Youth Page #6

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MICK BOYLE:

Unfortunately, yes. I swear.

FRED BALLINGER:

Well then, that changes things.

MICK BOYLE:

How?

FRED BALLINGER:

If you were sure you’d slept with

her, our friendship would be over

right this second. But if you’re

not sure, well, let’s just say...

that I can live with the

uncertainty.

MICK BOYLE:

Anyway, if I did go to bed with her

and don’t remember it, that means

she wasn’t worth twenty years of

your life, wouldn’t you say?

FRED BALLINGER:

Well yes, I guess you’re right. So

Gilda Black is a closed book

between us.

MICK BOYLE:

Good. Have the kids left?

FRED BALLINGER:

Your son wanted to do it up instyle: Polynesia.

MICK BOYLE:

I know, he’s a real spendthrift,

that one. Who knows where he gets

it from.

FRED BALLINGER:

Not from you, obviously.

Mick laughs. Silence. All of a sudden, Fred seems anxious. He

sighs. Mick notices.

25.

MICK BOYLE:

What? Are you still thinking about

Gilda Black?

FRED BALLINGER:

No. I’m thinking about the things

you forget over time. I don’t

remember my parents any more. What

they looked like, how they talked.

Last night I was watching Lena as

she slept and I started thinking

about all those little things,

thousands of them, that I did for

her as her father. I did them

deliberately, so that she would

remember them when she grew up. But

in time she won’t remember a single

one.

Mick looks at him but doesn’t know what to say. It’s a

beautiful moment.

Fred meets Mick’s gaze and, with a quickness and vigor that

is unusual for him, he grabs his friend’s arm and hisses

angrily.

FRED BALLINGER (CONT’D)

Tremendous efforts, Mick.

Tremendous efforts, and all for the

most modest results. That’s the way

it always is.

Mick is surprised, stunned even.

MICK BOYLE:

This conversation’s getting

interesting. I need a cigarette. I

left mine in the hotel, though.

Wait here, I’m going to go buy

another pack.

Fred nods sadly, as if defeated.

Mick heads off toward the village.

The silence is broken by a cicada singing. Fred turns toward

the sound and, as if in a trance, heads toward it.

CUT TO:

12A. EXT. WOODS. DAY

Fred is in the middle of the woods, where hundreds of cicadas

are singing. Then a strange bird chimes in, making an odd

sound, a sordid chirping that can be heard above the cicadas.

Fred forgets about the cicadas and heads off in search of the

bird, drawn to this new noise.

26.

He stares up at the trees, hoping to see the mysterious bird.

He crosses the woods, is almost at the other side, when a new

constellation of sounds is added to the others: cowbells.

Fred comes out of the woods and is greeted by a sunny, gently

rolling hill. Scattered across it are fifty or so grazing

cows, randomly ringing their bells. Fred’s eyes light up at

the sight. He sits on a rock and stares.

He listens to this superimposition of sounds: cows, bird,

cicadas.

Fred closes his eyes, concentrating now, as the camera slowly

zooms in on him.

Fred begins to move his hand - gently, gracefully, just like

an orchestra director - and, as if by magic, some of the

cowbells fall silent. Others keep ringing, but no longer in

anarchic fashion. Now they play in some clearly melodic

manner. Fred moves his hand again and silences more bells, so

that only two keep ringing, sounding alternate notes. Next

Fred waves his arm behind him, and the bird comes in. Then he

sweeps both arms wide, inviting the chorus to join in:

hundreds of cicadas accompany the bird solo and the cowbell

countermelody. A symphony of nature. Fred’s eyes are still

closed, he is smiling to himself.

The camera has zoomed in to a close-up of Fred’s face. For

the first time, he looks happy.

Mentally selecting the sounds nature offers him, he is doing

something amazing. He is composing.

CUT TO:

12B. EXT. MEADOW. DAY

Mick returns to the spot where he left Fred. He looks around,

but there’s no sign of him. He lights a cigarette.

As he does so, his eye catches something moving behind a

fence in the distance. A white horse.

So Mick does the only thing he knows how to do: he makes a

frame with his hands, the way directors do, to simulate the

viewfinder of a movie camera. He closes one eye and with the

frame of his hands he follows, in a panoramic shot, the

movement of the beautiful white horse.

13. INT./EXT. HOTEL. DAY

A pedestrian bridge leads from the back of the hotel to the

mountains. About a dozen staff - waiters, cooks, and nurses have

congregated here, enjoying their break.

27.

They’re all smoking, chatting, horsing around; this is their

time to relax. All except for one girl, who keeps to herself.

She smokes too, but doesn’t talk to anyone. She seems

melancholy. She is leaning over the railing, staring down

below, but without really seeing anything. It’s the masseuse

we saw in Fred's room.

Fred is a hotel hallway, standing at a window that looks out

onto the bridge. His face too is veiled in melancholy as he

stares at the lonely masseuse who smokes and stares.

The sound of that violin, still practicing that same

exercise, catches Fred’s attention. Off he goes, searching

for the source.

14. INT. HOTEL HALLWAY / ROOM. DAY

Fred moves cautiously down the deserted hallway. The violin

can be heard more clearly now. He runs into the sixty-yearold

doctor with the kindly face, followed by two nurses. Fred

and the doctor nod in greeting.

Fred comes upon a room, the door open. The chambermaid is

just finishing tidying up, and at the far end, standing in

front of a mirror with a musical score open in front of him,

a twelve-year-old boy is practicing those same two notes,

over and over and over.

The chambermaid leaves, pushing her cleaning cart through the

door.

Fred instinctively steps into the room. He watches the boy

play. The child senses someone’s presence and turns to look

at Fred.

Fred smiles at him. The boy smiles back.

Fred is a little worked up.

FRED BALLINGER:

Do you know who composed the piece

you’re practicing?

BOY:

No, who?

FRED BALLINGER:

Me.

BOY:

I don’t believe you. What’s it

called?

FRED BALLINGER:

It’s called “Simple Song No.3.”

The boy checks the title on the cover of his score.

28.

BOY:

You’re right. And what’s the

composer’s name?

FRED BALLINGER:

Fred Ballinger.

BOY:

And you, what’s your name?

FRED BALLINGER:

Fred Ballinger. You can check at

the front desk. I’m staying here.

The boy is surprised now.

BOY:

Incredible.

FRED BALLINGER:

Yeah, it is incredible.

BOY:

My teacher makes me play it, he

says it’s a perfect piece to start

with.

FRED BALLINGER:

He’s right. Because it’s simple.

BOY:

But it’s not merely simple.

FRED BALLINGER:

It’s not?

BOY:

No, it’s also really beautiful.

Fred, cold and impassive, instinctively lets something "hot"

slip.

FRED BALLINGER:

Yes, it is beautiful. Because I

composed it when I still loved.

The boy seems not to understand what Fred means, so simply

starts practicing again.

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