Youth

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1. EXT. HOTEL GARDEN. DAY

A terribly English face, its pale skin flushed in the crisp

springtime sun. Short, fair hair. Jacket and tie. A highly

intelligent face, persuasive too. The face of a fifty-yearold

man who is sitting, legs crossed, in the pretty garden of

a hotel.

Slightly behind him sit two younger assistants.

And behind them, a beautiful swimming pool. Only a few

bathers, all of them wrapped in identical, soft white robes.

A lazy, early morning, vacation atmosphere.

Jacuzzis dot the flawless lawn around the pool.

In the background, a magnificent hotel. Welcoming, dignified,

and luxurious all at once.

And framing the hotel, reigning over it, are the mountains.

The fifty-year-old man takes out a pack of cigarettes and is

about to light up when a calm, uncritical voice warns him.

CALM VOICE:

You can’t smoke here.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD

Not even outside?

CALM VOICE:

Not even inside.

The calm voice belongs to the man sitting across from him.

English, about eighty years old, in a soft beige jacket and

trousers, and eyeglasses with imposing black frames, behind

which nest watery, light blue eyes, laden with melancholy and

cunning. We’re talking about Fred Ballinger.

There’s a small table between them. An open newspaper in

front of Fred. He is calm, placid, serene, but a vague

disenchantment hovers in his eyes. In what we realize is a

habitual gesture, he unwraps a candy and pops it in his

mouth. He’s clearly a regular consumer of such candies.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD

Pardon me, Mr. Ballinger, or may I

call you Maestro?

Fred Ballinger shrugs his shoulders. It really doesn’t matter

to him.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD (CONT’D)

And may I ask how your holiday is

going?

FRED BALLINGER:

Very well, thank you.

2.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD

Have you been coming here long?

FRED BALLINGER:

For more than twenty years. I used

to come with my wife. Then I kept

coming on my own, I have many

friends here.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD

Why Switzerland, Maestro?

FRED BALLINGER:

It's close to Italy. And I directed

the Venice orchestra for twenty-

four years. After London and New

York, of course.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD

But of course, how silly of me!

This must also be a very good place

to relax.

FRED BALLINGER:

It’s only a place to relax.

The fifty-year old smiles. Fred doesn’t.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD

Are you still directing or

composing, Maestro?

FRED BALLINGER:

No, I’m retired.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD

It goes without saying, of course,

that I, like everyone else, am a

great admirer of yours.

FRED BALLINGER:

Thank you.

The fifty-year old smiles.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD

Maestro, as I indicated to you in

my letter, I work for the

Ceremonies and Events Office at

Buckingham Palace.

Fred stirs slightly when he hears this.

FRED BALLINGER:

You work for the Queen?

FIFTY-YEAR OLD EMISSARY

Well, in a sense, yes!

3.

FRED BALLINGER:

Good. Monarchies are always so

endearing.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD EMISSARY

(surprised) If I may, Maestro, why

exactly do you find the monarchy

endearing?

FRED BALLINGER:

Because it’s so vulnerable.

Eliminate just one person and all

of a sudden the whole world

changes.

Like in a marriage.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD EMISSARY

Her Majesty the Queen would be

honored to confer a knighthood upon

you this coming June, Maestro.

A little smile darts across Fred’s face.

FRED BALLINGER:

Do you know what Satie said when he

was offered the Legion of Honor?

“It’s not enough simply to refuse

it, you also have to not deserve

it.” But I am not Satie. And you

must excuse me, I have the most

dreadful habit of quoting other

people.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD EMISSARY

Her Majesty will be delighted to

learn you have accepted.

FRED BALLINGER:

Her Majesty has never been

delighted about anything.

Embarrassed, the Queen’s emissary skates over Fred’s remark.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD EMISSARY

What is more, your investiture just

happens to coincide with the

birthday of His Royal Highness The

Prince Philip, and the Queen would

very much like to give him a

concert with the London

Philharmonic Orchestra at the New

Wimbledon Theatre, to which the

Prince is deeply attached, for

reasons unknown to me. Her Majesty

would be delight-- honored if you

would agree to conduct, your own

compositions of course.

4.

FRED BALLINGER:

I haven’t conducted for a long

time.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD EMISSARY

(smiles) I’m sure you haven’t

forgotten how it’s done.

Fred Ballinger ponders this.

FRED BALLINGER:

No, I haven’t forgotten how it’s

done.

The Queen’s emissary’s smiles radiantly.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD EMISSARY

Prince Philip and Her Majesty will

be simply ecstatic to hear you

conduct your famous “Simple Songs.”

In a remarkably calm, resigned voice, Fred says:

FRED BALLINGER:

Ah, but I will not conduct any of

my “Simple Songs.”

FIFTY-YEAR OLD EMISSARY

Why not?

FRED BALLINGER:

Personal reasons.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD EMISSARY

The great soprano Sumi Jo has

agreed to sing.

FRED BALLINGER:

Sumi Jo won’t do.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD EMISSARY

Well then, tell me which soprano

would do, and you shall have her.

FRED BALLINGER:

No one will do.

Fred Ballinger’s refusal seems irrevocable. He goes back to

reading the paper, all the flattery already behind him. The

emissary is devastated. He lowers his head.

Silence. Only a slight noise. The camera moves to discover

what it is. Fred is rubbing the plastic-coated candy wrapper

between his fingers at regular intervals. Without a doubt,

the quick, alternating tempo creates a distinct musical

rhythm.

5.

The Queen’s emissary puts a cigarette between his lips and is

about to light it when he remembers that smoking is not

permitted. He stammers out one last, lame attempt.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD EMISSARY

If I may, Maestro, the Queen might

take your refusal rather poorly,

she’s not used to being told no.

Fred Ballinger, who is reading the paper, interrupts ex

abrupto rubbing the candy wrapper.

FRED BALLINGER:

I’m sure she will come to terms

with it. There are far more

important things in life than my

Simple Songs.

The emissary is disconsolate.

FIFTY-YEAR OLD EMISSARY

Well then, I shall relay our

conversation to the Queen. Good

day, Maestro.

The emissary takes his leave. His two assistants follow him.

When they get up, we see that there is a man sitting behind

them, who looks as if he has overheard the whole

conversation.

His name is Jimmy Tree. He’s thirty-four years old,

Californian, drop dead handsome, a Hollywood star. Though

it’s still early, he’s eating a steak and French fries.

Hiding behind sunglasses and a few days' razor stubble,

wearing an unflattering baseball cap and sloppy clothes, he

looks undone.

The three Englishmen are circumnavigating the pool on their

way out of the garden, when someone suddenly catches the

emissary’s attention.

This someone is floating in the pool: a man about fifty, only

his face above water. A puffy, South American face, hair dyed

a surreal yellow, full lips, tired features, dark,

intelligent eyes, and furrows far too deep for a man his age.

He stares blankly into space.

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