would he hide it?
He's not stupid, but he's no genius, either.
And what's more,
he's not expecting me. He's expecting his wife at most.
But she's a professional and has patients, she'll stop looking after 30 minutes.
But me? I had the whole day.
It makes no difference if he gave you the key.
I have a very good, very expensive lawyer,
and the police will side with me because, as you said, I'm a popular guy.
So if I talk to the police, you'll get the rough end of it when they interrogate you.
I wore gloves.
I didn't need to look for long, anyway.
Your tablet was in the kitchen.
Which proves that Clara never cooks. I feel so sorry for you.
You thought it'd be safe in the kitchen!
Poor fuck.
Between the dishcloths with a taped-over camera!
I found your PIN, too.
In your old address book under P.
P for PINO, 2315.
All the films were saved on it.
The four times with her boyfriend just for you.
Your private chats with her, too, which...
are particularly bad.
Watching Denise have sex might not even be a terrible betrayal,
but what you told her about your wife!
Afternoon, all. - Afternoon, Dirk.
Got a newspaper?
Oh, what a pleasure.
Hello, Dirk.
A friend of yours? - A neighbor.
Boy, oh boy.
How lucky you are. There's no better neighbor than Bruno.
Cool it. - No, it's the truth.
Look at me. Lost my wife to alcohol.
Look. Shakes at the machinery.
Lost my job. Welfare. But Bruno!
He got me off the drink.
I've been dry for 322 days
and seven hours, and you know why?
Because of Bruno.
He looked after me like a little kitten.
You can't imagine.
And what do you do? - He's an actor.
No offense, Dirk. He and I are discussing something.
Course! Bruno! Always there for everyone.
And you should've heard his band!
They could've been big!
Give him a coke to go.
After all the shit Bruno's been through,
it's a sign of class how he's ready to help others.
That'll do now. - No, Bruno, it needs saying!
That's what I call class!
Cheers.
Bye!
How much do you want?
What?
For the tablet?
I don't want money.
I'll give you whatever you want.
I told you I don't want anything.
You got it on you?
I brought it with me, but...
I can't give it to you now.
Can we get another two?
You two are partying, huh?
Maybe it's better this way.
It couldn't go on.
Us at premieres,
on the red carpet,
standing side-by-side and grinning for joy.
Whenever cameras are there,
we grin like monkeys.
But when we're home,
you know how it is.
You hear us.
Cheers, boys.
Somehow I knew about Morten and her.
It's weird:
You know something,
yet you don't know you know it.
I should be grateful to you.
It's not easy for a person like me to meet someone.
Whether a woman will then post about it or give an interview.
With Denise, it was different: online.
Not real.
All the same, I thought...
it'd work out with Clara.
I know how it is.
I know.
Nine years. - Yes, nine years.
Was it a friend of yours?
There were many. Many.
How could you stand it so long?
I thought that if I left,
she'd tell my daughter lies about me.
And?
Caro.
She's 15.
Won't speak to me.
One time I waited in front of her house,
but she saw me
and called the police.
How awful.
Oh, they treated me OK.
There were no charges, I hadn't done anything.
But I didn't try it again.
I'm sorry.
You needn't be.
It's how it is.
Thanks.
Pretty intense, huh?
Maybe it was a bit much. - No, I needed that.
You know,
I just always heard you.
The endless laughter:
laughter with your two silver-spoon shits in the courtyard.
Laughter at noon in the café when everyone else was at work.
Laughter in Spanish. Laughter in English.
That can get to you.
I don't know.
I just couldn't stand your laughter.
I'm coming clean today.
And I want to show it to her when we talk.
I want to give it to her.
The tablet?
I no longer have it.
But you said you brought it.
I did.
But I sent the boy off with it.
What did you think was in the envelope?
Where did you send him?
To her office around the corner.
Shut your face!
Oh, God.
Hello, this is the voicemail of... - Shit!
Clara...
Good afternoon, this is the... - Mrs. Mahlke?
I urgently need to talk to my wife.
Can she call you back? - Now!
She's out to lunch. - Was a boy there with an envelope?
Yes, a blond boy brought something in.
Do you still have it? - I think so.
You didn't open it?
One second, please.
Yes, it's still here.
Don't open it! - Sorry?
The police called me. I have a stalker. - Lord!
A dangerous criminal. A nasty piece of shit.
Really? - It contains poison.
How terrible!
Some people are wicked, Mrs. Mahlke.
Very bad, evil people.
But we'll put a stop to their games.
Touch nothing until I get there. - Of course I won't.
Thank you. - Any time.
Your tears convinced me. - Thank you.
But how will you explain the police not coming?
And that you're taking the envelope? - I'll come up with something.
Honey? - This is terrible.
Take it easy. Nothing's happened.
It comes from being in the public eye. It attracts crazies like honey does bees.
But it's crucial that you don't touch the thing.
I see.
I'll be right with you.
Now?
Oh, no!
Did you miss your plane?
Yes, I was at the airport, but then the police called me.
They'll understand in London when they hear what happened.
What happened?
What precisely happened, Daniel?
Honey, I just said I'm coming over.
Are you still there? - Sure.
I'm here. Where are you? At the airport?
Yes, at the airport, but I'm headed over to you.
There's no need, Daniel. Take a rest.
Sorry? - There's no need for you to come.
Relax. Discuss it all with your friends.
What friends? - I don't know, Daniel.
I don't know all your friends.
I don't know that man there, for example.
And...
Denise, for example.
I don't know her, either.
You owe me ten.
Thank you, kind sir.
Bye. - Bye, Mirko. - Bye.
He'd wanted to leave at once,
but I said, "Wait, let's chat."
He told me you were all here in the bar.
Although you should've been at the airport long ago.
It didn't make sense.
You'd already opened it?
She lied to me?
Shocking, right?
I don't care about the videos, Daniel,
but the things you wrote about me!
That I'm lazy.
And boring, what's more.
So square you'd go nuts.
And you saved it all.
Why?
For the archives?
For posterity or a little bedtime reading?
Why do people keep everything on their devices? It's so easy to delete it.
Yet they don't.
I bet you do.
Did you delete everything on your cell?
That's right, I did.
All the messages from Morten.
He doesn't write many messages, Daniel. He's not stupid.
Not the tear trick, Daniel. Not now.
And you?
I'm just the neighbor.
What do you want?
Nothing.
How much? - You underestimate him.
My father said that's why
folks like you can't understand folks like us.
I don't want to have to listen to you all anymore.
Shall we go home?
We're going home.
I'll have one more.
Harder and harder!
Asshole kids...
It would've annoyed me if I hadn't done that.
Tomorrow, the day after...
every day.
It would've annoyed me so badly.
I didn't think I'd ever say this,
but you're not welcome here anymore.
Can we get another two, Mareike?
Hilde!
Do you know the land it seems
you can only visit in your dreams?
Boundless, distant and sublime
I dwell there on the edge of time
And wait, and wait, and wait
I've traveled there 100 weeks
Between its valleys and its peaks
In the solitude that alone is mine
I dwell there on the edge of time
And wait, and wait, and wait
What is it I spy there?
All my yearning and despair!
Detached from myself and mine
A-yearning for the edge of time
And I wait, and wait, and wait
And wait
Berlin!
Subtitles: Way Film Translation, Matthew Way