Teardrops in the Snow: The Making of 'The Saddest Music in the World' Page #4

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Her legs suspended

in midair.

I'm afraid these won't permit that,

but they can stretch out a fair way.

Could I see the picture?

No! It's...

She's not at all as I pictured her.

Excuse me, I've been admiring

your ear for the past five minutes.

I find it utterly beautiful.

It is perfectly shaped...

this one, the left one.

I wonder... I wonder if I

could whisper something into it.

Just a little story you might like.

Would you mind?

I won't come too close.

I'm deaf in that ear.

But I can hear just fine

in the other one.

No. This is the one I want.

You can still feel my breath.

Imagine what I'm telling you.

So, why'd you send for me?

Suppose I decided

to back you.

Well, that would be

very sporting.

I have to warn you... there'll be

many, many bills to pay.

- We can both pay our bills.

- You want me to win, I suppose.

Undo me.

Beg your pardon?

You have to start paying

your first bill right now.

I dislike beer.

For my jubilee, I requested

champagne and milk.

That's a pretty small tub.

- There'll be room enough.

- Suppose I refuse?

You're wasting your time.

Do I get instructions?

It's very simple. You undress me,

you bathe me, you put me to bed.

I like to be asked, not told.

- Who cares what you like?

- You do!

All this bully-boy stuff.

Just say you want me.

It's easy to want you, Helen.

You're still beautiful.

Just say it.

And then let's go somewhere

where we can get serious.

Just undress me.

No sale.

One of you boys

take off your blindfold

and fish her out

when she's done.

Well, that's the last

of my pride.

Does your offer still stand?

A little bit of backbone...

is sexy in a man.

Be undressed

by the time I count to five.

One...

Two...

Three...

Four...

Representing Canada

is our first performer this evening.

Fyodor Kent.

He is wearing what appears to be

his own uniform from the great war.

And he stands or the stage

with an upturned piano...

his touching tribute

to the Canadians who fell

on the European battlefields.

Canadian troops site at Vimy,

the bird notes

of reveille at dawn.

Let us follow the leaves of red...

as they swirl across the fields

of France and the raging ocean.

Come home, my boys.

Come home.

Just the red maple leaves

And when they come again

You'll find me

Where I left my heart behind me

'Neath the red maple leaves

Maple leaves

Now the Zari performers from

the Cameroons are showing us

how villagers there

conduct a proper pygmy funeral.

From these

wildly beaten jungle skins,

we are hearing

the true songs of bereavement

while friends and family

of the deceased

punish themselves

with sharp stones.

Opering wounds

across kneecap and forehead.

Wounds that weeps tears of blood.

We gathered leaves

to brush them

Which lovers sometimes do

You're gone,

but I caress them

They're all I have of you

All I have of you

All I have of you

All I have of you

All I have of you

All I have of you

All I have of you

All I have

Of you

All I have of you

All I have

This has beer

a real eye-opener

for the traditionally reserved

Caradian audience

gathered here this evenirg.

The crowd is or its feet.

swept up in the Zari frenzy.

The Africans have eliminated

Canada in their first challenge.

The beer bath

makes it official.

Fyodor Kent must realize

that in a world competition,

ordinary tears

aren't going to be enough.

Yes, Mary. A great disappointment

for Canada and Fyodor Kent.

The Zaris really seem

to be enjoyirg their victory.

Now they're whippirg

the head or the brew

into a happy

Port-Huntley mountain.

Great work, dad.

You've never sung it better.

'Course, those tribesmen put on

quite a show, don't they?

We could learn

something from them.

You haven't brought

your kept woman with you, I hope.

- Which one do you mean?

- The girl on my streetcar.

The same one, I suppose,

who was making like a hurricane

upstairs when your brother came home.

Narcissa? She's here, all right.

She'd better be. My whole number

depends on... why? What's wrong?

Where does she come from?

What do you know about her?

I met her at the fairground.

She says she's from Serbia.

She makes stuff up, though.

Has she mentioned Roderick?

No, she's never met him.

Cancel your number.

Get her out of here.

Whether I'm right or wrong,

it's not worth the risk.

Where I come from, Pop,

winning is worth every risk.

You'll kill me, Judas,

and your brother, too.

She's Roderick's wife.

That's a great yarn!

I'm not buying it, though.

And even if it was true,

that's showbiz.

I can't believe you're my son.

Hey, I didn't see you

canceling your number.

In the next round,

we have American sadness

squaring off

against that of Spain.

Broadway producer Chester Kent

has selected just the right vintage

of American sadness

from the cotton fields

of the deep south.

Let's...

Let's get away from all this hullabaloo.

You need your quiet.

Oh, no. I wanna see what

this Broadway jackanapes knows...

... about sadness.

Spain, right?

Tell you what... if you wanna drop out

of this competition and join America,

I'll pay your way

back home when I win.

Think about it.

The always impetuous Spanish

offer us a jail-side view

of the wages of sir.

Esmeralda awaits execution.

Her prison cell echoes

with her savage lament.

Swing low

Sweet chariot

Coming forth

to carry me home

Swing low

Sweet chariot

Coming forth

to carry me home

My eyes.

Close your eyes, boy.

No, no.

Close your eyes!

Take a few deep breaths.

Too many tea cakes for dinner.

My ears!

She's got her teeth in them!

Coming forth to carry me home

The raindrops burn me!

Do you hear their hiss?

Let's leave.

Coming forth to carry me home

Can't you smell that?

It's roses.

My nostrils are choking.

Too many thorns.

I bleed!

She won't stay down!

Narcissa!

Sweet chariot

Coming forth to carry me home

I'm going mad.

... forth to carry me home

America just swallowed up

Spain in that match.

The local crowd

is clearly carried away

by both the performer

and the pyrotechnics.

As far as they're corcerned.

sadness isn't hurt one bit

by a little

razzle-dazzle showmanship.

Who goes there?

Gavrillo the Great.

I'm here to play for the funeral.

You may enter.

Who goes there?

Roderick Cuckoch,

son of Fyodor.

I'm looking for my instrument.

Go on in.

Why are you so late?

I came as quick as I could.

I got through all the doors.

But you weren't supposed

to come through any of them.

You told them

what they wanted to know.

Now he's dead, and I have

to close all the doors between us

and lock them with this key.

Our son is dead?

The doors were for him,

not for you.

You took them all away from him,

and so he died.

Please don't leave me here.

Who will play

at the funeral?

You can play from in here.

But not too soft,

or he won't hear.

Serbia. Paging Serbia.

Please report immediately.

Son?

I beg you not to go out.

I must play.

Please.

Please don't!

They'll be listening.

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