Original subtitles

(Transcrito por TurboScribe. Actualizar a Ilimitado para eliminar este mensaje.) Why must I be a teenager in love?

Each time we have a quarrel, it almost

breaks my heart Cos I'm so afraid that

we will have to part Each night I

ask the stars up above Why must I

be a teenager in love?

Each time we have a quarrel, it almost

breaks my heart Cos I'm so afraid that

we will have to part God in heaven.

He must be young since he was a

teenager.

In or out of love.

Yeah, well, there you go.

He carries on like this.

He's going home to the place.

He'll do what he likes, can't he?

No.

Can he?

It's only the bloody owner, isn't he?

I mean, it's his place, darling.

If you should say we're through Well, if

you want to make me cry That won't

be so hard to do If you should

say goodbye I'll still go on loving you

Each night I ask the stars up above

Why must I be a teenager in love?

I cry a tear for nobody but you

I'll be a lonely one if you should

say we're through Well, if you want to

make me cry That won't be so hard

to do If you should say goodbye I'm

loving you.

On what?

Sorry?

Oh, nothing.

I, uh...

This is all a bit undignified, isn't it?

I think I was thinking about something else.

At least I hope I was thinking about

thinking about something else.

Well, Mr Field, I'm just going to insert

this soft tube into your rectum.

No, I'm definitely thinking about something else.

Spare me the guided tour, please.

It's not uncomfortable, I assure you, but you'll

feel as though you want to defecate.

Needless to say, I'd be extremely obliged to

you if you don't.

God, no.

I'd be well and truly purged anyhow.

Sorry.

I don't mind you coming out that end,

but if you could just resist the urge

to, um...

OK.

Here goes.

Liquid barium's going in.

Comfortable?

All right?

You can see what's going on in your

intestines by looking at that little monitor above.

Not my sort of drama, Doctor.

And I didn't play with frogspaw when I

was a kid, either.

And onto your tummy.

Thank you.

He can do what he likes, can't he?

Could you say that again, please, sir?

Clar-ree-jis.

No, no.

Her address here in the United Kingdom.

Her home here.

What?

In England.

Where does she live?

I said...

I said...

Clar-ree-jis.

Clar-ree-jis.

How do you...? Oh, Clar-ree-jis.

The hotel.

I said...

I said...

Clar-ree-jis.

Sorry, sir.

I'm sorry.

And if I could just have your...

your mother's date of birth.

What?

What do you say?

Her age, sir.

Please.

How old is she?

When was she born?

Sixty-one.

She, sixty-one.

Sixty-one?

Six-one!

Six-one!

Sixty-bloody-one!

That was a great year for Santa Milia.

But it should be drunk now, OK?

Well, Ben, that wasn't as bad as my

thoughts had made it out to be.

My dignity does not, after all, reside in

my bum hole.

Good, good.

But it took longer than my thoughts, Daniel.

And I think I'm going to be date

for my mate.

It was the second bit I didn't like

very much.

The barium was fine, well-ish.

Then they go and pump air up your

arse.

Air?

What do you mean, air?

Used to extend the lower bowel or something.

Christ, I thought I was going to float

off like the Graf Zeppelin.

Wish you had been able to float, Daniel.

Why the heck don't you finally, finally learn

to drive?

Surely you'd make a sort of lens.

Now, now.

Your spoon-rhythms are showing, Ben.

Look, look, I can't call on you as

my agent for the occasional, if demeaning, bit

of comfort and sulfering.

Now, I'm pretty damn sure there are a

few other grand literary edgers in this town

who'd be only too willing to oblige, and

without getting their words back to front.

Ben, you all right?

How much did I earn last year, Ben?

Hey, now, what's all this?

You know very well I don't mind driving

you to something like this, but I knew

I'd have it eating.

Now, come on.

How much last year?

£488,724.80 gross.

Jesus Christ, on a bike?

And you knew it just like that?

To the purest many.

Nearest penny.

You know, I had no idea it would

be as much as this.

Where will they catch on, those studios paying

for drafts they never actually make?

So, let's see.

You yourself, Ben Bagley, you make £48,000...

No, nearly £49,000 in 12 months from

my scratchy old penny, and then to kick

up a fuss about...

No, you look.

I mean, heavens, it's not as though you

haven't done it often enough before now, is

it?

I don't want to do it with him

at all, thank you very bleating much.

I've got no speaking right.

I mean, it's not as though you've got

to keep on doing it with him now,

is it?

I don't want to do it with him

at all, thank you very bleating much.

Christ, I mean, it's not as though you

haven't done it often enough before.

What do you mean?

Oh, come on, Angel.

You've had more banquets with more blokes than

I've had, believe me.

Daniel, Daniel, what are you saying here?

Come on.

You're joking, right?

They were speaking my lines.

No, no, no.

It's been happening to me all morning, Ben.

This man burbling on the radio when I

woke up.

Okay, okay, it was in a different context

and all that, yes.

But he suddenly comes out with an exact

same sentence from my karaoke script.

And then...

That's pure coincidence.

And then, before I had the barium enema,

I distinctly heard the song that begins the

whole story.

You know, why must I be a...

What do you mean, heard?

Like Joan of Arc?

What do you mean?

And afterwards, the nurse, she...

Or I thought she...

Oh, what's the point?

All I know is...

All I know is something very strange, isn't

it?

You've just been feeling a bit low, Daniel.

That stomach ache and...

Forgive me, but I'll say it just once

more, I promise.

Don't you think you're drinking just a bit

too much?

Drop me here, stop!

Oh, Daniel, come on!

No, no, no, it's just that I've decided

not to go to the cutting room.

This bloody tummy ache, it's...

No, if you put me down here, I

can beat that one-way system and cut

through to my flat.

I need to lie down for a bit

or walk for a bit or something.

You want me to call the cutting room

or anybody?

I'm seeing Flap-Flap-Rush-Rush-Anna for

dinner tonight anyway.

No, you're going to that brasserie where they

film the opening.

Yuck.

She'll humbugger on about drink, too.

And to his little effect, I promise you.

Your cheating heart Will make you weep You'll

cry and cry And try to sleep But

sleep won't come The whole night through Your

cheating heart Will tell on you When tears

come down Like falling rain You'll toss around

And call my name You'll walk the floor

The way I do Your cheating heart Will

tell on you Oh, it's the fan.

Of course.

Sorry, Mr. Morse.

What?

Sorry, I thought you spoke.

I...

No, no, no.

My mistake.

Oh, I see.

You think I talk to myself, do you?

No, Mr. Morse, of course not.

Then why are you hovering?

I just thought you wanted something.

No, but I do.

All old men want to call back yesterday.

I don't imagine for one moment that this

establishment can offer up.

Dear God.

No, not the sock again.

No.

You look...

I mean, it's not as though you've got

to keep on doing it with me now,

is it?

I wouldn't do it with him at all,

thank you very much.

I mean, Christ.

I mean, it's not as though you haven't

done it often enough before.

What do you mean?

Oh, come on, Angela.

If you had more votes, we'd have more

votes than all of our bleeding waiter bits.

Now, look.

I ain't hardly ever, never done it before.

And money.

I've got a thousand down on the table

for a reason.

You've got a bloody chickpea in her sod

off.

Hey, hey, watch the lip.

No, no, no, I know what you're...

No.

Thanks.

It's very clearly her we want to see,

Ian.

Is it?

I know it is.

You sure?

I know it is, full stop.

Fine.

I'm not saying that I disagree, Nick, but

I think Ian's got something of a point.

Who is that?

Sorry?

On the phone.

Oh, Ben Baglin.

Back to front, Ben.

Daniel Field's agent?

Daniel Field?

Words never back to front.

In his scripts, they're supposedly in a perfect

sequence, preordained by almighty God himself.

Daniel Field, precious bastard.

It seems that he can't come to the

cutting room until tomorrow.

Oh, thank God for that.

Perhaps we can get on a bit at

last.

But he will have his say, you know.

Especially about the music.

No, he will.

And then his funny old agent will tell

you to go and take a junning rump.

EEC directive.

Eight, nine, stroke, six, two, two.

You pig.

You indulgent pig.

Obey the EEC.

Obey!

The health police.

I confess.

Daniel.

Good afternoon, Nigel here.

I've had your plate spiked round to me,

and I think I can safely tell you

what's wrong with you.

Join the queue.

It's like a harrowed sail.

You are suffering, Daniel, from sigmoid spastic colon.

It's these spasms which are giving you the

pain.

You can actually see one going on when

you look at the plate.

Anyway, I've got your prescription ready.

I'll have it biked round to Ben's office

and someone there can file it and bring

you the pills.

They're called spasmonal.

Stop the spasms, OK?

Then let's see.

Spastic colon.

Is that what you're calling it?

Sounds sweet.

Or what is more popularly known as IBS,

irritated bowel syndrome.

Use whichever diagnosis impresses whomsoever the most.

Sorry it's not a little more dramatic.

I've known for a long time I've got

an irritated head syndrome.

But is that all it is?

What causes it?

Well, in a word, stress.

Fucking nonsense.

Stress me?

I'm as gentle as the beat of an

angel's wings.

The words of the song come up on

the lower half of the screen in English,

sandwiched by Japanese.

At the same time, from the start, a

male voice is singing badly with an East

End accent.

The same words as they march across the

screen, darkening on cue.

Slow dissolve.

Exterior western street light.

Ray falling.

Making lights slither and passing traffic swish and

smush.

Vaguely melancholic.

I'll be a lonely one, if you should

stay.

What?

Oh, yes.

That song.

The song at the start of karaoke.

The baptismal bounce.

Oh.

What do you mean?

Aren't you sure, Miss Producer?

Sure.

Hey, babe.

What's the steak made of, huh?

Asbestos?

Cork?

What?

Maybe.

My brain.

Your what?

You live alone, don't you, darling?

No wife.

No mistress.

The occasional sleazy and all-but-commercial sneeze

-like bonk.

Preferably with someone who has more to lose

than I have.

No kids, no commitments, no cleaner.

And, please note, and...

the capacity for minding my own business.

Well, that's all very nice.

Except...

Except it makes you forget how to talk

to people, how to treat your colleagues, or

how to be half-way polite.

But it's a crucial comic opening song in

my script, Anna.

When we first see that sleaze plays, and

half the mail-in bellowing the words so

badly.

Pig mail-in.

The blackmailer, the real foul-mouthed heavy.

Why do they do that in restaurants?

Music or whatever.

To fill the empty?

Divert the bored?

Why else?

Showbiz, Essence House.

They usually manage to shut it out.

I mean, if you let background music get

to you, you'd hardly ever be able to

eat out at all.

They even do it in funeral parlour nowadays.

On the sunny side of the street.

Ah, life is just a bowl of cherries.

Each night I ask the stars above why

must I be a teenager in love?

It's too on the nose.

That's the point.

Smack on the snouts, my love.

No, I mean to be really funny, or...

And it just sort of lies there, that

song.

Nick is...

Well, you know what Nick's like, but he...

he isn't happy with it.

Ah, poor little Dick.

And he wants to change it.

Well, he can't.

Anyway, he's already shot it.

These aren't one of those bloody awful cassettes

you sent me.

He shot an alternative version.

It worked.

It's not a bad choice.

It's the same sort of...

He's used your cheating heart, the Hank Williams

number.

Wait there!

Don't move.

And that is what he said.

God, I was in stitches.

What?

What he said?

All bloody right, then, he said.

What do you call a fish that hasn't

got an eye?

Well, you'll be laughing.

Oh, God, Annie, wait for it.

I said...

It's a fish.

Get it?

A fish.

Now I see.

Shit!

I'm sure it wasn't her.

The Baron.

The Baron, it's Daniel.

What the hell are you doing, man?

Doing?

Doing?

I'm up to my neck in...

scripts, as usual.

What do you think I'm ducking for, then?

It'll certainly take half a decade to answer.

The point is this.

That snotty, chinless bastard, Nick Farmer, has taken

it into his puffed-up apology for a

head to tamper with karaoke, and I want

you straight away, at once, then, I want

you...

Is everything all right, madame?

Oh, yes, splendid, thank you.

Dinner with the lunatic.

It's part of the community care programme.

Well, we'll soon have that sorted out, I

hope.

Oh, Christ's sake.

Oh, you haven't finished eating, didn't you?

Oh, your glass is empty.

I am sorry.

I am...

God, haven't you had enough already?

I knew you'd say that.

I'm sorry, Anna.

Look, I'm not the sort of writer who

thinks that his words on the page are

some kind of wholly written tablets of stone.

No?

Well, then, put down your chisel.

It is weird, sort of creepy.

What do you mean?

I felt a bit unsettled eating here in

the first place.

It was your choice, fella.

I mean...

Here we are in a place where you

and I filmed on that Sunday all those

months ago.

Self-said place.

And here now, playing the first song in

the script.

And it will be, Anna.

It will be.

I don't like the song, of course, because

I hate the other one, and it doesn't

have the same rhythm.

What's the matter?

Oh, God.

It's the fan.

Danny.

The fan.

Reflected on the top.

For a moment there, I thought I was

getting a message from somewhere else, or...

Or the way it's on the surface.

Dan, why are you repeating your own lines?

Am I?

Oh, yes.

Oh, this stuff.

Good heaven.

Speaking my own lines.

Well, isn't that rather the point?

Isn't that what my script's about, karaoke?

There's a metaphor, I mean.

The music's being written and performed by someone

else, and there's this piddling little space left

for you yourself to sing, but to their

lyrics, their timing.

It's the feeling that...

Danny, are you all right?

The fee...

The feeling that...

What we hear, see, think, what we feel

is so say out there in front of

us.

The feeling that it's all somehow or other

been arranged and advanced by...

I don't know what to call it.

Paranoia.

I've always wanted to be an artsy-fartsy

arsehole.

Which is why I want to work for

the Arts Council.

Or the magazine...

What's it?

Sight and Silt.

Sight and...

I make a...

It's straight out of...

It's the second page, isn't it?

What's happening here?

Just...

Look, hang about a sec.

If you just hold your bleeding horses a

minute.

Don't...

If you just hold your bleeding horses a

minute.

What?

Look, is this some sort of set-up?

Are you lot trying to joke on me

or what?

Daniel, what on earth are you going on

about?

They're speaking my lines.

Now, look, Sondra...

No, you look.

I mean, it's not as if you've got

to keep him doing it, is it?

I don't want to do anything at all.

Frank's really bleeding much.

Christ, I mean...

It's not as though it ain't something you

ain't done often enough before, is it?

What do you mean?

What do I mean?

Christ, wake up!

You've had more bonks and more brokes than

I've had in a bloody week, Nick.

I've never, ever, ever done it for...

Not for money.

What do you think I am?

I'd want a thousand on the table before

I'd even...

You've got a bloody cheek, Peter.

Sod off.

Hey, hey!

Watch the lip.

I'm sorry, love.

I thought for a minute there...

Those two over there, you see?

They're too far away, aren't they?

Can you hear what they're saying?

No, I can't hear.

Your speech is getting slurred, you know that.

Well, then, can you hear what they're saying?

Of course I can't.

Why on earth would I want to, for

heaven's sake?

Oh, don't make a face.

Surely you've had enough.

I can't be doing that stomach of yours

much good.

Haven't they told you that, the doctors?

Why don't you look at me when I'm

talking to you?

What's going on in that pretty little head

of yours, eh?

That guy keeps staring at me.

What, you?

There's nothing.

And you should be used to all that

by now.

You're something you are, Sandra.

Real special.

Now, all the time I'm sticking out of

his head.

As long as he's not from your actual

customs and excise.

Now, that looks too intelligent.

You think I was in a bleeding Topshop

window or something?

I've had enough of this.

Aye, all right.

Drunked up in a pigsty or what?

I assume service is included.

Oh, but, Anna, it's my invite.

You're not here, Daniel.

You're off on some other planet.

The one you can only see through the

bottom of a bottle.

Come on, eh, get yourself home and sleep

it off.

You're due in the Cutting Room tomorrow, and

I'd like your head clear.

Yeah, to assess the mess.

What mess?

No, what mess?

Thank you very much.

I hope you enjoy.

Come again, please.

We all know what Nick's like, but I

think he's done a pretty good job of

your script, Daniel.

He's too arrogant.

He's a twit-twit bray.

That upper-upper-class thing.

That cousin or something of the Queen thing.

A trench full of blue shite.

Let's go, Daniel.

It's my work.

My sweat is fucking up.

I am not going to be knocked down

by his bloody Rolls-Royce.

There's a long way to go yet.

A lot of things happen in the Cutting

Room, as you well know.

You didn't bother to come on location once,

and you've only seen a few rushes on

cassette, so why don't you just wait and...

Anyway, you don't need half of this.

You're drunk, darling.

It's gibberish.

It's more tiredness than...