Paola's English Tutor Fred

Moulin RougeMusic: variousLyrics: variousPremiere: 2001 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------Written by Baz Luhrmann and Craig PierceDirected By: Baz Luhrmann[Scene One: Christian's Montmarte Flat][CHRISTIAN OVER HIS TYPEWRITER MOURNING OVER SATINE]Christian: The Moulin Rouge . . . a nightclub, a dance hall and a bordello. Ruled over by Harold Zidler. A kingdom of nighttime pleasures. Where the rich and powerful come to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld. And the most beautiful of all these was the woman I loved, Satine, a courtesan. She sold her love to men. They called her the "Sparkling Diamond", and she was the star . . . of the Moulin Rouge. The woman I loved is . . . dead. I first came to Paris one year ago. It was 1899, the summer of love. I knew nothing of the Moulin Rouge, Harold Zidler or Satine. The world had been swept up in the Bohemian Revolution. And I traveled from London to be a part of it. On a hill near Paris was the village of Montmartre. It was not like my father had said.Christian's Father: A village of Sin!Christian: It was the center of the Bohemian world with musicians, painters, and writers. They were known as the "Children of the Revolution." Yes, I had come to live a penniless existance. I had come to write about truth, beauty, freedom and at which I believe in above all things . . . Love. Christian's Father: Always this ridiculous obsession with love! Christian (hurriedly): There was only one problem, I've never been in love. Luckily, right at that moment an unconscious Argentinean fell through my roof. He was quickly joined by a dwarf dressed as a nun.[DOOR OPENS]Toulouse (with a lisp): How do you do? My name is Henri de Raymond Toulouse-Lautrec Montfa. I'm terribly sorry about all this. We were just upstairs rehearsing a play. Christian: A play, something very modern called "Spectacular, Spectacular." Toulouse: And it's set in Switzerland! Christian: Unfortunately the unconscious Argentinean suffered from a sickness called Narcolepsy. Toulouse: Happily fine one moment then suddenly *SNORT, SNORT* unconscious the next.The Doctor (through the hole in the floor above): How is he?Audrey (through the hole in the floor above): How wonderful now that narcoleptic Argentinean is now unconscious. And therefore the scenario will not be finished in time to present to the financier tomorrow. Satie (through the hole in the floor above): Quick Toulouse, I still have to finish the music. Toulouse: We'll just find someone to read the part.Audrey (through the floor above): Oh where in heavens are we going find someone to read the role of the young sensitive Swiss poet goat herder?Christian: Before I knew it, I was upstairs standing in for the unconscious Argentinean.[Scene Two: The Bohemian's Flat][the room contains an elaborate piano called the Absinthesizer and a Swiss Alps Scenery Backdrop with a Ladder for makeshift Alps}The Doctor: The hills are animated with, the euphonious symphony of descant . . . Satie: Stop, stop, stop!Audrey: Oh stop, stop, stop, stop that insufferable droning is drowning out my words. Can we please just stick to a little decorative piano?Christian: There seem to be artistic differences over Audrey's lyrics to Satie's songs.Satie: What if he sings "The hills are vital intoning the descant"? The Doctor: No, no, no, the hills are--Argentinean: The hills are incarnate with symphonic melodies.[ARGINTINEAN FALLS ASLEEP]The Doctor: No . . .Christian: The-the hillsThe Doctor: The hills are chanting--Satie: The hills . . .Christian (singing): The hills are alive with the sound of music . . .[ARGINTEAN AWAKES WITH A START]Argentinean: "The hills are alive with the sound of music!" I love it! The Doctor: The hills . . .Toulouse: . . . are alive . . .Satie (singing): . . . with the sound of music. (spoken) It fits perfectly!Christian (signing): With songs they have sung for a thousand years. [BOHOS GASP]Toulouse: Incandiferous! Audrey, you two should write the show together.Audrey: I beg your pardon?Christian: But Toulouse's suggestion that Audrey and I write the show together was not what Audrey wanted to hear.Audrey (appalled): GOOD-BYE!Toulouse: Yes, your first job in Paris.Satie: No offense, but have you ever written anything like this before? Christian: NoArgentinean: Ah! The boy has talent. (putting his hand on Christian's fly) I like him! Nothing funny I just like talent. Toulouse: "The hills are alive with the sound of music." See Satie, with Christian we can write this truly Bohemian Revolutionary show that we've always dreamt of. Satie: Yes but how will we convince Zidler?Christian: But Toulouse had a plan. Toulouse: Satine . . .Christian: They would dress me in the Argentinean's best suit and pass me off as a famous English writer. Once Satine heard my modern poetry, she would be astounded and insist to Zidler that I write "Spectacular, Spectacular." The only problem was I kept hearing my father's voice in my head . . .Christian's father: You'll end up wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a can-can dancer. Christian: No! I can't write the show for the Moulin Rouge. Toulouse: Why not?Christian: I-I don't even know if I am a true Bohemian Revolutionary. Toulouse: Do you believe in beauty?Christian: Yes.The Doctor: Freedom? Christian: Yes of course.Satie: Truth?Christian: Yes. The Doctor: Love?Christian: Love? Love. Above all things I believe in love. Love is like oxygen. Love is a many splendored thing. Love lifts us up to where we belong. All you need is love!Toulouse: See, you can't fool us. You're the voice of the "Children of the Revolution." The Doctor and Satie: We can't be fooled!Toulouse: Let's drink to the new writer of the world's first Bohemian Revolutionary show! Christian: It was a fantastic plan. I was to audition for Satine and I would taste my first glass of . . . Absinthe.Bowie (singing): There was a boy . . .Green Fairy: I'm the Green Fairy!Bohos and the Green Fairy (singing): The hills are alive with the sound of music . . . Bowie (singing): A very strange enchanted boy . . .