Good evening, fun hunters.
The French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre once said,
"Life begins on the other side of despair."
But, for me, it was on the other side of the Pennines.
Hull, 1956.
Surely one of the chilliest sprawls of the northern hemisphere.
It was so cold outside, brass monkeys were lagging one another.
Mind you, the temperature inside wasn't much warmer.
♪ ..Coming home tonight. ♪
Thank you.
Thank you very much.
I've loved being here tonight, ladies and gentlemen,
and I sure hope you've enjoyed having me here too.
I'm back tomorrow night, so I hope to see you then.
I think your piano's a bit off-key.
-Oh, aye. -Have you got a tuner?
Yeah, yeah, course we do. We've got tuna, mackerel, cod...
No, I meant a piano tuner.
I know you did. And you know what they say
about a bad workman and his tools. What do you mean?
Listen, son, I've been in this game a long time.
Do you mind if I give you a bit of -constructive criticism? -Course not.
You're crap.
'That night, I lay awake in a cocoon of despair.'
If success breeds success,
I was on the pill.
The following day, I managed to lose myself in drink.
'But as I weaved my weary way back to the dreaded club,
'I paused to reflect on
'how different my life might have turned out...'
Les Dawson!
'..if only I'd stayed in Paris.'
'Paris was the city of light...
'..the city of literature.
'Maybe even the city of love.'
Oui?'Or maybe not.'
Oh, hello.
Leslie Dawson.
I wrote to you about the room.
Leslie...is a man?
Incroyable.
Allez.
Il y a un bain au rez de chaussee, l'eau chaud...
'The landlady went by the name of Madame Gaudin.'
..et les jeudis.
'It's hard to describe what she looked like,
'but she used to be a model for spanners.
'I wouldn't say she was fat, but when she went for a dress fitting,
'the assistants worked in shifts.'
..necessaire reserver le bain
deux semaines en avance.
Hot water's available Tuesdays and Thursdays,
but if you want a bath, you have to book in advance,
though, sadly, she won't let people share.
-I'm Brian. -Oh, Leslie.
Ooh, as in Leslie Caron, An American In Paris?
No, Leslie Dawson, from the Co-op in Collyhurst.
I thought I heard a Northern twang. Pleased to meet you. ..Oh.
So, do you have a title?
No, just Mr Dawson.
I meant for your novel.
Oh, no. Not yet.
How did you know I was a writer anyway?
You're renting a Parisian garret on the Left Bank
and you haven't got an easel. What else are you gonna do, knit doilies?
Besides, takes one to know one. Alors, j'ai change les draps,
plies, gratuit.
She says she's changed the sheets -for you, no extra charge. -Oh.
Merci beaucoup! Well, she had to, really.
Her last tenant used them to hang himself.
Bloody hell.
'Yes, I'd come to Paris to be a novelist. Hardly original.
'Even a little foolhardy, as I was greener than an unripe banana.
'But as my hero Sartre said,
'"Man is what he wills himself to be."
'And my will was to write.'
Oh, excuse me.
I'm renting the room upstairs.
The facilities, there's no actual bowl.
Pardon?
The toilet. There's nowhere to sit.
You can shit in the hole.
No, sorry, I meant to sit.
You know, to park yourself.
Ah, in France, you must squat and go.
Oh, right.
I thought someone had nicked your bog.
Well, I didn't know they didn't have proper toilets.
May I?
I admire your playing.
This place could do with some atmosphere.
You are in Paris for some time? Till I've written my great novel
and enjoyed my great romance.
Could be weeks, months, years, who knows?
How would you like a job here, Les?
-A job? -Oui. Playing the piano in the evening.
Shall we say 12 until 3?
Er, I came here to write.
Drinks on the house, tips from the clientele.
What clientele? It's dead. I will make you hot meal.
No, I just can't. 100 francs a night.
Done.
There is one condition.
You will play only this one tune,
nothing else, all evening.
You're kidding! Three hours of Limelight?
You're trying to drive people away? It is what I wish.
You have a problem with that? No, no.
She who pays the piper -calls the tune. -Mm.
Ah. Allez.
'And so I gradually settled into my life in La Vie Lumiere.
'By day, I sat at my typewriter...
'..trying desperately to think of something to write about.
'And by night...
'I played the piano for Madame Gaudin...
'and barely anybody else.
'Customers came and went, but never stuck around.
'It amazed me how she made any money.
'Meanwhile, my literary endeavours were going downhill
'faster than a rabbit on a promise.'
So, how's the novel coming on?
It isn't, really.
I think I've got writer's block.
Rubbish. There's no such thing.
You're either writing or you're not writing.
If you're not, it's because you're too distracted by bloody Paris
when you'd be better off in Manchester writing about real life instead.
I'm not distracted.
-I'm hard at it. -Flirting with the barmaid, you mean.
Well, she is cute. Whatever ras's your berries.
I have done a sort of pithy travelogue.
First impressions of the city, that type of thing.
You mean you've written -some postcards. -Yeah, basically.
I'm serious, Les. Don't you know the existential creed?
No. You hum it and I'll play it.
Man is the sum of his actions.
If you're not picking up a pen or a paintbrush and using it every day,
then you're not an artist, you're a tourist.
My English teacher said I had a way with words,
but...the more I think about it, the more constipated I become.
We all love words, dear.
Words can say anything.
What you need...
is a voice.
And so, to find my voice, my mind turned from Paris to Manchester.
If I was going to be a writer,
I needed to draw inspiration from closer to home.
Another satisfied customer.
I suppose you've heard the story about the young couple
-from Collyhurst. -I don't have time -for this. -No, sit down.
It was the wedding night, see, and they were just going upstairs to bed
and she says, "I love you."
And he said, "I love you too.
"Shall we consummate our marriage?"
"Yeah, if you like."
"Right, blow out the candle."
"Yeah."
"What's up? I can't blow it out."
"Give it to me, stupid."
Look... No, sit down, you'll like this.
"Give it to me, stupid."
"I can't blow it out either." "I can't."
"Well, who's downstairs?"
"Me mother."
I said, "Mother!"
She says, "What's up?" "Can't blow this candle out.
"I've tried, can't blow it out."
"Let me have a go."
Oh!
"I can't blow it out either.
"I'll shout your father. Father!"
"What?"
"Can't blow this candle out. I've tried, they've tried, can't blow it out."
He said, "I can't blow it out either.
"What are we gonna do?
"The vicar's downstairs. Shout the vicar."
"Vicar!"
"Hello. What seems to be amiss?"
"Can't blow this candle out.
"I can't, he can't, she can't. Can't blow it out."
"Allow me."
This is the end?
Yes.
I'm sorry, but I don't understand.
Nor do I. It's just a joke my grandma used to tell.
Hm. How do you make these faeces?
Eh?
-The... Oh, the faces! -Yes.
I used to box when I was a kid.
Ah, oui, la boxe.
I wasn't very good. I was carried out of the ring so often
I had handles sewn in my shorts.
But the good thing about breaking your jaw is, you can do this.
See? Sexy, eh?
Mm.
Emerald.
I had no idea why Madame Gaudin wanted me to play the same tune
for three hours a night on such a defective instrument.
But it wouldn't be long before I found out.
What do you think?
It's good.
-Really? -Yes.
There's a few...purple patches.
What do you mean? Like you've swallowed a thesaurus
and sicked it up on the page.
Here, um...
"grimy, hunched warehouses severing the skyline with dissipated profiles
"that lurch above narrow tenements,
"gazing, eyeless, onto litter-pitted streets."
Yeah. Took me ages, that sentence.
Literature isn't drapery, Les, you don't get paid by the yard.
-It's crap. -No, it's good.
You just...you don't need to write like
you're trying to impress your English teacher.
Some of it's verging on the, dare I say, comic.
Great Oh, come one.
Let me buy you dinner, cheer you up. I'm not hungry.
Ever had the shish kebabs? Ever since I arrived.
Hell... Les, don't.
Emerald?
Les, leave, go back downstairs. -Allez, allez! -What's going on?
Fat man, he tried to make pipi on our rug.
-Degueulasse! -Is this some sort of knocking shop?
What happens here is none of your concern.
Why didn't you tell me? Because I like you.
Because I did not want you to judge me.
Ah, you are the penis.
What?
You are the penis.
You play the bad piano downstairs?
Oh, the pianist.
Your terrible music makes our clients come quickly and go quickly.
More money for Madame means more money for us.
Very clever. Thank you.
You're welcome.
Glad to be of service.
Les... I did try to warn you.
So that was it.
I was a brothel Beethoven.
A prostitute's Prokofiev.
A cathouse Khachaturian.
Not for the first time...
I felt like a failure.
-La vie humaine commence de l'autre cote du desespoir.
Eh?
Life begins on the other side of despair.
May I join you?
You know, this afternoon, I went to a cafe
and ordered a coffee with no cream.
The waitress came back and said,
"I'm sorry, Monsieur Sartre, we don't have any cream.
"Can I bring you a coffee with no milk instead?"
You see?
Not really.
We create ourselves, our essence,
by what we do, the choices we make. Action.
Our dreams and our intentions are futile.
Hm. Tell me about it.
I came here to be a writer.
-Then write. -I can't.
I haven't found my voice.
Then do something else.
Be true to who you are.
But that's the point.
Who am I?
I'm a writer that hasn't written anything.
A fat, boozing Northerner who likes music and literature.
I think you have the ability to make people laugh, to bring them joy.
Your stories, your piano, your funny faces.
-Faces. -I would give my right hand to have this skill,
but you think, what, it is beneath you?
People want to be entertained.
They don't want to see a miserable, fat man playing a wonky piano.
You would be surprised.
Your best work is what you do best.
Find this, and you will find happiness.
We cannot choose to have no cream if the cream does not exist.
But we can choose...
to have no milk.
A bientot.
The great WC Fields one said,
"If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.
"Then quit, there's no point being a damn fool about it."
God, I feel terrible.
Me head's banging like a shithouse door in a gale.
I asked the doctor if he could recommend anything
for persistent wind. You know what he said?
A kite.
I'm sorry, but...the sadder you are, the funnier you are.
That's a fat lot of good, innit?
Dr Bernard tells me the police raided La Maison Chabanel last week
and the Sphinx the week before.
It is the new Conseiller. He wants to clean up this area.
That's a shame. He was your best customer.
We will have to move elsewhere.
Maybe it is time you started looking for another job.
No, no need.
I'm going back to Manchester.
Ferry leaves tonight.
I've failed at being a writer.
-I never said that. -I'm sure they'll let me back at the Co-op.
Don't worry.
Lady Luck will smile on you soon.
Hm. By the time she smiles on me, she won't have any teeth left.
Quel dommage.
Do you still have a few hours left?
Hm?
♪ I'll be loving you eternally... ♪
Ruby?
Tu me laisses la place?
♪ ..From the start, within my heart
♪ It seems I've always known... ♪
How do you do it?
Now...
Voila.
♪ ..Forever true
♪ And loving you
♪ Eternally. ♪
'So that was it.
'My Parisian sojourn was over.'
I went back to Manchester and started as an apprentice electrician
but that was a disaster.
I was to that employ what the Pope is to brothel management.
I played piano with a jazz band.
We were that bad, we got paid off at a charity gig.
But it did get me an agent...
who got me a booking at the Emperor's Club, Hull, 1956,
where it seemed like things couldn't get any worse.
Right, bit of hush, please.
Come on, hey, look, we've paid good money for these turns.
And I, for one, -want to bloody hear 'em. -Ssh!
Thank you. Right, this next young lad has complained
that some of his jokes have been going over the audience's heads.
But that's partly my fault
because I fitted these speakers too bloody high.
Ladies and gentlemen, will you please give a warm welcome
to Mr Les Dawson!
Jesus Christ, he's pie-eyed.
'We cannot choose to have no cream if the cream does not exist.
'But we can choose...
'to have no milk.'
Well, thank you for that brief spatter of applause.
It's nice to be here in this renovated fish crate.
Hm, what an audience.
I've seen more life in a tramp's vest.
Now, you may be thinking...
why's he standing up there, half drunk?
Well, I thought it was obvious.
I ran out of money.
I wasn't always an entertainer.
No, there was a time when I had regular meals.
For a time, I was a pianist in Parisian brothel.
Pay was lousy, but I saw plenty of tips.
I said tips.
Oof!
In awe, I saw the waxing moon
ride across the zenith of the heavens like an amber chariot...
towards the ebony void of infinite space...
..wherein the tethered belts of Jupiter and Mars hang...
..forever festooned...
..in their orbital majesty.
And as I looked at all this, I thought to myself...
..I must put a roof on this toilet.
Come on.
'For the first time, I was hearing genuine laughter
'from one of the toughest audiences a comedian can face.'
And although it took me another ten years playing the clubs
to become an overnight success,
I'd finally found my voice.
And that's all a true artist can ever ask for.
Have you heard enough?
Absolutely, that's brilliant. -Thanks, Les. -No worries.
See you in a couple of weeks, then.
♪ Bye-Bye Blackbird
subtitles by Deluxe