DIGITALLY RESTORED IN 2015
Any resemblance between this film and so-called reality has to be a misunderstanding.
ALL THESE WOMEN
Don't be disrespectful. Don't insult the music.
Here come the widows.
A genius has many kinds of widows.
"My biography
of Felix, the master cellist."
By me, Cornelius.
Dear Maestro...
speechless I stand by your coffin.
Is that possible?
What constitutes genius?
True genius is to make a critic change his opinion.
Goethe.
The widow Tussaud.
He looks the same and yet so different.
The widow Beatrice.
He looks the same and yet so different.
The widow Traviata.
He looks the same and yet so different.
The widow Cecilia.
He looks the same...
and yet so different.
The widow Isolde.
He looks the same and yet so different.
The widow Bumblebee.
No, he looks so different.
Yet the same.
That came out silly.
The widow.
Forgive me, Maestro, but unfortunately I don't have a copy.
I mean...
Right?
FOUR DAYS EARLIER
The renowned music critic Cornelius visits the cello virtuoso Felix
at his summer residence.
Hi there, Jillker.
Hello, hello.
Maestro.
It's such a great honor.
Maestro, Maestro.
Don't even think of it.
Maestro, your precious hands.
- Who's that? - That's Felix playing.
- Then he is? - Tristan.
Felix's valet and chauffeur. There's said to be a certain likeness.
- You could have stopped me. - That's not usually possible.
Villa Tremolo.
- The Tusculum of our Maestro. - Bravo.
Villa Tremolo.
A name characterized by the Maestro's elegance and imagination.
Those are the kind of malleable details
that make the subject of a biography come alive for the reader.
How far along are you?
A very intimate and personal chapter is missing.
Speaking of which, how's Stravinsky doing?
I don't know. I considered it my duty as a music critic to expose him.
Has he stopped composing or does he persist?
Such a splendid house.
A gigantic cello in the Lord's concert hall.
"The Maestro lives, as if in a gigantic cello
in the Lord's concert hall."
Of course that uses "in" twice.
Damned prepositions.
"He lives as if a solo, as if in a cello."
But then you have two "as if's." Awkward.
No, I thought...
Do you know if the Maestro has seen my composition?
Composition?
Yes, I sent it to him, because I thought it would make an excellent opening
if he interpreted it.
The interpreter's relationship with the interpreted.
You interpret him, and he you.
Will you end up together in the end?
- What do you mean? - Shall I show you your room?
- So many women. - Yes, a lot of women.
As you can see, Felix and Tristan look a lot alike.
There appears to be plenty of material for the biography.
Yes, I was afraid so.
Very beautiful material.
MAESTRO FELIX
Well, this is your room.
You can wash up here
from your journey.
I think I better redeem myself after that slight mishap.
Maestro.
Oh, Maestro.
Why are you sneaking around? What are you doing?
I'm writing the Maestro's biography.
Oh, that's you.
- Have you met Felix? - He still hasn't been able to see me.
I've sent him my composition, which I have dedicated to him.
I thought he might play it at his big radio concert.
If he does, I will shoot him.
The Maestro just retired with his wife.
Discretion is a point of honor.
My name is Adelaide.
Cornelius.
I am Felix's wife.
Yes.
A wonderful woman.
Yes.
No.
I am writing his biography after all.
- And next week. - Certainly, Adelaide dear.
Here we have Isolde.
She can't make it until Friday, remember?
Oh, that's right.
- You can put me down. - No, you've got Wednesday.
Unbelievable.
And you get Tuesday, I assume.
By the way, could you talk sense into Traviata?
The lightest caress outside the schedule, and she gets jealous.
Yes, she mustn't be so selfish.
- Good night, Adelaide. - Good night, dear.
Sweet dreams.
Quite true.
What?
I'm Bumblebee.
- I'll be in the biography, right? - Bumblebee?
Bumblebee.
His mistress, of course.
I don't understand.
A second ago, the Maestro and a lady who wasn't his wife...
That wasn't his "official" mistress.
Because I am.
You really look kind of cute.
Do you want to see his bedroom?
That would be interesting.
- But isn't he? - Silly. They're not in his bedroom.
Come. Come on.
Come. Come. Come.
I dare say the atmosphere is...
promising.
It is sometimes.
The Maestro's bedroom.
The Maestro's mistress.
Unbelievable material.
To avoid censorship, the act of lovemaking is depicted as follows.
Bumblebee.
Bumblebee?
Felix, you forgot that it was my turn.
Sparks! There's sparks!
- Bumblebee? - Yes.
Is Bumblebee dead?
No. And Cornelius?
- Alive. - Well then, come out.
No, I'm naked.
Who was that? Shooting and making noise.
Yes.
Someone tried to kill the Maestro.
Give me my notebook. My pen.
The impresario Jillker handles the Maestro's business.
Villa Tremolo, hello? Impresario Jillker speaking.
Oh, is it you? Hello.
Do you want a program? We haven't any yet.
Isn't it more important that he plays than what he plays?
The Cello. And that's all we know, and that's enough, isn't it?
The Broadcasting Corporation will have to be content with that. So long.
- So long. - Well?
He has to decide on a program soon. The world is awaiting a decision.
The whole world. Almost tout le monde.
Villa Tremolo, hello.
Oh, it's you. What do you want?
Oh, Bach. We'll have to see about that. I'll talk to you later.
They want the Sixth Suite.
A suite with the same success as the Fifth Suite.
"A revelation of inspired Bach interpretation."
- Does he want to? - Qui sait?
- Should I talk to him? - Do I get a lesson today?
I haven't spoken with him yet, Traviata.
- Jillker, I need to speak with you. - Everyone does. Begin.
In private.
In this house there are no secret secrets.
Someone tried to murder the Maestro.
- Unsuccessfully, it seems. - Jillker, it's no joke! I personally...
Yes, Felix?
No, you don't have to worry about the program.
Traviata. There'll be no lesson today,
at least not in cello.
Maestro?
- No, it was nothing special. - Jillker, you have to...
Oh, that's right. Someone's tried to kill you.
That's that.
- You mean, the Maestro's going to die? - He, like everybody else.
- But, murdered? - Why not?
Imagine the last chapter of your biography.
- Jillker, don't say that! - Why not? Just between us salesmen.
Save me.
I mean "him."
The door blew shut.
- There's quite a draft in the house. - I thought...
Is Mr. Cornelius admiring the mosaics?
- No. - I am.
I admire everything in this house.
Everything is nice. It has to be.
Maestro Felix has given me a nice name... Isolde.
- It doesn't suit you. - That's what everyone calls me.
And everybody calls Tristan, Tristan. That was also the Maestro's idea.
Tristan's so nice. Everything's so nice in this house.
- Do you know what Maestro Felix says? - No.
That all the nice things in the house would be pointless without my admiration.
He walks around the house with me, watching my admiration.
- Really? - Then he plays for me in his studio.
He remembers his childhood.
He gives his art to the people. In that moment, you represent the people.
He looks at you while playing for you.
How should I know? He squints.
Oh, yes.
I sit there admiring his hands.
I feel a tingle inside when I watch his fingers on the strings.
Then all of a sudden I'm sitting where the cello was.
- That's impossible. - His finger position is wonderful.
Isn't that the term?
Yes.
Listen.
He calls me his "da gamba."
His little "lap viola."
He's sitting there playing without a clue...
- Show me to his room. - He's not to be disturbed now.
- Somebody wants to hurt him. - Not now. Not while he's playing.
I don't believe it.
- What's the meaning of this? - I'm amusing myself. Killing time.
Wait! I'll show you, Mr. Cornelius.
Why are you here?
I'm a young, pretty relative that's going to reconcile the old man with the family.
Why?
The family suddenly got rich... The tobacco industry...
and old man Felix is a famous relative, so why not use him for publicity?
Hence, a cigar called "Felix."
So he sued them, which could be expensive for the family.
- How were they planning to... - They knew the old man's weakness.
So they sent me, with my luscious body, and a box of cigars.
- They're not suggesting... - God knows what they're suggesting?
They probably thought,
"The girl is so terribly young, and he must have some morals."
They didn't know that it was I who didn't have any.
Old Felix has the hots for me.
He wants to prove he's not old and useless.
Do you know what he named me last night?
No.
Saint Cecilia.
He pretended to respect my innocence.
- Doesn't it taste heavenly? - Yes.
Give me more heaven.
A very steady hand, Mrs. Adelaide.
I surrender. I surrender.
- For God's sake. - Would you like to try?
- So it was you? - Tristan, that's it for today.
You don't require any assistance, Mrs. Adelaide?
That will be all, Tristan.
Your husband has been the victim of a murder attempt.
Fortunately, he wasn't present.
Mrs. Adelaide.
I'm afraid you share the prejudices artists have
against biographers and critics.
In actuality, the artist longs to be immortalized.
Preferably in as large of an edition as possible.
Mrs. Adelaide.
You might think that I feel my book would benefit from the Maestro's murder.
No, no. I'm not that cynical.
No, I have absolutely no interest in involving the Maestro in a scandal.
Mrs. Adelaide.
You seem very understanding of your husband's secrets.
- I'm indifferent. - Indifferent? Yet you tried to...
I would never try, Mr. Cornelius.
You just heard what Tristan said.
I have a very steady hand.
That woman knows how to shoot.
That woman can hit the heart.
Dear God.
What constitutes genius?
Genius?
That's to make a critic change his opinion.
He looks the same
and yet so different.
He looks the same and yet so different.
He looks the same
and yet so different.
He looks the same.
Yet the same.
THREE DAYS EARLIER
Such material.
Adelaide.
You little bird.
You sing, unconcerned by the fact that an unforgiving critic is listening.
So, even you have respect for my writing.
So this is the Maestro's famous music pavilion,
where he practices on hot summer days
while at the same time getting fresh air and exercise.
Rest, Maestro.
I'll watch over you.
Hat size eight.
It wasn't Felix, dear Traviata.
I would never disregard the schedule. What would Adelaide say?
- Who was it then? - That Cornelius.
The critic?
Yes. So it wouldn't have been any great loss if you'd hit him.
But you gave me a bruise. Look.
Look. What will Felix say?
You can always say that you were stung by the critic.
By him?
He's not someone I'd characterize as particularly lively.
Though his initial surge was promising.
Such artfulness for the sake of art.
Yes, such artfulness.
And yet he never gives me any lessons.
I demean myself.
I lie in bed with him, begging for lessons.
He just pinches my ear and whispers: "Traviata, why do you argue?"
"At least I've taught you the basics of playing the cello. Spreading your legs."
The bastard.
And now he lies in there, sleeping in his shameless nakedness.
If I only had the strength to leave.
If I only had the strength.
No, you can't leave, Traviata.
Oh, yes.
We're all in love with the poor guy.
Does he say that?
"The basics of playing the cello is spreading the legs."
- What's so funny? Tell me. - No, it isn't a joke for pianists.
Everything's out of balance. The schedule has been disrupted.
- Our inner bitterness is showing. - Bitterness.
I never get any information. What's going to be in his program?
I'm not a machine.
You and your music.
That's why he enjoys me. He can rest.
- He gets a rest, does he? - From major and minor, yes.
I'm sorry, girls, for disrupting Adelaide's nifty little schedule.
- You're a real piece of work, Cecilia. - I'm a saint.
Saint Cecilia, his patron saint.
- Doesn't the billy goat dare come out? - My little billy goat.
Our little billy goat.
Cecilia, we girls have learned to live together.
We have created our own moral order. And you won't destroy it.
You'll have to speak to Felix, Traviata.
I'm just a child, I don't understand these things.
You snake.
Serpent.
Worm.
Where's your pistol, Traviata?
Tristan, my tea, please.
- Why isn't Felix here? - He's afraid.
- He's being unfaithful, Madame. - Of course. We know that.
- With that one. - Yes, she's very young.
Yes, I am.
He's unfaithful all the time.
Every night and every day he cheats on most of us.
- Right now he's in there alone. - Right now he's faithful to all of us.
Little Felix.
Come out, Felix. Come out and look us in the eyes.
All at the same time. You can, if you squint.
Your little saint mocks us.
- Tea, Felix. - With biscuits and cookies.
- Let's drag him out. - Yes, let him see his little saint now.
I'll take a look.
It's completely quiet in there.
I'll beat you over your head with your saint, Felix.
- Come out, Felix. - Come out.
Can't you hear? He's playing.
If only he were poor.
452,144 crowns
and three öre.
Assets, Tristan.
Six million...
and 67 öre.
And also my damn commission.
Felix?
The grand total, after all has been counted, is...
ninety-seven öre.
TWO DAYS EARLIER
"The distinction between the subjectively personal
and the objectively musical is hard to make.
It involves a choice between discretion and concealment."
What the hell do I mean by that?
"In this case, concealment would result in a distorted picture of the Maestro,
which would be deceitful and morally reprehensible."
Yes, of course, that's what I mean.
Damn bumblebee.
"As the author of these lines..."
No.
"As the humble..."
No.
"As the modest author of these humble lines,
I have had the opportunity to closely follow the erotic...
erotic..."
Oh, Bumblebee. Bumblebee.
"Very closely."
I could certainly write that.
I do believe I have to get up and do some research.
The catlike beetle spies
Where the little Bumblebee flies
Are all the rooms empty tonight?
Do I dare try another door?
Well, since I've already undertaken it.
And it beckons.
May I cause Bumblebee fuss
So we can start to buzz
This will be very funny, Cornelius.
You'll get a copy.
You see, photography is my little hobby.
The architecture of this house is very complex.
- You can easily get lost. - And wander astray.
I was on the way to my room.
Good evening.
Isolde, can you tell me in what room I can find Miss Bumblebee?
I need to speak to her about something...
Down the stairs, through the salon and up the stairs.
The first corridor to the left and the second door on the right.
The first corridor to the right and the second door on the left.
And that's Miss Bumblebee's room?
But be careful, Mr. Cornelius. Maestro Felix is very jealous.
- Yes, but, I'm... - Good night, Mr. Cornelius.
Up the stairs, through the salon, second door to the right... left...
- Tristan still hates our Felix? - Yes, Madame.
You should have met the young genius I took care of.
Thank you, Madame.
Before I, and my money, made him world famous.
You still love him, Madame?
Madame Tussaud.
I'm Madame Tussaud.
At first he was just pleasant.
A young, ugly and very talented boy.
Pleasant for my body and my vanity.
One night I heard him whisper to my maid, "I'll be right there darling.
I just have to fulfill my obligations towards Madame Tussaud."
That night I loved him.
I still love him.
Yes, Madame.
Madame Tussaud.
Founder and proprietor of a waxworks museum.
He thinks Madame Tussaud herself is a wax doll.
- He's very ignorant. - Yes, Madame.
And Tristan is Tristan.
A former great cellist.
Yes, Madame.
I became Tristan, after the big cello competition
in The Hague 32 years ago.
That day he defeated me.
A great cellist, if somewhat nervous.
That night he seduced my wife.
For me it was incomprehensible.
Something snapped inside me, as they say in the novels.
Then, with my entire life in ruins,
I looked him up... to kill him.
I stood there trembling from hatred and a hangover.
"Look at yourself, Tristan. You're drinking too much.
If you promise to stay sober, you can be my chauffeur."
I accepted.
I became his chauffeur.
Madame?
Good night, Madame.
No.
Bumblebee?
Let's go, Cornelius. Time for bed.
Lord almighty, the murderess.
It's dark in here.
There's such commotion in this house. It's jaw-dropping.
I shouldn't have. I lost my cigar.
Where did it go?
A match. Here's a match.
A box of letters.
"From Felix to Adelaide, 1912."
"Adelaide, my beloved."
My God, my God.
"I deceive you and betray you.
It is inevitable.
But remember this: If I fail or demean my art...
you must kill me."
Inconceivable.
But the dropped cigar...
DANGER EXPLOSIVES
No, Traviata is out shooting again.
I must speak to Adelaide.
Adelaide, dear.
Adelaide, I must speak to you about Traviata,
because she's shooting at Cecilia, and it's so sad that...
Preserving the moment for future generations.
Fireworks and pandemonium.
- Look. - Yes, yes, I see.
- On the balcony. - Maestro Felix.
- He's waving. - He's talking.
- What do you think he's saying? - "Thank you for the tribute."
He's looking at me.
Look!
He's looking at us.
My beloved Felix.
Adelaide, you see how he's looking at me?
The fireworks should not be taken symbolically.
Are you alone?
Not anymore.
Unfortunately.
I still haven't met with the Maestro.
No.
How am I supposed to cover
the very intimate and personal in my biography?
- You'll have to avoid it. - Impossible.
- The world has a right to know. - Does it?
In the worst case, I'll settle for my observations so far.
In regards to my musical composition, I demand an answer.
Should he perform it, I'd consider being generous.
In the biography, I mean.
Cornelius,
this "very intimate and personal" you speak of, do you think it's there?
Naturally.
I don't think I'm going to like your book, Cornelius.
That depends entirely on the Maestro.
Sapristi.
- What? - I have an idea on how to reach Felix.
I think we're beginning to understand each other.
- As you've noticed, Felix has a weakness. - Women.
- Doesn't that tell you anything? - A bit.
- Why not dress up as a woman? - You're completely crazy.
This house is crazy. You have to adapt. You, as well.
Don't worry one bit about your manly appearance.
He's insatiable.
I'll take a photograph of you and give it to him.
I'll tell him you've been desperately trying to see him.
He won't be able to resist.
- It wouldn't be entirely untrue. - Come, Cornelius.
Yes, but...
How do I bring up my composition?
That's up to you.
There we are.
I'll quickly develop it.
Little Miss Cornelius is going to get an acid bath.
I don't like the way you express yourself, Jillker.
Cute hairstyle. Do you mind if I get it too?
How do I get through the house looking like this?
Calm down. We're cunning and calculating.
- What do you think? - I'm nervous.
- We'll cover you up and guide you there. - I protest.
- You won't even recognize yourself. - But I can't see a damned thing!
We're walking.
Bye, Cornelius.
What do you mean? Are we there?
I have to hand him the photograph.
- Where should I hide in the meantime? - You are hidden.
- You're screwing with me, Jillker. - Me?
Where do I go if someone comes?
Just stand still. No one will believe their eyes.
Bye.
I see you want to meet my husband.
You're the last person I wanted to find me.
Why? I'll add you to my list of women immediately.
This damned house! Nobody is who they say they are!
Nobody lives where they live, and nobody's called by their own name!
Be careful not to rip Beatrice's dress.
"Beatrice" and all these damn fancy masquerade names.
- What's Beatrice's real name? - Her name's Bertha.
- Traviata? - Hedda.
- Madame Tussaud? - Her name's Jeanette.
- Isolde? - Lisa.
And Bumblebee's name is Ingrid.
- And what's your name? - My name is Adelaide.
Adelaide. My beloved.
Oh, dear Lord. What is that?
Cornelius. Where are you?
- Here. - Peekaboo.
Can you forgive me? I've made a terrible mistake.
What is it now?
I brought him both photographs.
This one where you're dressed as a beauty,
and the one where you're buzzing like a bumblebee.
The similarity is uncanny. Do you know what Felix said?
He's going to give both of them to your publisher.
They'll be on the back cover of your book.
Caption: "The critical mission."
- Can you imagine? - Jillker.
Yes.
My brother.
My friend.
You've staged all this.
- Me? - To stop the book.
I'm going to kill you.
- Shouldn't you change first? - Why, you...
Are you studying bumblebees, Mr. Cornelius?
No.
- Why are you dressed like this? - I don't know.
- Please, Isolde, don't laugh at me. - Okay.
Isolde?
- You know Maestro Felix very well. - Me? Oh, no.
- But you? - Of course.
- But in that case... - But that's not knowing him.
But how does one get to know him?
You can't.
You can't?
Many think they know something about him,
because it's viewed favorably, because he's such a great cellist.
It's almost like being able to play on your own.
But no one can, not like him.
That doesn't mean...
He himself doesn't know where it comes from.
That wonderful music. He said so himself.
And playing is all that matters to him.
But you can get to know others.
Of course. But no one cares about their secrets.
"Isolde," he'll say.
And when I answer, "Yes, what is it?"
It's as if he didn't notice.
He just spoke my name.
And then he'll say all the other names he's made up.
He'll say them very slowly.
"Beatrice.
Traviata.
Bumblebee.
Madame Tussaud."
As if it was terribly important for him.
Yes, I understand.
No, you can't understand.
He thinks he's made me up, too.
What an imagination.
Leave!
- We're having a lesson. - I see that.
- Still here? - I want to talk to the Maestro.
Go ahead.
Maestro, I've had to endure great humiliation in this house,
which Madame Tussaud runs for you.
The respect you've shown me as composer, critic and biographer is meager.
You're impossible.
He's impossible.
You've shown absolutely no interest in your own biography.
Have you ever noticed how quickly instrumentalists are forgotten?
No. Hold me.
They die.
Standards are raised.
Newer and more skillful virtuosos appear.
Ideals change. You'll be nonexistent.
What's wrong, Felix?
Who points out what's important?
Who, I ask?
The biographer.
The musician who's biography is never written will be forgotten.
Ouch. You're pinching me.
No, Maestro, you don't want a book to be written.
And I'll oblige you.
I won't even expose you, as I exposed Stravinsky.
Not even a bad reputation will live on.
You're soaked in sweat.
I'll tell it like it is.
The instrumentalist who buys my services as a biographer
by interpreting my compositions
will be remembered long after the cellist Felix has been forgotten.
Farewell,
Maestro.
I leave you to oblivion.
THE BIG CONCERT APPROACHES Three hours until the concert begins.
Ring, little bell, ring.
So that poor Jillker and Beatrice can get a program.
Dearest little sweet bell, please ring. Ring.
Ring, damn it!
Finally.
Yes.
Who else?
What? You're the one that's angry?
Yes, he's here.
You've torn up the photos? What a shame.
They were my best work.
I still have the negatives.
What? There'll be no book?
No, I thought not.
What? The world has a right to know?
So the world has gotten rights, has it?
Discretion? I doubt it.
The program. Finally, some reason in all this madness.
Good.
Very good.
Excellent.
Bold.
I'm sorry?
The Fish's Dream or Abstraction No. 14.
What the hell is that?
You can't be serious.
What?
Are you that concerned with that damn book?
If you're that damn vain, you might as well play the other 13.
The Fish's Dream, or Abstraction No. 14.
That means that there have to be at least 13 other masterpieces.
Cancel it immediately.
What? It's none of my business?
I hereby tender my resignation.
You yourself said it's complete garbage.
Felix, your moral decline is complete.
You can find yourself a new impresario.
The Fish's Dream, or Abstraction No. 14.
I assure you, it will be a dignified biography.
I believe you. Dignity has declined catastrophically.
THE BIG MOMENT DRAWS NEAR Eight, seven, six, five, four, three,
two, one.
Oh my, have you started already?
Now you'll get to listen to some music.
The Maestro has taken his seat with instrument in hand.
The program will not only contain music from the classical titans, but also...
The first piece, titled Abstraction No. 14 or The Fish's Dream...
His eyes radiate a demonic genius.
He's dead.
Today we have stood by your open grave,
my great, unequaled Felix.
Yet it is not your absence that consumes us,
but your presence, your continued presence.
How alive...
How irreplaceably alive, here in my house...
Read, Mr. Cornelius.
- As you all know, I have written... - We know, we know. Read it.
My biography of the Maestro.
The Favorite ofthe Muses.
I still have no title, but I do have a few suggestions.
- The book is divided into... - Read.
Four main chapters.
- His outer appearance. - Must be short.
- His inner self. - Abstraction No. 15.
- His music. - Must be brief.
Finally, the very intimate and personal.
- I'm speechless. - Read.
"In physical stature, the great Cornel...
Felix was an insignificant man."
- He was not. - Yes, he was.
- He was rather tall. - That chubby little thing... I mean, man?
Little? Chubby?
- He came up to here. - Dear, you're standing on a chair.
- I should know how far he reached. - Very true.
Look at Tristan. Felix looked more and more like Tristan.
No, Tristan became more and more like Felix.
- Tristan isn't cross-eyed. - Neither was Felix.
It was his gaze that was so intense.
- Tristan, look at me. - Felix isn't Tristan.
- Cornelius, read another chapter. - I didn't make it past the first sentence.
Louder.
"Chapter Two.
In the previous chapter, we heard about the Maestro's appearance,
and how his character and career appeared
to a passionate and fascinated world."
- I haven't heard one word about that. - I didn't get to read it.
Continue.
"But what about the inner man?
The inner development? The artist's generosity..."
No, he was cheap.
This concerns the artistic. The inner...
Ask Madame. She paid for him.
- That's discussed in the previous chapter. - Then read it.
He wasn't cheap towards me. For instance, he gave me...
"Chapter Three. In the long line of great cellists..."
- There was no one like Felix. - I was getting to that.
No one like Felix.
"In the long line of great cellists..."
"Line"? What nerve. I won't stand for this.
Read the last chapter, Mr. Cornelius.
Yes, the one about the "very intimate and personal."
It's not here. It's gone.
I've been robbed of the very intimate and personal.
The very intimate and personal.
I'm looking for Mrs. Jeanette Bring.
- That's me. - Mr. Jillker said...
I know, my boy.
You're supposedly very talented.
I am.
Would you like to live here with me and let us take care of you?
I'll become famous, right?
Most certainly, my boy.
Now, may we hear you play? What are you waiting for?
A nice catch, Madame.
And most certainly very poor.
Oh, yes. That as well.
- Well? - We've met.
You have?
I've just shown him his room.
Already?
That's the great Mr. Cornelius.
Continue, young man.
That's the end of the film.
The End?