猜火车 Trainspotting (1996)【完整台词】
猜火车 Trainspotting (1996) 全部台词 (当前第1页,一共 6 页)
Choose life. Choose a job.
Choose a career. Choose a family.
Choose a fucking big television.
Choose washing machines, cars,
compact disc players, electrical tin openers.
Choose good health,
low cholesterol and dental insurance.
Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments.
Choose a starter home.
Choose your friends.
Choose leisure wear and matching luggage.
Choose a three-piece suite on
hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics.
Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck
you are on a Sunday morning.
Choose sitting on that couch
watching mind-numbing,
spirit-crushing game shows
stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth.
Tommy, go!
Choose rotting away
at the end of it all,
pissing your last in a miserable home,
nothing more than an embarrassment
to the selfish, fucked-up brats
that you've spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future. Choose life.
But why would I want to do
a thing like that?
I chose not to choose life.
I chose something else. And the reasons?
There are no reasons.
Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?
Goldfinger is better than Dr. No.
Both of them are a lot better
than Diamonds Are Forever.
A judgement reflected in its relatively
poor showing at the box office.
And in which field, of course,
Thunderball was a notable success.
People think it's all about misery
and desperation and death, and all that shite
which is not to be ignored.
Fuck off! Jealous cunt.
But what they forget
is the pleasure of it.
They're all dead, right, mate?
You prick!
Otherwise we wouldn't do it.
- Do you want me to do it?
- Yeah.
Pure as the driven snow, that shit, Danny.
After all, we're not fucking stupid.
Or at least we're not that fucking stupid.
Take the best orgasm you ever had,
multiply it by a thousand
and you're still nowhere near it.
It beats any meat injection.
That beats any fucking cock in the world.
When you're on junk,
you have only one worry, scoring.
When you're off it, you're suddenly obliged
to worry about all sorts of other shite.
Got no money, can't get drunk.
Got money, drinking too much.
Can't get a girl, no chance of a ride.
Got a girl, too much hassle.
You have to worry about bills, about food,
about some football team
that never fucking wins,
about human relationships, and all
the things that really don't matter
when you've got
a sincere and truthful junk habit.
I'd say, in those days,
he was a muscular actor.
With all the presence
of someone like Cooper or Lancaster,
but combined with a sly wit
to make him a formidable romantic lead
and closer in that respect to Cary Grant.
The only drawback,
or at least the principal drawback,
is that you have to endure
all manner of cunts telling you...
No way would I poison my body
with that shit.
All them fucking chemicals.
No fucking way.
It's a waste of your life, man,
poisoning your body with that shit.
Every chance you've had, Son,
you've blown it.
Stuffing your veins with that filth.
From time to time,
even I have uttered the magic words.
Never again, Swanney. I'm off the skag.
- Are you serious?
- Yeah.
- No more. I'm finished with that shite.
- Well, that's up to you, man.
Gonna do it right this time,
gonna get it sorted out, get off it for good.
- I'm sure I've heard that one before.
- The Sick Boy method.
- It really worked for him, eh?
- He's always been lacking in moral fibre.
- He knows a lot about Sean Connery.
- That's hardly a substitute.
You need one more hit.
- No, I don't think so.
- For the long night that lies ahead.
We called him Mother Superior
on account of the length of his habit.
Of course I'd have another shot.
After all, I had work to do.
Relinquishing junk.
Stage one, preparation.
For this you will need one room,
which you will not leave.
Soothing music. Tomato soup, ten tins of.
Mushroom soup, eight tins of,
for consumption cold.
Ice cream, vanilla, one large tub of.
Magnesia, milk of, one bottle.
Paracetamol, mouthwash,
vitamins, mineral water, Lucozade,
pornography.
One mattress.
One bucket for urine,
one for faeces, and one for vomitus.
One television and one bottle of Valium,
which I've already procured
from my mother, who is,
in her own domestic and socially
acceptable way, also a drug addict.
Now I'm ready.
All I need is one final hit
to soothe the pain
while the Valium takes effect.
Mikey. Aye. Yeah, it's Mark Renton.
Look, I wondered, could you help me out?
This was typical of Mikey Forrester.
What the fuck are these?
Under the normal run of things
I'd have nothing to do with the cunt,
but this wasn't the normal run of things.
Opium suppositories.
Ideal for your purposes.
Slow release, bring you down gradually.
Custom fucking designed for your needs.
I want a fucking hit.
That's all I've got, man.
Take it or leave it.
Are you feeling better now, then, eh?
Oh, aye. For all the good they've done me,
I might as well have stuck them up my arse.
Heroin makes you constipated.
The heroin from my last hit is fading away,
and the suppositories have yet to melt.
I'm no longer constipated.
I fantasise about a massive,
pristine convenience,
brilliant gold taps, virginal white marble,
a seat carved from ebony,
a cistern full of Chanel No. 5
and a flunky handing me
pieces of raw silk toilet roll.
But under the circumstances,
I'll settle for anywhere.
Fuck.
Yes, you fucking dancer!
And now,
now I'm ready.
The downside of coming off junk
was I knew I'd need
to mix with my friends again
in a state of full consciousness.
It was awful.
They reminded me so much of myself,
I could hardly bear to look at them.
Take Sick Boy, for instance.
He came off junk at the same time as me
not because he wanted to, you understand,
but just to annoy me.
Just to show me how easily he could do it,
thereby downgrading my own struggle.
Sneaky fucker, don't you think?
And when all I wanted to do was lie there
and feel sorry for myself,
he insisted on telling me once again
about his unifying theory of life.
It's certainly a phenomenon
in all walks of life.
What do you mean?
Well, at one point you've got it,
then you lose it, and it's gone forever,
all walks of life.
Georgie Best, for example, had it, lost it.
Or David Bowie, or Lou Reed.
Lou Reed, some of his solo stuff
is not bad.
No, it's not bad,
but it's not great either, is it?
And in your heart, you kind of know
that although it sounds all right,
it's actually just shite.
So, who else?
Charlie Nicholas, David Niven,
Malcolm McLaren, Elvis Presley.
Okay, so what's the point
you're trying to make?
All I am trying to do, Mark, is to help you
understand that The Name of the Rose
is merely a blip on an otherwise
uninterrupted downward trajectory.
And what about The Untouchables?
I don't rate that at all.
Despite the Academy award?
That means fuck-all. It's a sympathy vote.
So, we all get old,
we can't hack it any more and that's it?
Yeah.
That's your theory?
Yeah.
Beautifully fucking illustrated.
Give me the gun.
Give me the gun.
Do you see the beast?
Have you got it in your sights?
Clear enough, Miss Moneypenny.
This should present no significant problems.
For a vegetarian, Rents,
you're a fucking evil shot.
Without heroin, I attempted to lead a
useful and fulfilling life as a good citizen.
- Good luck, Spud.
- Cheers, cowboy.
- Now remember.
- What?
If they think you're not trying,
you're in trouble, right?
First hint of that and they'll be on to
the DHSS, "This cunt is not trying."
- And your Giro's fucking finished, right?
- Right.
- But then again, try too hard...
- You might get the fucking job.
- Exactly.
- Nightmare.
It's a tightrope, Spud.
It's a fucking tightrope.
See, I just get pure shy
with the interviewer cats.
I get all nervous
and I can't answer any of their questions
like I'm a footballer
and I get nerves on the big occasion.
Try some of this, Spud.
Yeah, a little dab of speed
is just the ticket, man.
No, I went to Craigie, Craignewton.
I just put down Royal Edinburgh College
to help get the job.
There's too much discrimination
in this town, man.
'Cause they're both schools, right?
We're all in this together,
and I wanted to put across
the general idea rather than the details.
People get all hung up on details.
Choose a career. Choose a family.
Choose a fucking big television.
Choose washing machines, cars,
compact disc players, electrical tin openers.
Choose good health,
low cholesterol and dental insurance.
Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments.
Choose a starter home.
Choose your friends.
Choose leisure wear and matching luggage.
Choose a three-piece suite on
hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics.
Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck
you are on a Sunday morning.
Choose sitting on that couch
watching mind-numbing,
spirit-crushing game shows
stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth.
Tommy, go!
Choose rotting away
at the end of it all,
pissing your last in a miserable home,
nothing more than an embarrassment
to the selfish, fucked-up brats
that you've spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future. Choose life.
But why would I want to do
a thing like that?
I chose not to choose life.
I chose something else. And the reasons?
There are no reasons.
Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?
Goldfinger is better than Dr. No.
Both of them are a lot better
than Diamonds Are Forever.
A judgement reflected in its relatively
poor showing at the box office.
And in which field, of course,
Thunderball was a notable success.
People think it's all about misery
and desperation and death, and all that shite
which is not to be ignored.
Fuck off! Jealous cunt.
But what they forget
is the pleasure of it.
They're all dead, right, mate?
You prick!
Otherwise we wouldn't do it.
- Do you want me to do it?
- Yeah.
Pure as the driven snow, that shit, Danny.
After all, we're not fucking stupid.
Or at least we're not that fucking stupid.
Take the best orgasm you ever had,
multiply it by a thousand
and you're still nowhere near it.
It beats any meat injection.
That beats any fucking cock in the world.
When you're on junk,
you have only one worry, scoring.
When you're off it, you're suddenly obliged
to worry about all sorts of other shite.
Got no money, can't get drunk.
Got money, drinking too much.
Can't get a girl, no chance of a ride.
Got a girl, too much hassle.
You have to worry about bills, about food,
about some football team
that never fucking wins,
about human relationships, and all
the things that really don't matter
when you've got
a sincere and truthful junk habit.
I'd say, in those days,
he was a muscular actor.
With all the presence
of someone like Cooper or Lancaster,
but combined with a sly wit
to make him a formidable romantic lead
and closer in that respect to Cary Grant.
The only drawback,
or at least the principal drawback,
is that you have to endure
all manner of cunts telling you...
No way would I poison my body
with that shit.
All them fucking chemicals.
No fucking way.
It's a waste of your life, man,
poisoning your body with that shit.
Every chance you've had, Son,
you've blown it.
Stuffing your veins with that filth.
From time to time,
even I have uttered the magic words.
Never again, Swanney. I'm off the skag.
- Are you serious?
- Yeah.
- No more. I'm finished with that shite.
- Well, that's up to you, man.
Gonna do it right this time,
gonna get it sorted out, get off it for good.
- I'm sure I've heard that one before.
- The Sick Boy method.
- It really worked for him, eh?
- He's always been lacking in moral fibre.
- He knows a lot about Sean Connery.
- That's hardly a substitute.
You need one more hit.
- No, I don't think so.
- For the long night that lies ahead.
We called him Mother Superior
on account of the length of his habit.
Of course I'd have another shot.
After all, I had work to do.
Relinquishing junk.
Stage one, preparation.
For this you will need one room,
which you will not leave.
Soothing music. Tomato soup, ten tins of.
Mushroom soup, eight tins of,
for consumption cold.
Ice cream, vanilla, one large tub of.
Magnesia, milk of, one bottle.
Paracetamol, mouthwash,
vitamins, mineral water, Lucozade,
pornography.
One mattress.
One bucket for urine,
one for faeces, and one for vomitus.
One television and one bottle of Valium,
which I've already procured
from my mother, who is,
in her own domestic and socially
acceptable way, also a drug addict.
Now I'm ready.
All I need is one final hit
to soothe the pain
while the Valium takes effect.
Mikey. Aye. Yeah, it's Mark Renton.
Look, I wondered, could you help me out?
This was typical of Mikey Forrester.
What the fuck are these?
Under the normal run of things
I'd have nothing to do with the cunt,
but this wasn't the normal run of things.
Opium suppositories.
Ideal for your purposes.
Slow release, bring you down gradually.
Custom fucking designed for your needs.
I want a fucking hit.
That's all I've got, man.
Take it or leave it.
Are you feeling better now, then, eh?
Oh, aye. For all the good they've done me,
I might as well have stuck them up my arse.
Heroin makes you constipated.
The heroin from my last hit is fading away,
and the suppositories have yet to melt.
I'm no longer constipated.
I fantasise about a massive,
pristine convenience,
brilliant gold taps, virginal white marble,
a seat carved from ebony,
a cistern full of Chanel No. 5
and a flunky handing me
pieces of raw silk toilet roll.
But under the circumstances,
I'll settle for anywhere.
Fuck.
Yes, you fucking dancer!
And now,
now I'm ready.
The downside of coming off junk
was I knew I'd need
to mix with my friends again
in a state of full consciousness.
It was awful.
They reminded me so much of myself,
I could hardly bear to look at them.
Take Sick Boy, for instance.
He came off junk at the same time as me
not because he wanted to, you understand,
but just to annoy me.
Just to show me how easily he could do it,
thereby downgrading my own struggle.
Sneaky fucker, don't you think?
And when all I wanted to do was lie there
and feel sorry for myself,
he insisted on telling me once again
about his unifying theory of life.
It's certainly a phenomenon
in all walks of life.
What do you mean?
Well, at one point you've got it,
then you lose it, and it's gone forever,
all walks of life.
Georgie Best, for example, had it, lost it.
Or David Bowie, or Lou Reed.
Lou Reed, some of his solo stuff
is not bad.
No, it's not bad,
but it's not great either, is it?
And in your heart, you kind of know
that although it sounds all right,
it's actually just shite.
So, who else?
Charlie Nicholas, David Niven,
Malcolm McLaren, Elvis Presley.
Okay, so what's the point
you're trying to make?
All I am trying to do, Mark, is to help you
understand that The Name of the Rose
is merely a blip on an otherwise
uninterrupted downward trajectory.
And what about The Untouchables?
I don't rate that at all.
Despite the Academy award?
That means fuck-all. It's a sympathy vote.
So, we all get old,
we can't hack it any more and that's it?
Yeah.
That's your theory?
Yeah.
Beautifully fucking illustrated.
Give me the gun.
Give me the gun.
Do you see the beast?
Have you got it in your sights?
Clear enough, Miss Moneypenny.
This should present no significant problems.
For a vegetarian, Rents,
you're a fucking evil shot.
Without heroin, I attempted to lead a
useful and fulfilling life as a good citizen.
- Good luck, Spud.
- Cheers, cowboy.
- Now remember.
- What?
If they think you're not trying,
you're in trouble, right?
First hint of that and they'll be on to
the DHSS, "This cunt is not trying."
- And your Giro's fucking finished, right?
- Right.
- But then again, try too hard...
- You might get the fucking job.
- Exactly.
- Nightmare.
It's a tightrope, Spud.
It's a fucking tightrope.
See, I just get pure shy
with the interviewer cats.
I get all nervous
and I can't answer any of their questions
like I'm a footballer
and I get nerves on the big occasion.
Try some of this, Spud.
Yeah, a little dab of speed
is just the ticket, man.
No, I went to Craigie, Craignewton.
I just put down Royal Edinburgh College
to help get the job.
There's too much discrimination
in this town, man.
'Cause they're both schools, right?
We're all in this together,
and I wanted to put across
the general idea rather than the details.
People get all hung up on details.
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