Delicate Crime

"DELICATE CRIME"

Nineteenth Century.

In the streets,

the proletariat's emancipation.

In the patriarchal households,

the women's liberation.

An arduous and unequal combat.

A struggle, which lacked

no heroines and pioneers.

Idealists dreaming of a new world...

where women would be redeemed...

and men would pay

for their crimes.

Leave!

What a cave of debauchery,

what a Gomorrah!

Carlota, what are you doing

in a lair as abject as this?

What are you doing in my house

without having been invited, sir?

Is it you the ignominious

priestess of this bacchanal?

You've something to look forward to,

corrupter of married women.

I will send my carriage

for the police.

Carlota's aware

of the crass moves...

used on your hypnotized patients.

These magnesium

plates prove it all.

Those are fake, gross impostures.

You did not even bother closing

the windows, you pervert!

They cannot ruin my career like that!

- You are such a scoundrel, Johann.

- Bravo, dear!

- Herman!

- Ma'am?

Search his pockets,

look for a key!

Herman was the outcome

of my first experiments...

with electricity applied

to male discipline.

Dearest, as of now,

you will be a free woman.

- Out with these shackles!

- Shackles!

"Poor Schubert, who can no longer

choose his own companions.

The play, scene after scene,

strips itself.

Everything becomes a frenzy of ins

and outs for the impersonation.

Instead of commotion,

only surprises and intrigue...

under precarious

lighting and costumes.

What is the meaning of

a woman dressed as a dominatrix...

with a rabbi's accent, beside a

bearded man dressed as a maid...

calling a analyst

who seduces his patients...

thru hypnosis a pervert?

Self-promotional...

hysteria of the

spectacle's creators.

On that location,

a sadomasochist club...

where people use theatricalism

to safeguard mental sanity...

a farce like this

one insults and mocks.

The relations of sexuality

become a tangible instrument...

like a rope, a whip, a needle.

Instead of speech, the phallus.

Instead of theater,

sex shop merchandising.

The actors do suffer,

but the audience suffers even more. "

I'm leaving already.

I'll stay a little longer.

- I'm great!

- Oh, darling!

Take care. See ya.

- Aren't you gonna ask my name?

- Of course.

Ins.

Antonio.

Antonio, a saint's name.

St. Anthony, the matchmaker saint.

St. Expeditus, the patron

saint of impossible causes.

I pray every night,

but I don't ask for anything.

Everything is alright with my life.

I get everything I want.

What is that?

A pill to make life easier.

You were staring at me.

You were staring at me!

I was indeed.

You're fast, huh?

Is it bad?

No. Actually,

it's good. Very good.

Nice hand... big.

I like it.

I like to be firmly grabbed by hands.

Is this how your

friend sees you?

Can you see me there?

Just a bit.

- I barely know you.

- Yet.

- Take me somewhere.

- Somewhere?

Antonio Martins.

How do you know my name?

I was told you're a well-known

journalist, a fierce critic.

Is that so?

- Yeah.

- Did you believe it?

I don't find you all that fierce.

Is that why you called me?

- That too.

- That too...

Curiosity.

Shall we?

Say something without

thinking, Antonio.

What?

Anything.

Let it come.

"One day...

I will paint your body

the same way I bite it.

I will be a Duchess of Museum.

Is there not a love between

male and female...

which knows how to swallow

its own secret?

Look at me, Cayetana...

and free me from those red ribbons

which cross your chest...

as if destroying an empire...

and be what this joy must be...

even if life so soon flees from us...

drawing new faces

for these same bodies. "

Say something.

What do you want me to say?

Why are you looking at me like that?

What do you mean?

A while ago, you were at that bar

eating me with your eyes...

and now you're asking yourself

what you're gonna do with me.

What have you seen in me?

What kind of question is that?

Speak.

I don't know, I just looked at you.

Looked at me...

When you look at a woman,

what is the first thing you notice?

It depends on the woman.

You are complicated.

How can it depend on the woman?

A man looks at a woman

passing by...

turns his head, stares at her butt.

Another one, all romantic...

falls in love.

Me, first thing you notice...

is my imperfection.

I don't know.

You don't know?

You are feeling confused.

You are lost.

Do you want me to

draw you a picture?

What a drag!

Do you want me to show you

what I saw in you?

Ins... Ins...

Get out!

You are pretty, Maria.

Pretty as a sin.

It nearly hurts me.

My God!

Can a mortal sin be...

...as pretty as this?

- You're been delirious, Franz.

A lot of people pass thru here,

don't they?

You can talk to whoever you want.

What do I have to do with it?

- You spoke to him!

- Him!

I cannot forbid people from walking

on the streets with their muzzles.

You cannot leave your lips

at home either!

Ain't it so?

What a pit it would be.

They're so beautiful.

Ain't it so?

Did they swell up?

You watch it, Maria!

Wasps also like to land on them.

- And which wasp stung you?

- Him!

Him.

I wish I were him.

Did he come through here?

Did he go up the stairs like this?

Did he stop here like this?

Walked up to here, came here

and stopped here, like this?

Or like this?

Or like this?

Or like this?

He came over here and

sat on the bench? Like this?

Or did he stop here, like this?

Franz, as long as the day is

long and the world is old...

people may be in the same place,

one person after another.

- You b*tch!

- Don't you touch me, Franz!

I'd rather have a knife in my body

than your hand on me!

I saw it now.

We can see a lot of stuff...

when we have two eyes

and we're not blind.

While the sun shines.

You're gonna die, Maria!

And you won't?

Every man is an abyss...

and you get dizzy looking into it.

She looks like innocence itself.

But you, Innocence...

have you any sign

which can be recognized?

A stain? A scar?

"It'd be something we could

see, a callus, a deformity...

something we could

grab with the hand.

Modern art revalues the sketches from

ancient masters of Renaissance.

As masterpieces in their unfinished

and subjective state.

The same occurs in the exuberance

of Buchner's texts...

of unmeasured words...

previously cut with a sharp

and revolutionary nib...

from a playwright

killed so young.

The most unaccomplished

of these texts...

Woyzeck has in it the triumph

of its beauty:

An atavistic and rustic sculpting.

Walter Benjamin theorized about

the Byzantine religious disputes...

around the framing

of the icon figures.

The sanctity of the represented

figures would be conditioned...

to the physical integrity

of their representation.

The efficient transposition of

this drama, which establishes...

the coming of Pre Expressionism

to the rural scenario...

fails solely by trying to complete...

the unfinished and extraordinary

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