Teardrops in the Snow: The Making of 'The Saddest Music in the World' Page #3

---

that. before now. I've never taken

Siamese sadness all that seriously.

You can almost hear the typhoon

bearing down

on a defenseless seaside village

through this tortured flute solo.

The fatal deluge

is announced by birds.

The performer has taken

the trouble to put out their eyes

so they'll have a bit more soul

to their warning chirps.

It's all in the details, Mary.

And now the Mexicans

take their first turn.

The singers are giving us

a sad peak

into child-burial customs

down Mexico way.

The Mexican mama is beirg

very firm with her dead infart.

''Now. go away.'' she wails.

You are dead.

Don't sneak in at night

to nurse from my breast.

That milk is only for the living.

To Canadiar ears.

that may sound harsh.

Well, I guess dead children,

like any other kind,

have got to learn.

The Mexicans now take

their victory bath

in the Port-Huntley Pond.

For the Mexicans.

This is a first-time

full immersion in beer.

They don't seem very excited.

So far. nobody's drinking.

God!

We still got prohibition,

and they got swimming pools

full of beer up there in Canada.

Why ain't they drinkin', Ed?

Mexicans ain't used to winnin'...

not since the Alamo.

They smell a rat.

If I got that lucky,

I'd drink till I drowned.

Now, that's sad.

Look at this street.

Where am I gonna find

a patron of the arts in Winnipeg...

in the dead of winter,

in this depression?

How much do you need?

I just rented a warehouse.

I got people lined up

to build sets, make costumes.

I got musicians, arrangers.

But I gotta put out first,

or they'll shut me down.

Maybe you should keep it simple.

America goes simple?

That's a hot one.

No, it's gotta be vulgar

and obvious... full of gimmicks.

You know, sadness,

but with sass and pizzazz.

They'll eat it up, but we gotta

hit them lots of different ways,

'cause if the judge sees

the same thing more than once,

she'll hold back those sniffles.

Please, sir, we're hungry. Do you

have any food you can give us?

No, I don't.

If you agree to drop out of this competition

and join my American team,

I'll pay your way

back home when I win.

- Really?

- Get to the brewery. Wait for me.

Damn sleepwalker.

Good night, Mother.

So, you...

manage to keep yourself

sad at all times, do you?

In my pocket is a jar.

In the jar,

preserved in my own tears,

is my son's heart.

This is the piece

that would win the contest.

''The Song is You''.

We played it for Mother.

I played it for my son

at his funeral.

That's my sadness.

One death.

Or two.

I play it every day.

First on the cylinder,

then on my cello.

There is nothing sadder.

I need this song.

But I will never

play it for money.

In fact, I want no one else

ever to hear it

until I play it again for my wife

whenever I find her.

Let's not dwell on the past so.

As for me, I will draw

on the sadness of Serbia.

The little country

that started the great war.

Gavrillo the Great will atone

for those nine million dead

by shoving them

down Chester's throat!

I'm pulling out $25,000...

then perhaps I can afford

to look properly for my wife.

You're Canadian,

born and raised.

Until I walked down the streets

of Belgrade for the first time,

I never felt at home...

anywhere.

I finally knew who I was.

And where my heart dwelt.

Come.

Let me show you

where I hide my heart.

How does your tapeworm

feel about burials?

Like a bride at her wedding.

A festival of worms.

A grand old Winnipeg banker

is being planted today,

and I've got a hunch

his widow just might go

for a sad song tribute

to his financial prowess.

Let's go. We need a good spot

next to the family.

I'll let you in on a little secret.

I don't believe

that all this sadness really exists.

What a delightful notion.

Well, bad things happen.

I'm not denying that. Plenty of them.

But somehow, when people

start trying to show

how they've been affected

by these bad things,

they start faking it.

They know that, deep down,

no one really cares.

But they want people to know

they're suffering, dammit.

And others will

go along with them,

making faces,

hoping someone will notice,

so that when something awful

happens to them,

they can get some

of this fake pity for themselves.

And now Michael's daughter Agnes

will quickly sing his favorite song.

Skip, skip,

skip to my loo

Skip to my loo,

my darling

Don't fall on me!

No. Mrs. Burnjones,

I'm Chester Kent,

a producer of

musical spectaculars in New York.

I was very moved

by your daughter's performance...

we all were.

It struck me that more people

should have the chance

to hear her...

and the other sad music

that soothed your husband.

If we could mount

a musical tribute to him

on international radio,

people would be reminded

of what he meant to them,

and listeners who didn't know

about this wonderful banker's

life and great spirit...

Is that for the radio contest?

No!

Wait a minute!

Maybe we could tie it in with that!

There's such

a great audience, you see.

Well, if I let my daughter sing

for you, she won't come cheap,

and you'll have to pay in advance.

Well, I'd be willing to go

as high as $1.75.

She's worth more than that!

Look, nobody knows I'm broke.

Give a poor musician

just a whiff of American dough,

and he'll bend right over

for Uncle Sam.

Care to dance?

Poor Yiddish.

No country of your own, huh?

Come on over.

Put a little spritz in America.

Till your eyes get used to it.

We'll keep the light soft.

Legs.

How pliable and delicate

and sturdy they are.

What dangerous moods.

What subtle shifts in expression.

There's the leg that teases...

... and the leg that feels guilty.

The leg that blushes

and wants to apologize.

The leg

that stammers out its love...

... and the leg

that repudiates it.

Since the accident,

when I gave up

my doctor's license,

not a day has passed

without my thinking

how I would make things

better for Helen.

You do evidently love her.

How could you think otherwise?

She must have

artificial legs by now.

But she doesn't.

Wood and leather

don't agree with her.

They give her purple rashes

and big, unsightly welts.

None of the ordinary

prosthetic materials will do.

Then, sitting among

all the bottles that I'd emptied,

it finally came to me.

Glass.

Glass?

Yes, it's the perfect solution.

Helen loves glass.

She surrounds herself with it.

Her house is filled

with glass ornaments.

Creatures large and small.

She collects glass dolls...

hundreds of dolls

in a stained-glass room.

Waiting, like she is...

... to walk.

Behold.

I've tried to give these to her.

I can never find the right moment.

My God.

And they were made

right here in Canada.

Now Lady Port-Huntley

can stand up and dance

to the saddest music in the world.

I've even filled them

with Port-Huntley Muskeg beer.

Why do you frown?

- I was thinking about my wife.

- Happier thoughts. Please.

I have a photograph of her...

leaping across a gutter.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes