The public servants who are assisting the occupants
do not deserve to be named traitors or anything to that effect.
On the contrary, they're doing their country an immense service,
which do not require less courage and personality,
when they, equipped with weapons...
Petra! Ring Stenersen and tell him to come.
Say it's a matter of life and death! My scarf, please. Thank you.
-Thank you. -Wait.
-No! -Yes!
Good evening, Herr Munch. Do you speak German?
-Yes. -We're from the German authorities.
-May we come in? -Yes, it's just...
-I'm very busy. -This won't take long.
-Your German is very good. -I lived in Berlin in my youth.
-How much is this? -I don't know. Not much.
No one buys paintings anymore.
-Are you a famous painter? -Not particularly.
-How many paintings do you have? -Most of them are unfinished.
-How may I be of assistance? -You can see the fjord from here.
Is that the Gustav Vigeland park? Have you seen the sculptures?
They are incredible.
It is a... big park.
You could have your own park in this garden.
Maybe you should make sculptures, too?
That's not for me.
Very well. We have seen what we needed.
This is from the Reichskommissar. He's a great admirer.
"One of Europe's greatest artists," he said.
You'll be hearing from us.
They have left. But he is upset, so you should go in right away.
Yes.
Stenersen! Didn't I tell you that the Germans were coming for me?
-Yes. -I knew this would happen.
It was Hitler who banned my paintings.
He got them thrown out of Germany.
And they come here and...
People like him!
Who paint up and down with broad brushes.
They can't stand us who use finer brushes.
What did the soldiers say?
That they will be back.
Here.
Do they want your paintings?
I guess they'll grab whatever they want. The house as well!
And they praised Vigeland's park! Damn amateurs.
We could try to find a hiding place for the paintings.
Yes? Where? I have thousands!
If Terboven sent them, it might be a sign they want to collaborate.
Collaboration? I don't want to collaborate!
I need to work undisturbed!
-Let me check, and I'll... -Thank you.
From the dirt... rose a face...
Filled with sorrow and beauty.
Death...
...see the birth of life.
I'll send one to Strindberg, too.
He's stark raving mad...
I dare not summon that devil. He frightens me.
The enemies. The enemies!
So many foul demons from the city of the enemy!
Here you are, Mr Munch.
Post these.
COPENHAGEN
You are sick...
You are insane...
-He thought he was the Messiah. -He was the Messiah.
A sick man...
Sick art...
He must pay for what he's done. He has destroyed art!
-He's sick... -No!
No! No!
Good morning, Mr Munch.
My name is Linke. I'm a nurse.
You're at the Jacobsen clinic in Copenhagen.
Your friend Mr Goldstein brought you here.
You were exhausted. And confused.
The doctor will see you when you're ready to get out of bed.
A few too many cognacs and cigars, perhaps?
I'll give you something for the headache. I'll leave it here.
It's an honour to have you here.
I love your art, so it's important that you get well.
-Fit as a fiddle, so you can paint. -Where are my belongings?
Your painting equipment is in the cupboard.
This is your private room.
There are many interesting people like yourself here.
Artists, poets.
Hopefully, you'll feel right at home. Allow me.
I would like to be alone.
Yes, of course.
Forgive me.
Just call for me if you need anything, Mr Munch.
-Apologies. I'm sorry. -That's all right.
-I think I've made a mistake. -You can sit here, if you like.
Yes.
VESTFOLD
-Good afternoon! -Hello.
-So you're painting? -Yes. I'm trying to.
I just got a bit curious. Have you just started?
-Yes. -I see you're painting a face.
-Someone you know? -Yes, actually.
You're not there yet, but I like the colours!
-Well, if it isn't... -Hello!
-Did you see any boats? -A couple.
-I'm starving. Have you eaten? -Yes. There's food. Might be cold.
-Auntie. I'll get soap in my eyes. -Have you been painting till now?
-Sit down for a bit. -I'd like to eat first.
-He stands out in Horten. -Oh yes.
-We do need a bit of culture. -Well, he's not in Paris anymore.
You can say that again.
-Sit down, Edvard! -I'll just eat first.
-He's so gentle. -Has he found a job? A profession?
-He's going to be an artist. -A painter.
That's difficult. Especially if you want to make a living.
He's talented. And he's not lazy. He's very industrious.
When something takes his fancy at least.
-Listen... -What?
Don't talk about me in the third person.
We're not doing that.
I'm standing right here.
I'm going to eat.
-What's the matter with you? -When are we going back?
You've only just arrived.
-I can't stay. -You don't want to see your family?
Sure.
-But I want to go back to the city. -I don't understand you.
We've borrowed the house till August so you could paint.
Why do you always long for the city?
Edvard. Try to find some tranquillity.
Do you want to go down to the water or play cards?
Father. Join us!
Yes... I guess we could play some cards.
I was thinking... I beg your pardon. I thought you were...
-Thaulow? -Herman, come down here!
I thought you were... Never mind. Forgive me for intruding.
-You did not intrude, madam. -No need for formalities.
You... We met on the train, right?
-Did we? -I think so.
It was Sarah Bernhardt! The actress. You look like her in that hat.
-Do you know each other? -No.
-You're that painter. -That's right.
A dashing outfit, Mr Munch. Where do you buy your clothes?
-I've been to Paris. -Not bad.
-But you don't know each other? -We've never met.
It didn't look that way.
Would you care to join us?
-Would you care to join us? -I'd like that.
Yes? Mrs Thaulow, Edvard Munch.
Milly! Are you a thousand years old?
Sometimes, I'll make up conversations in my head.
Things I should have said or could have said.
-Or things I'm going to say. -Like now?
-But it's not very effective. -You don't say.
It never turns out the way I imagine it.
-Will you be thinking about this? -It's not quite like that with you.
Do you know why it's called fly agaric?
-Because flies like it? -No, quite the opposite.
-It protects itself from flies. -So only flies dislike it?
My husband is afraid of fungi.
-What about other poisonous fungi? -What about them?
If fly agaric is the only fungi that's poisonous
just to protect itself from flies.
I guess they've just absorbed too many minerals from the soil.
-Things they don't really need. -I see.
As in they're not really poisonous. Just to us humans.
That book is fantastic. Have you read anything by him?
-No, but I intend to. -I identify... No, that's not right.
I can relate to that type of rebelliousness.
The writer in me. When I write.
-That's good. -What's good?
-That you write. -You think it's good that I write?
One day homes in Borre will have books written by Thaulow.
Yes! Don't stop dreaming!
I'm sure you're right.
Have you seen anything by that poet? What do you think about the theatre?
I like it.
-I think it's unbelievably pompous. -Yes...
But there's something to it, don't you think?
Sometimes, the plot isn't the most important thing.
It's more about finding a certain frequency.
-One specific emotion. -I can't stomach that.
Why?
-It's so pretentious. -What is?
I don't want be told what to feel.
I don't even think art should be art in that sense.
Just a way of thinking. Of being free.
-We're saying the same thing. -Yes, perhaps.
An emotion is also a way of thinking, right?
I just like that emotion. That melancholic emotion.
-You like your melancholy. -Yes, I do.
You look well. Better.
But how is your soul, Mr Munch?
-Do you think I look well? -You've probably felt better.
What's the diagnosis, doctor? Is the painter insane?
-I've not even examined you yet. -Forget I asked.
But I can tell you that one of my great interests is...
...the spiritual or psychological anatomy of the genius.
"Sick or genius?", as I like to say.
Was Goethe insane when he wrote "Werther"? Was Kierkegaard insane?
Or was he simply burdened with the inescapable anxiety of the genius?
As a condition of life.
Forgive me if I'm not as enthralled by my plight or insanity as you.
Insanity?
Or the capitulation of the nervous system to the barrage of liquor?
How much are you up to, Munch? How much do you drink in a day?
I need to record the amount.
I don't feel like telling you.
Are you going to write it down in your book?
This book is locked inside the safe every night.
We'll enter a gentleman's agreement.
Tell me when you're finished here, and we'll burn your journal.
A bottle of cognac a day lately.
Cold beer every morning. Not much food.
You're a lucky man.
I get the impression you've got a robust constitution.
I've been sickly ever since I was a child.
I was born dying. I was emergency baptised.
My lungs have been afflicted my whole life.
-I don't have a robust constitution! -Calm down.
It was meant amiably. Shall we call it a day?
I hope you'll be staying with us for a while yet.
The room is yours for as long as you want it.
Is everything fine?
BERLIN
-A soda, please. -Pardon?
-A soda. -Now you're just having a laugh!
TWO HOURS EARLIER
A famous painter is visiting Berlin! A toast to Edvard Munch! Cheers!
-Edvard! -Hi!
-Hi. How are you? -I'm fine, thank you...
I think I'm ready.
Hi.
-I'm afraid we've got some bad news. -Okay. What's that?
We need to close the exhibition.
-We're closing it down today. -I don't understand.
-I am so sorry. -Why?
The decision was made by the Berlin Art Association.
There was a vote. 120 against 105.
They don't think these paintings are ready.
-That's my choice, isn't it? -It doesn't hold to our standards.
Now, all of a sudden? You've seen most of my paintings already.
Edvard, I am so sorry. I mean...
Maybe it would work in a different place, but this is just...
Well, it's not really working.
The critics...
The audience...
It's too simple.
So we have to close it.
-So there was a vote? -And you lost.
-Are you OK? -Yes.
-Sure? -Yeah...
Yes.
Thanks.
Edvard!
I've tried to contact you all day! Why are you ignoring me?
I've had the sound off.
-We were supposed to meet up! -I've just been...
-Busy. -Get in.
So?
Tell me.
I know everything. Just say it.
-What do you mean? -What happened.
Happened?
What has happened?
You've slept with Dagny.
I knew it. What did you think I was talking about?
Nothing. I...
Nothing. I thought...
I'm not passing judgement. Look at me.
Newly divorced, lonely, broke.
No one liked the last thing I wrote.
Dagny always liked your art.
A bit too much.
A bit contrived. You pick up on those things.
-Where are we going? -We're celebrating with Vigeland.
I don't think I'm up for it.
I'm not going to tell anyone.
-Will Stanislaw be there? -Just here!
-I don't think I... -You've got cash, right?
-Yes, but I don't know if I'm... -You're paying. Thanks!
Vigeland!
Last night I dreamed someone tried to kill me.
She put something in my drink.
-Hi! -Where's Dagny?
-We're meeting her in the park. -What's up?
Hello. Strindberg. Nice to meet you.
Congratulations! That's great.
I'm excited as hell!
It's a great space, and the light is good.
If we just get the layout right, I think it'll be really nice.
To convey what needs conveying. I think it'll turn out great.
So you're excited? Tell it to your face.
-This is Sigbjørn from Stavanger. -Obstfelder. Nice to meet you.
-How long are you here for? -Until the money runs out.
I'm trying to write, and Gustav has generously offered me his couch.
Are you giving another lecture on your insights?
Me? No. It's this guy going on about
the fall of literature after the World War.
Nothing of value since the 19th century.
I never said that!
When did I say that? Listen up, goddamn it!
What did you say, then?
I said there was an essential shift going into the 20th century.
The existential ideas were of a different calibre
from what we've seen after WWII.
That's what I bloody said.
-Well, welcome to Berlin. -Thanks.
It's not working, really. The critics...
The audience... It's too simple.
-Are you OK? -Yes.
-Sure? -Yeah...
Have you even read "Beyond Our Power"?
It's nothing! Nothing!
You're the one starting this debate, which isn't even a bloody debate.
It's the same old monologue to camouflage your short man syndrome.
You're traumatised, and it's clearly my job to guide you through this.
This is just an admission of failure.
You lose the debate, so you invent a trauma to attack...
-I've not invented it. -Hi! This is Obstfelder.
-Sigbjørn. -Dagny. Hi!
It's embarrassing. We could just as well fight.
-You look pale. -Do I?
-What are they discussing? -They probably don't even know.
Do you want one?
Just stop it.
That anti-civilized bullshit you're messing with,
it's disgraceful. Embarrassing.
-Relax, it's completely innocent. -Is kissing also wrong?
That kind of kissing, yes. It's embarrassing! Mere stupidity.
-I don't even understand you. -I don't think you should even try.
You're not able to sense what I'm trying to convey.
You lack the required faculties. You're too short to be that tall.
What insights have you got for us today, Gustav?
As concerns kissing in public?
So the fact that it is in public is the key property?
Shoot me for being a moralist, but aren't you in a relationship?
Yes.
-I'm just checking. -So kill me.
Everything okay? Why are you laughing?
-No... What? -You're laughing.
-Why did you laugh? -No...
I was thinking about something else.
-So what was it? -I was just thinking about...
As humans...
Our lives are permeated by this sarcasm, this irony towards life,
where we keep life at a distance, and not sincere and heartfelt.
We even take pride in doing so,
like it's some kind of mission in itself,
and that dissecting our surroundings is somehow valuable in itself.
But any fool can dissect his properties,
hold them up and say they're nothing.
Is that admirable in itself?
Does it give some sociocultural status,
distancing ourselves from these things?
Isn't that cowardice, a lack of character,
a lazy way of seeming attractive
or interesting to their surroundings?
Because I dare to live, to love and to venture,
to put forward my own thoughts and to defend my beliefs.
That should be our mission,
or else we could just lie down and die!
Then everyone should just lie down and...
-What's wrong with you? -Then everyone could die.
-Are you having a stroke? -No...
Shit! You're an inspiring addition to the group!
-Are you leaving? -I need to take a piss.
-Right. Should I be worried? -Stop your mind-fucking exercises.
-Edvard! -Who did the mind-fucking just now?
You're really brave, Gustav.
Daring to be the one dissecting any situation
informing people of their narcissism and self-glorification.
-You're the Alceste of our time! -Okay, point taken.
-When are we there? -In around 20 minutes.
-Where are we going? -We are going to live!
How are you doing back there?
Yeah...
"Yeah?" What does that mean?
I'm... I'm all right.
Let's just do it!
Lovely!
-Can you do this? -No chance!
-Everyone can do this. -I'm too heavy. I'll just sink.
Let me try.
-Just fill your lungs and float. -Fill my lungs... Okay.
Fill my lungs.
Good! There you go!
-What are you thinking about? -Nothing.
It looks like something.
-No. -Tell me!
-You'll think I'm strange. -You are strange.
Look. The moon.
Do you think people talk about us?
Does it matter?
Don't you care what people say about you?
-No. -No?
I feel the same. I don't want to describe kitchen walls,
children reading, women knitting.
I like living human beings who breathe. Who feel.
Who suffer.
-You're going this way. -That's right.
-Farewell, then. -Farewell.
I could always...
I could walk with you a little while longer.
I didn't have a bed to sleep in, I had no money.
In Paris, there are catacombs filled with dead people under the streets.
I managed to get down there
and I rolled up my coat and used it as a pillow.
-You're joking! -Honestly!
-That sounds terrifying. -It was, actually.
-Are you all right? -I just...
Is anything wrong?
Don't worry about it.
-Are you sure? -Don't worry.
Where are you going, Mr Munch?
Munch! Why don't we have a little chat?
-Do I have a choice? -You always have a choice.
But sometimes it's wise to let others choose for you.
-Come! -Let's go to your room.
Then you can speak with the doctor.
A bird of prey is nesting in my mind.
My soul is like two wild birds that tear in different directions.
I see the person behind every mask.
Smiling, serene faces.
Pale corpses.
Who ceaselessly hurry along a winding path leading to the grave.
That's a truly harsh perception.
But that's what catches the eye. The beautiful and the repulsive.
It also decides which colours we recognise.
Which people.
I see a lot of beauty.
Nothing escapes me. Neither the good nor the evil.
I'm not so different from you, doctor.
It has been my mission to help others, and myself,
to elucidate our emotional life.
Life.
But then Scharffenberg thinks, and others agree with him...
...that my art is sick. Were you aware of that?
He's never experienced anything like that,
he doesn't have the necessary emotional depth.
He's terrified and offended,
like people are when they don't understand.
That's easy for you to say. You interview lunatics every day.
Take Michelangelo.
He's the very embodiment of genius, wouldn't you agree?
Never has a man more severely fallen victim to his own genius.
He describes himself as obsessed.
He works day and night.
A pathological need to express himself.
Insane? No!
But geniuses suffer from a spiritual imbalance
which might be misconstrued as insanity.
But neither you nor your art
have ever appeared to me to be insane. Not in the slightest.
How long do I have to stay here, doctor?
You have a huge task ahead of you
in trying to rein in the unbelievable power
which resides within you.
Yes, you're in possession of a great genius.
But you must learn to harness that power.
And what you went through wasn't a minor breakdown.
So I think it would do you a lot of good
if you stayed with us for a good while.
-Edvard! -My hands! I can't control them!
Stop, Edvard! Don't!
-What...? What's going on? -I'm just in a good mood!
What?
Je suis juste moi!
"Juste moi!"
-Could I please have some more? -Of course.
Don't you like the food, Edvard?
-Yes. -You have to eat.
Yes. I just don't have an appetite.
Your aunt has been baking all day, just for you.
-Yes. -Is our boy unwell?
-He's in love. -There's nothing wrong with him.
I'm fine. Really.
-Are you sure? -Yes.
-I worry when you don't eat. -Yes.
Drink some coffee, at least.
I just can't eat. I wish I could, it all looks delicious, but I...
It feels like my head is disconnected from my stomach.
My gullet is too tight, I just can't do it.
You'll eat what your aunt has made.
Christian, dear. We're not in the business of force-feeding.
It's all right, Edvard. Save it for later.
You'll have it with milk and sugar, like your mother used to say.
Don't forget your things.
Did I forget something?
You were painting all day long just a couple of weeks ago.
-Why do you care? -You're just not painting nowadays.
No.
-Where are you off to now? -I'm meeting a friend.
-A female friend, actually. -A female friend?
-Yes. A gathering of sorts. -Here in town?
-Forget it. -Why don't you stay in tonight?
We're playing cards. Spend some time with us as well.
-Yes. I'd love to, I just... -We have to stick together.
-Don't start with that again. -No.
I'm not trying to make you feel guilty.
You're a grown man.
But you're also young, and you need to be around other young people.
But the rest of us, and Inger in particular,
love it when you're here.
I know.
-No one has had it tougher than us. -No.
-That's just the way it is. -OK.
It never gets better.
All we have...
...are those of us who are left.
I'm really looking forward to the exhibition.
But why are you being so secretive?
I'm just...
-I'm just a bit nervous. -But you don't get nervous.
-Why would you be nervous now? -No, no! What are you doing?
-I'm sorry, Edvard! -Never mind that.
I'm good!
-Is it far? -No, we're almost there!
An artist has to take risks. Without risk, art is nothing.
Take the paintbrush. What the hell is that?
It's a poor tool if you want to contribute to the discourse.
What he's doing isn't bad,
but it's just the orthodox posing as the progressive.
It's like he's seen something, but doesn't understand it.
-Is your work much more innovative? -Yes, I think so.
This is all down to a personality disorder.
This kind of speculation is loathsome.
So what do you think? What do you think?
No, I'm sure you're right.
The art of painting is overrated, and the paintbrush is irrelevant.
I'm sure you're right.
-You're so fucking rude! -Relax! We're just talking.
Oh, because you know me so well?
Why don't you write a book about me, Dagny? Write about Gustav Vigeland!
You must open the door!
Yeah, yeah!
-Edvard! You have to meet Carl. -Hi.
What a pleasure!
-Nice to meet you. -Is everything OK with you?
Yeah, sure.
I mean, are you feeling all right?
-Yeah. -Yeah?
This beautiful girl...
-Dagny. -Dagny...
...just told me about your exhibition.
-You're a workaholic. -It depends.
More like alcoholic, maybe?
I don't mean to be rude,
but I'm fascinated by people like you. You know?
Could I talk to you for a second?
I don't mean to be rude, but I need to talk to her for two minutes,
because we know each other very well...
I just want to say that I feel a need to thank you in some way...
I'm not able to really express how I feel...
Excuse me, could we just have some privacy for two minutes?
So we can... I don't mean to be...
I can't understand anything you're saying.
I don't know, I just feel like people are disappearing.
Like everything is disappearing.
There you are! Are you trying to hide from me?
-Well, you left me here. -And then I met this son of a bitch!
-Are you OK, my friend? -He's fine.
He's fine, you're fine. Perfect.
-Can you get us two beers? -Yes. Sure.
Munch! Come and meet Jens Selmer.
I saw one of your paintings
at the Autumn Exhibition a couple of years ago.
You can't be there every year. Not my cup of tea,
-but I remember you, at least. -Yes...
We were just talking about Paris. Weren't you just there?
Yes. It was nice.
Tell us what happened!
-There's not much to tell, really. -No?
No. It was nice.
-Have you seen Thaulow? Milly? -Why?
I thought... I know her a little...
-Watch out for that one, Munch! -Oh yeah?
No, she's wonderful. But you know she's married?
Gentlemen!
You've come all the way from the Grand Café.
-Anything to surprise you. -I'm not that surprised.
-Good evening. Evening, Herman. -How are you?
I'm good. Do you know each other?
This is Edvard. He's a painter from Christiania.
Or was it Paris? I can't quite remember.
It's nice of you to come. I'll see you later, boys.
Milly?
Milly, wait. Milly. Can we talk?
-Aren't we talking? -In private.
-Talk about what? -Why are you acting this way?
You're acting strange. I came here to be with you.
I think there's been a misunderstanding.
It's probably my fault. I led you to believe...
-Is it something I've said or done? -It was never my intention.
-Edvard. -What?
Tell me what I've done, Milly!
-What did I do? Tell me. -Look around you.
The evening, the people. It's summer.
Can't you just have a good time and enjoy being alive?
-Are you OK? -Yes.
-Are you all OK? -Yes.
-Are you sure? -Yes!
-We can leave, if you want to. -Yes.
-Or do you want to stay? -Yes!
Can you hear me?
Don't be afraid, OK?
You just need to keep both eyes open when your aiming.
Because the dispersion of the pellets is so extreme.
If you just have one eye open, you'll miss it...
I think you'd look good with a mustache. Don't you agree?
No...
Of course I got it!
Forgive me. I've had too much to drink.
Excuse me, sir!
-You're Mr Munch, right? -No, sorry.
-I've seen your paintings. -It's not me.
And I understand why they chose to close down your exhibition.
-What do you want from me? -It's not good enough. Too simple.
-There's nothing there. -What is this? What do you want?
Nothing. I believe in quality.
-What's that? -What's that? Real craftsmanship.
Artists that are obsessed
with creating masterful paintings of nature.
Human beings! Life itself! Something we can be impressed by.
Like Rembrandt. Rubens, Renoir!
That's why I wanted to ask you, before you cut me off:
Do you really think they're any good? I mean, your paintings.
What's he talking about? Have they cancelled your exhibition?
What?
-What do you want from me? -I'm giving you a reality check.
-Oh, thank you so much. -It seems like you might need it.
-Thank you. -You're welcome.
-Can I tell you something? -Me? Yeah.
Should we, as human beings, be chasing stability all the time?
Because that's what matters now, or lately, even?
That we've become so deaf and slack and pale
that we seek the path of least resistance?
That we engage in some sort of generic expressionism,
which copies a copy of a copy, and maybe add on some...
...some audio-visual effects on top of that again,
so we can seduce the viewer and obscure the actual content?
Is that your point? Is that what you mean?
Because then we can just mash up
random things like sculpture, jazz and weaving,
whatever people are applying for to get grants from some bureaucrats
who have such a misguided view of what art is,
that they wouldn't know a Rembrandt
if they saw one in broad daylight.
I'm expressing something physical,
and I'm not saying it's worthy or exciting or anything,
but at least it's something.
At least it's an expression,
a whim that creates some sort of friction.
And should we apologise for that?
Because we are disturbing your bourgeois view of what art is?
In that case, we should throw ourselves into the Spree right now.
Was this your dream when you were a kid?
Were you longing for conformity?
Was this your dream of existence?
That "one day, when I grow up,
I will go up to a person I don't even know,
and confront them about how they want to contribute to society."
Was this your dream? If it was,
I will shoot myself right here, right now.
It's just my opinion.
-I'm entitled to share... -You're entitled to share?
You don't know me at all. You don't know anything about me!
-You miserable piece of shit! -What the hell? Go away!
August!
What is this? Why didn't you say anything?
In the twelve hours we've spent together, you've said nothing!
-There's nothing to say! -They've shut down your exhibition!
-What am I supposed to say? -So we shouldn't talk about it?
There's nothing to say.
Do you remember what you told me on the canal boat?
What was that?
That you hate everyone. Everyone except yourself.
Yes. I'm sure I did.
-Yes? -It's me.
-I didn't know... -It doesn't matter.
-Where are you going? -Home.
-I'm coming over. -No.
-Why not? -It's not a good time.
Are you sure?
-People will remember you for this. -Right.
Everything gets better when they finally understand.
-I'll call you tomorrow. -We're leaving for Poland.
Take care, Edvard.
Good afternoon, Mr Munch.
-Do I know you? -No.
-What do you want? -I would like to ask you something.
-I don't talk to journalists. -I'm not a journalist.
-What? -I'm not a journalist.
-Do you want to borrow the phone? -I want to model for you.
I'm busy.
No trouble. I'll just come back another day. Tuesday, perhaps?
Yes. Come on!
"30 March. I've been sick with the flu for over a month."
I was always sick.
All of us were always sick.
Stenersen! Do come in. Listen to this:
"Sunday 10th December.
Yesterday, I sent three small paintings to an auction house.
The outcome was rather pitiful,
as most of them fetched only
slightly more than the price of the frame."
I'm glad some things are improving.
Did you get hold of the Germans?
I've sent a letter on your behalf.
Rumour has it that Terboven is fond of your art.
That doesn't bother me as long as he doesn't bother me.
I wrote that Mr Munch's priority at the moment
is to have the time and space
to finish several of his life's great works.
Good.
-Do you think it will suffice? -Time will tell.
Your lawyer doesn't think the Germans dare seize your paintings.
That it would cause an international outrage.
But he wants to see you urgently regarding your will.
My lawyer wants to see me before I die, you mean.
If you were to face
the pearly gates while the Germans are in power,
we might be in a pickle
if you've bequeathed everything to the Norwegian state.
City Hall has offered to store all your works there.
Over my dead body!
The papers are saying it would be unsafe to store everything out here.
Stenersen, I have to be surrounded by my paintings.
I cannot work without them.
-They just want to make sure... -No!
No...
No.
I'm the least bored when I paint.
I hate everything else. The same routine every day.
Eat, get dressed, go for the same walks.
Every day we do things we've done ten thousand times before.
Shaving, for instance. How boring is that? Don't you agree?
Yes, I'm sure.
It's a good thing I have you, Inger.
Petra.
-What? -Petra.
Yes, of course. Petra! Right!
-Would you please get that? -Yes, of course.
I wonder...
There is a lady here who claims she has an appointment.
Oh, I'm sure she did.
-Do you know each other? -Yes, we've met.
It's all right, Petra.
-I hope I'm not disturbing. -But you are.
It's good for them to be out here. It toughens them.
Well, follow me.
I read in the paper that you never leave the house anymore.
I'm tired of people.
But you're here with me now.
Not by choice.
-Why did you never get married? -I paint.
No one is born solely to paint, surely?
If I married and had children, it would almost have been a crime.
My blood is full of sickness. Anxiety.
Maybe you thought differently when you were younger?
I don't think I've changed much.
Edvard, what do you think is the nature of art?
Art is the opposite of nature. It is sovereign in its domain.
Art controls nature and discards what it cannot control.
Art is an independent realm.
It subjugates nature and isolates the superfluous.
Nature is art's first aid kit.
-Is man an island? -I don't know.
The strongest man is he who stands alone. Ibsen wrote that.
Then it's probably true.
I don't feel alone when I'm with my paintings.
When I paint, I feel whole.
What do you think led you to
drink yourself to a breakdown?
I had to go to the edge of the cliff.
I wanted to see the bottom.
I had to. It was my calling.
-What else? Tell me. -There isn't anything else.
Are you sure?
You mentioned your sister, Sophie.
When you fell down the stairs. But what happened before that?
We were all summoned to Sophie's room.
She was sitting in her chair.
She was pale and small, but also... calm.
Despondent, almost.
-That must have been painful. -It wasn't "painful".
It marked me. It got seared into my heart.
It was infernal, spiritual torture.
I was shaking on the inside, but I dared not cry, because...
Father was so distraught.
I didn't want to add to his...
Father was so sensitive.
If only I had understood...
That was brave of you, Edvard.
-That's enough for today. -Yes...
Yes.
Where are you going, Mr Munch?
Some days I didn't eat at all,
and I just observed the fish that were about to be boiled.
Their bulging eyes...
I often lost my appetite.
Appetite, tite...
-Who are you? -I could eat some leftover potatoes.
Maybe melt some butter in the pan...
I throw my head back to avoid throwing up.
-It's disgusting. -Am I dead now?
You have to choose. Don't you see?
I don't want to die here.
Who wants to die?
That all agony will be over. The anxiety.
Do not despair.
Soon they'll see me over the horizon.
I will cast my scream over the city and make the windows burst.
You will wake up in the end.
After all these years...
If you knew how hard it was for me, for everyone...
I'm a human being who loves another human being.
I don't claim to be perfect!
Tulla, how can you love someone you don't understand?
-Don't I understand you? -You only love me as a means...
You're always blaming me! Always other people.
My love is wrong, others are misguided. What about you?
I can't do anything. I can't paint, I can't exhibit, and you don't care!
Is that love? When you know what I live for?
I can't live without you!
You always start crying, threatening to kill yourself.
Leave me alone! I've asked you a thousand times.
Say it, and I'll leave you alone. If you say it!
Say it, and we're done.
I don't love you.
You know I can't.
-Thank you for the gift, father. -Remember to share.
-You're so lucky! -I'm getting dizzy!
She knew that she took a part of me. That she branded me.
Like a vampire.
She intoxicated herself on my youth.
It's better to stay away from it, from them.
I keep telling you, but you won't listen.
She never meant to hurt you.
If only I could have been better to her.
If only I'd been able to be close to another human being.
I'm impossible.
You're sensitive.
Am I dead?
You know where you are.
You've been here before.
It feels like... I'm broken.
You're not broken.
You're just lost, Edvard.
You're painting! That's good to see.
The kitchen girls said you wanted your food brought to your room.
I don't blame you.
It's uncomfortable eating with strangers.
Was that all?
Yes.
Enjoy your meal.
Yes? Come in!
Are you free, doctor?
For you, all night.
I've been lucky, all things considered.
I once told Strindberg
I hated everyone and everything except myself.
Strindberg said I was lucky,
because he hated everyone, himself included.
He was further gone than me.
His madness frightened me.
Sorrow has nonetheless made a place for itself in my soul.
The wounds.
But painting has given me meaning.
The whole meaning. My whole life.
Real art is made at the expense of peace and harmony.
Don't move, doctor.
You should stop smoking cigarettes. They're not good for you.
A little harmony never hurt.
Art grows out of joy and sorrow.
Mostly sorrow.
Come. Stand in the light.
I had an argument with my father once.
About how long I would burn in hell.
I said a thousand years. He said longer.
You should go see a doctor.
Nonsense.
I'm just old. This is what old sounds like.
-What did your father do? -He was a doctor.
Army doctor. Deeply religious.
I inherited my anxiety from him.
My mother died when I was five.
I remember my father woke us up in the middle of the night.
Took us down the stairs and into a room. Where my mother lay sick.
I sat down next to her.
She ran her hand through my hair.
"Now I'm going to leave you," she said.
She kept stroking my hair. It was snowing outside.
Afterwards... when it was all over...
He gave us chocolate.
Are you afraid of dying?
-Aren't you? -No.
I don't think so.
-Should we talk about life instead? -Oh?
What can you tell me about life, miss?
Am I too young to have anything to say?
Not at all!
Please tell me about life.
Well... You were in love once, too.
Perhaps you wrote love letters. Watched her from afar.
Maybe you were going to the cinema,
and it was all you could think of all week.
-You probably painted her. -We had no cinemas in my youth.
No, but you had everything else.
You too have loved someone.
How strange...
I'm so weak today, I can hardly stand up.
Yet I'm so... sensitive
that I can paint the most beautiful things.
Some old codgers only paint in yellows and greens.
But I've still got my sense of colour.
-Good afternoon, Mr Stenersen. -Good afternoon, Petra.
He's upstairs now. But he's been wandering in the garden today.
But he has pneumonia!
-How is he? -He's coughing a lot.
He doesn't sleep much, he's mostly eating just potatoes.
He's locked me out of most of the rooms.
Well... He likes you, I understand.
Once he was commissioned to paint the daughter of a shipowner.
The shipowner didn't like the result.
"She looks horrible!" he said. Munch replied:
"Yes, she's ugly and horrible. But isn't the painting marvellous?"
It sounds like him.
Go home to your family. I'll take over here.
-Merry Christmas, Mr Stenersen. -Merry Christmas.
Have I told you
about when my grandfather was old?
No. If so, I've forgotten it.
Towards the end, he was very ill.
The doctor felt he should prepare him for the inevitable.
So he explained the lay of the land to him,
that it wouldn't be long now.
Then my grandfather blurted out:
"My word! To think that this should befall me as well."
-You're not leaving us just yet. -No, imagine that.
Imagine if that were to befall me too.
This is for my lawyer.
-What is this? -My new will.
My lawyer asked me to rewrite it.
-And you did? -Yes.
And who are the lucky beneficiaries?
-Everyone. -Everyone?
All the art goes to the municipality.
That way, the Germans hopefully won't get their hands on it.
Perhaps I'll finally gain some standing with the municipality.
Perhaps I'll even get my own park.
I like the sound of that.
Yes, me too.
Yes.
I want to wish you a merry Christmas.
Could you please stay a little longer?
Yes, of course. I just assumed...
People seem to think I enjoy being alone.
-You're welcome to our house. -No.
No, you've got your children to look after.
Besides, you know I hate visiting people.
No, I...
I just wanted you to stay a little while longer.
Stenersen...
You've been a good friend all these years.
Yes, come in.
So, that day has come, after all.
This is for you.
No, that's... That's too much.
You can't...
It's my way of saying thank you.
I would like to thank you as well.
And remember:
No matter what your friends and family say,
you must never go skiing!
And when you get arthritis, you need massages.
Keep warm.
You're always welcome here.
Thank you.
Edvard Munch left behind close to 30,000 works of art.
Edited by: Jakob Jensen plint.com