Original subtitles

MAHLER

How do you feel? You’re dropped off?

Fine. I slept like a log.

No, like a rock.

The 1st movement of the 3rd Symphony kept running through my head.

What the rock's tell me?

That's because er... you're conducting it, tomorrow.

I was the music.

Therefore I was the rock and the rock was me.

Close the window. It's cold.

You look feverish. Let me take your temperature.

It has nothing to do with my temperature.

It's chilly. Now close the window.

And don't fuss.

- You were part of the dream too. - Hmmm. A pebble, I suppose.

No.

You were a living creature struggling to be born.

At last, you've noticed.

You are a chrysalis.

Ready to turn into a pretty, painted butterfly.

Where are you going?

Just floating out for a fashion magazine.

Have I the honour of addressing Dr. Gustav Mahler?

Siegfried Krenek, journalist, Toblach News.

Dr. Mahler, is it true

that you cancelled your conducting commitments in New York

because the competition from Toscanini was too strong?

Or because the people didn't appreciate your own music?

Or was it simply ill health?

I was tired of skyscrapers and sarsparilla.

I want to find a place near Vienna where the sun shines,

and the grape grows and I can breathe again.

Congestion of the lungs. So, it was ill health then?

Why is everyone so literal these days?

I was speaking metaphorically.

Why were you forced to leave the Vienna Opera in the first place?

Was it anti-semitism?

Or because you worked your singers and musicians like a slave driver?

I certainly drove one musician too hard.

Dr. Mahler, which do you prefer? Conducting or composing?

I conduct to live.

I live to compose.

Now you've wasted precisely two minutes of my time,

Mr. Krenek.

Why don't you do what I do when I'm teaching

the New York Philharmonic to play in time?

Beat it!

Yes, that's very good. Thank you, Dr. Mahler.

It was certainly kind of you to talk to me. Greatly honoured I'm sure.

All Austria is proud to welcome you home again.

Don't say it, I know.

I might as well be your shadow for all the notice anyone takes of me.

I was waiting for that.

It's about time you change your tune.

I had plenty of tunes until you killed them all.

Right over the wheels...

And next to the lavatory.

You've managed to reserve the noisiest compartment on the train.

Right. Now you can exert your own personality up to the hilt.

Charm the attendant.

Seduce him into getting us another one.

It was the last one. We were very lucky

- to get it. - I've got a migraine coming on.

Privacy,

punctuality,

and silence.

And the greatest of these is silence.

But Gusto, it's as silent as the grave.

No, dearest, it's as noisy as a nursery. Listen.

But Putzi is asleep, it can't be your children.

Listen!

But dearest, they are everyday country sounds. You are teasing.

If they really troubled you, you wouldn't write pieces, called.

"What the animals in the forest tell me"

or "What the flowers in the meadow tell me".

Even your titles give you away.

All your music is a hymn to nature.

Not quite all.

You've forgotten the most important title.

What love tells me.

Now give me a hand.

Anyway, I don't want to imitate nature,

I want to capture its very essence.

So, if all the birds and the beasts died tomorrow,

and the world became a desert,

when people heard my music they would still know,

feel what nature was.

Now, if you really want to help me in my work,

run along and see if you can stop that racket.

When are you going to look at my songs, Gusto?

You promised to ever since we got married.

I know but I want to study them properly and that takes time.

When I can give up conducting altogether and compose all the time

instead of just during the holidays it'll be different.

The crows are the worst offenders.

If you can dispose of any unhatched generations while you are at it.

You'll save yourself a lot of future work.

Close the door quietly as you go.

You still haven't scared the crows away.

And there's a pile of music for you to copy out after lunch.

Ah!

You need a bath.

The attendant's seeing what he can do.

There is no other compartment free. But

he's hoping someone will exchange.

Just coming into another station. Won't be long.

Why don't you lie down?

[Laughs] Christ, [Coughs]

Why do they always honour me with the sound that irritates most?

Brass bloody band!

You shouldn't have written so many into your symphonies.

Oh, there's a reception committee, too!

And they're bound to want a speech.

You make it.

- Where are you going? - To the lavatory.

You can't! What shall I tell them?

Tell them their music gives me the shits.

Gustav!

Something to tell me, my son?

Ten.

Ten...

Ah, good, good.

Minus.

- What? - Minus.

I'll tell you what five. I'm giving you every scrap of my knowledge.

Pick up those bottles.

I can try again next year.

For nine whole months I paid to your tutor to give you extra coaching.

To guarantee you'd pass the entrance examination.

I bought you expensive books.

Schmidt's German grammar, Hindemann's syntax,

collected works of... What was his name? Goethe.

And this is how you re-pay me by not winning the scholarship.

I mean 50 whole crowns down the drain.

It wasn't enough.

- What? - It wasn't enough.

Not enough? Did my ears deceive me?

With the sacrifices your mother and

me have made for you. Such gratitude.

You know, I have a good mind to get hold of you...!

Karl Ritter's father bribed someone with 500 crowns

to change my mark from 10 to 10 minus.

They didn't want a Jew to win the second year running, anyway.

- So he goes to the Polytechnic? - Yes.

The son of a Goy Shulmanzah!

Disgrace he's brought upon me and my house.

I'll kill him with my own bare hands.

I'll kill him.

Eat your soup before it gets cold and dies,

Gustav. It's in a very weak condition.

So, what use is a diploma from the Iglau Polytechnic

when the concert platforms of the world

are crying out for great pianists?

Who do you have? You have Ignaz Moscheles,

you have Franz Liszt, you have Rubenstein.

If you've lessons from my old friend, Maestro Sladky

a scholarship to the Prague Conservatoire,

and the whole world at your feet.

"The whole world at your feet."

- You'd like that, wouldn't you, Gustal precious? - Yes, Aunt Rose.

Alfred Grunfeld himself was a infant prodigy at the Sladky Academy.

Sounds like a factory of prodigies.

A factory of Jewish dwarves with lace

colours and shiny patent leather shoes.

- What's the good of having a piano if no one

uses it? - I do use it, I make up tunes.

Bernhard,

Gustav is going to be a child prodigy.

Isn't it wonderful?

Grandad's arranging some lessons for him with Sladky.

Not for three crowns a lesson, he's not.

One crown.

Crowns, crowns, crowns...

Crowns for books, crowns for food, crowns for relatives.

And now crowns for music.

Slad...

Sladky has always charged three crowns a lesson.

For me an old friend, he will charge one.

He owes me a favour.

Look, grandad says, young Grunfeld has just

bought his parents two houses in France.

And Sigismond Thalberg has been presented to the King of England.

Bernhard, our own boy playing at Buckingham Palace.

- Imagine! - And only one crown.

One crown...

Get the schnapps, Berta.

We drink to my son's future fame and fortune.

And what do you call that, may I ask?

It's called the 'Kitten Serenade'.

More like the tune the cat died of.

Eine kleine Katmusik.

- Where did that come from? - Out of my own head.

And that's where it should have stayed.

Even a monkey is more clever. He can pick out a tune with one finger

pick out his nose with another and eat a banana all at the same time.

But to play the piano calls for genius.

And genius calls for scales, scales, scales.

Even more scales.

Scale of C major. Begin!

Elbows in, wrists down, elbows, wrists...

elbows, wrists, elbows, wrists,

elbows, wrists, elbows, wrists.

Eight. Eight crowns.

Cash. Payment for another month's tuition.

Father...

Don't worry about the money. It's a good investment.

Could the money go towards lessons in composition instead?

Who ever heard of a composer making money?

Mozart, they buried in a pauper's grave.

Father, I don't think I'll be ever good enough for a concert pianist.

Practice, my boy. Practice.

Become a king of the keyboard. Now go on, run along.

Make your mother and me proud of you.

Goodbye, Father! Thank you.

Elbows, wrists, elbows, wrists,

elbows, wrists, elbows, wrists...

The first one, out to the boat and back, gets a prize.

Bravo!

Right.

Look, that's that horrible, little swat Mahler.

How's your old man's black eye?

Dirty little Jew boy, about time he had a bath.

Leave him alone. Shut up!

If you think you'll get a prize, you are unlucky.

Too late, Jews always want something for nothing.

Go back to your books and your piano, pansy. Silly little Yid.

- Pansy, pansy. - Pansy, pansy.

People call me Old Nick. What's your name?

Mahler, Gustav.

Gusto.

How long have you been swimming, Gusto?

Two years but I can't. The water won't keep me up.

Oh, it won't keep on a bar of iron either.

Iron ships float on it Basking porpoises...

Why shouldn't it keep you up?

Relax, wallow in it.

Forget about swimming. That'll come by itself.

- Where are we going? - We are going to float.

I don't want to. Take me back.

Now then look at the clouds, look how easily they float.

- There, isn't it easy? - It's easy when you're holding me.

Oh, not holding you. Look the head!

I don't think you're sinking.

Think, think of floating. There...

Isn't it easy?

- Looking for this? - My Music.

Good title, "What nature tells me".

Unusual, even if it is a bit of ambitious.

Did you like it?

Oh, you've got a glimmering of a divine spark, I suppose.

We all have, somewhere deep down inside of us

glowing the way in the dark.

But we all need something special to ignite it

make it burst in the flame.

That's this something special is what you lack.

What is it you're lacking? Years? They're nothing.

Rossini was writing symphonies at 7.

Technique? Ah, you can pick that up from a textbook as easy as ABC.

No, no, no.

A real feeling for nature, that's what you lack.

"What nature tells me" What berries are those?

I don't know.

- What tree's that? - I don't know.

- Quick. What bird is that? - It went too fast.

Listen.

- What kind of bird's that singing? - A swallow?

This time of year? They come and go.

Do you know where they go to?

When does the moon rise?

What brings the north wind?

- Where is The Great Bear? - I don't know.

And you've got the cheek to write music.

A man who doesn't live in nature like an animal or a rock,

will never in his whole life write two notes worth a light.

Good god, what have your parents been thinking all these years?

I think I can recognize a lilac, at least when they are in bloom.

Do you come here every day?

Every day...

I am somewhere else.

Now there is a pianist, Franz Liszt.

Even if the boy is only half as good piano player as Franz Liszt,

we are doing all right.

This morning, on my way to Littmans,

who should I bump into, but old Man Mendelssohn.

Felix's nephew.

Do you know how much that boy used to get for just one performance?

- No. - 800 crowns.

800 crowns a performance.

Just work out what that comes to at 15 concerts a month.

Of course, he might do more. And no outlay, no expenditure.

Just a few sheets of music and a tuning-fork.

All other expenses paid for by the concert promoters. It's a gift.

And some of those concertos don't last half an hour.

Well, count what that comes to a minute.

- My God! That's 30 to 800... - The boy will need a manager.

To protect him from those unscrupulous concert promoters.

And where will you find such a thing as

a honest manager outside the family?

No, a relative. Someone who has the boy's personal interests at heart.

What was the number I first said?

Perhaps Gustavo plays something for us after dinner.

Look, I am a millionaire I suppose. I own property,

I go hunting, peasants pay me rent.

Enough, I'll send my son to college.

No need to worry about us.

I am a millionaire!

The peasants pay me rent!

I will kill him.

I'll kill him!

I still have the money.

I didn't want to steal it.

Bernhard,

I'm sick of your pauper's mind,

your dreams of fame and riches.

The only thing we are rich in is dreams.

All we lack in this house is blood.

I have no wish to see blood in this house.

Good day, Gustav.

Alma!

Alma!

Take it! Read it!

Go on! Read what it says.

"Dearest Alma, I love you, Max."

How's the music business? Still reorchestrating Beethoven?

I hope someone does the same for me if ever I go deaf.

From what I hear that's the least of your troubles.

It's funny I can never remember how many symphonies he wrote.

Beethoven. Nine, wasn't it?

Don't they say, 'No great writer of symphonies ever gets past nine'?

How's your No. 10 coming on?

If you are trying to scare me to death you'll have to try harder.

I'm not superstitious.

I thought all Jews were superstitious.

Oh, I beg your pardon. I forgot you are not a Jew now, are you?

Not now, you're successful.

I can't remember, what religion are you?

I'm...

a composer.

If you are waiting to talk to my wife, wait outside.

No, Gustav, it's you I want to talk to.

You know how I feel about her.

I need her, I love her, I can't live without her.

How original! I must set you to music.

I had no idea you are a poet as well.

Now you are being facetious.

I'm paying of the compliment of being perfectly frank with you.

You know it's been over between you two for ages.

You'd be better off with a paid nurse. And

she'd be better off with me. You know it.

People think you are a great man, that your music speaks of humanity,

warmth and understanding. Well, prove it. Let her go.

I'm sick of being told the way that my music speaks to people.

My music begins where words leave off.

And I don't need to write a symphony to say, 'Get out!'.

I should be getting off at St. Polten.

I hope you'll come with me.

A lady in the middle of the carriage has

agreed to change compartments with us.

I've explained who you are and that you are sick.

I'm not moving.

What do you mean, you are not moving?

I've gone to a lot of trouble.

Put them back porter there's being a misunderstanding.

Certainly, Dr. Mahler. No trouble at all.

Thank you.

I understand you're searching for tranquility, Dr. Mahler.

Good heavens!

Yes.

I fully appreciate the sensitivity of a mind so rare as yours,

so delicately tuned into the vibrations of the infinite.

Not to mention the harmony of the universe.

I'm afraid my husband has changed his mind.

- He wants to... - Alma, please!

Please.

It's a great privilege to meet someone

who knows what it's all about.

The music of the Spheres, you mean?

No, I mean death.

- I'm afraid you've got the wrong man,

madam. - No, I read it in the newspaper.

Your latest symphony, the 9th, it'ss all about death.

Death the Pitiless Enemy, Death the Joker.

Even Death the Lover.

Who is that man flying through the air?

Who is that man flying through the air?

Some people say he's God.

Lunch.

- What's God? - He made everything.

He looks just like a man. Is everyone God?

Everyone is part of God.

- That tree? - Yes.

- And the water? - Yes.

Is everyone God then, even Lulu?

Even Lulu.

- Then how can God be all different? - Look.

Look at your fingernails, feel your hair.

- Different, aren't they? - Yes.

They're all you..

Oscar. Just a few minutes.

Come along.

And when we die, does a bit of God die too?

No, there's part of us that never dies.

- A part that nobody could see. - How do you know it's there then?

- Can you see anything in there? - No.

- And you? - No.

Come here.

- Now, can you see something? - Yes.

Can I look too?

Just because you can't see something doesn't mean to say it isn't there.

Like a rainbow?

Something about all of us.

Something that nobody can see.

- Not even in that? - No.

What is it then?

Some people call it the spirit.

Some call it, the soul.

- And that part never dies. - Never?

Never.

What happens to it?

It becomes part of God's spirit.

Good night.

What are angels then?

Angels are what old-fashioned people

thought good spirits should look like.

- Do they? - Certainly not.

- And who are these? - Dirty angels.

They are bad spirits.

They're suppose to live in a fiery place, called Hell.

And if God's cross will he send us there?

Don't worry. It's only a fairy story.

If we are good, will he give us sweets when we're dead?

Look...

Whether your spirit's been good or bad, it makes no difference.

There are no presents or punishments.

Heaven and Hell were made up by man, not God.

- So there's nothing then? - Oh, yes.

There is something all right.

Something He shares with us all.

What?

Love.

So we should all have to die.

All are going to see God.

I'm going to die, die, die, die...

Yes, even Death the Joker, Death the Lover.

I read about it in the New York Times.

Don't believe all you read in the papers, madam.

They exaggerate.

For death, you should read 'Farewell'.

The symphony is a farewell to love.

I thank you for your kind consideration.

Death. Death. Death.. It's all they ever talk about these days.

What are you doing?

Seeing if there're any more about... of your lovers.

Oh, you're a fine one to talk! You and your busty opera stars.

Stop that! I'll call the attendant.

I'm not dead yet.

You'd like to see the back of me. All of you.

Max, Kokoshka and all the other army of admirers at your feet.

You always wanted fame.

Well it looks as if you'll have to settle for notoriety.

Well don't let me stop you.

Get off at St. Polten with Max! See if I care.

- Beethoven. - Gusto!

10th.

I dreamed... I imagined...

Don't speak.

They've telegraphed and a doctor is

going to meet us at the next station.

It was my funeral.

I was alive and you were there with Max.

I wanted to live so very much but you didn't take any notice.

- It was terrible. - Don't worry, it's all right.

I understand.

How sweet I roam'd from field to field,

And tasted all the summer's pride,

'Till I the prince of love beheld,

Who in the sunny beams did glide!

He shew'd me lilies for my hair,

And blushing roses for my brow;

He led me through his gardens fair,

Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May dews my wings were wet,

And Phoebus fir'd my vocal rage;

He caught me in his silken net, < / i>

And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,

Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;

Then stretches out my golden wing,

And mocks my loss of liberty.

It wasn't the song I was applauding but you...

You sang it beautifuly.

- Thank you. - Charming, my dear.

Even if it was a little derivative of Zemlinsky.

- My teacher... - ...is always derivative of Arensky.

Who is very derivative of Rachmaninoff.

Who is very derivative of Paderewski.

Who is very derivative of Tchaikovsky.

For music lovers everywhere.

The least said about him, the better.

Oh, stop it, Gustav.

Your song was charming, Alma.

Even if it was a little naive, a little childlike.

Critics are always accusing me of being naive.

Don't associate naivete with children though.

They don't even know what it means.

Heaven lies all around us don't you see?

To enter that world, we must see with the eyes of children

and hear with ears of children.

Which you captured perfectly in your 4th Symphony, Gusto.

'A child's view of Heaven', divine.

Now, that Alma hasn't any more songs for me to sing

don't you think we should get on with Tristan, Gusto?

Yes, down to business.

Amateur music's all very well but it doesn't pay the rent.

You liked it then?

Yes, I was surprised.

You are very talented, but if you'll take my advice

leave music-making to us, professionals.

As a buddy composer you're better off where you are.

A housewife.

- I didn't... - I know which I'd rather be.

I didn't mean that.

I just don't want to see you get hurt.

I've seen it too often.

The Emperor will see you now. You address him as Your Majesty.

His Excellency, Franz Joseph, Emperor of Austria.

Justine and Gustav Mahler.

We are greatly honoured that Your Majesty

has deigned to grant us an audience.

Don't debatse yourself my good fellow I can't bear sycophants.

Dispense with the pleasantries and let's get down to cases.

You've applied for

the directorship of the Imperial Court of Theatre of Vienna. Hmm?

Of course, you realize that is the greatest, musical accolade.

To which any musicans can aspire.

You are aware of the fact that a very

distinguished collague of yours,

Er... Hugo Wolf! has also applied for the post.

Yes, Your Majesty. I was aware of the fact.

- Parents? - Diseaced, Your Majesty.

What are your qualifications?

In 1875, I enrolled at the Conservatoire of Vienna.

A year later, at the age of 16, I won a piano competition.

Two years after that, I won the composers'

competition with a piano quintet.

Your achievements in that field do not concern us.

We're in need of a director of opera.

Not a composer manqué who would utilise the position

to ensure performances of his own second-rate symphonies.

As I understand, you did in Prague.

You have a brother who also fancies himself as a composer, correct?

That is true, Your Majesty. His name is Otto.

Some say he writes better music than you, is that true?

He is a very gifted young man, Your Majesty.

He applied for an audience once. I was too busy to see him. Pity.

I must get him to write a march for me.

Everyone else has.

Go on with your qualifications.

Artistic director and conductor of the Royal Hungarian Opera,

Artistic director and conductor of the Hamburg Opera.

That's all very well but what about your social qualifications?

- Can you waltz? - Yes, Your Majesty.

And your charming wife?

Yes, Your Majesty.

Well, then waltz!

What others?

Dances, Your Majesty?

No, you fool. Musical qualifications.

Well now let me see.

Last year I was selected from many applicants

to conduct a season of German music at the Royal Opera House, in London.

Where I performed with some success the works of Richard Wagner.

Wagner?

There's the rub.

Drop your trousers.

I beg your pardon, Majesty.

Drop your trousers.

I'm sure your wife won't object I assume she's seen it before.

As I thought, a Jew.

That is the rub.

We have some brilliant surgeons here.

They could probably graft on a new foreskin but...

but even so, I doubt that would deceive Cosima Wagner.

She can smell a Jew a mile off.

And she's an even greater anti-semite

than her late, lamented husband.

Unless we can win her over my hands are... well, they're tied.

I may rule the country but she rules the World! Of Music...

That's a pity, you dance divinely.

I'm afraid we must now terminate the audience.

It's time for me to take my therapeutic waters.

Hugo! Hugo !

I suggest you take your sister away, Dr. Mahler,

Herr Wolfe is likely to become violent and abusive.

Come, along... we'll take you back to your room.

Poor Hugo, did he mention me?

Only to say that he still thinks you're

a better composer than your brother.

Wants you to write a march for him.

Otto Mahler's simple tunes for simple minds.

And why doesn't he want to see me then?

Why does he still think he is the Emperor of Austria

instead of a musician? I don't know.

But you still thought it right to humour him.

Somehow he's found out that I've

applied for the post he failed to get.

You should have heard the questions he asked me.

Oh he really put me through it.

Perhaps it was revenge on you for stealing his job.

I haven't landed the wretched thing yet!

Help take sister home would you? I want a word with Dr. Richter.

I was going to a Tchaikovsky concert.

Otto's going to take you home.

Later on we'll go out for a meal. My treat.

You treated us last night, you can't keep on...

- Tonight we'll eat at home. - I'll help you with the shopping.

Oh, stop coddling me! Both of you!

- She should get married. - One less mouth for you to feed.

Along here.

In many ways, you and Hugo suffer from the same misfortune.

Both victims of a common recurring pattern.

Brilliant composers, ahead of your time forced to earn a living

conducting the music of other great men

who were also neglected in their day.

For some, the strain is too great.

Tchaikovsky, Schumann, for instance

and they crack up, like our poor friend Hugo.

- Does he still write? - Every Day.

Reams of music, all rubbish.

His early songs were among the most perfect ever written.

I understand you studied together at the Conservatoire.

Yes.

He was more brilliant than his teachers even then.

If I were to get that position at the Opera, the one he was after...

do you think it would upset him?

Would that stop you accepting it?

As students we shared digs.

We all loved them.

- Me, my sister, the whole family. - We all have our responsibilities.

Yours is to your family, mine is to Hugo.

Gustav.

Hugo.

You are just in time one of my latest songs.

The critics say that's all they're fit for!

It's all right, Hugo. Our time will come.

I don't want to see you get hurt.

Leave composing to those too stupid to do anything else.

I'll put the children to bed.

Alma!

Your music.

Right Anna, try the Liebstodt you were singing yesterday

I'll try if I have any voice left.

We are being consumed by flames.

You and Max were mocking me.

It's terrible to destroy something that is alive.

And nobody notices.

It's terrible. It changes you.

- I understand. - Do you?

I wonder. Perhaps you do.

Before we get to Vienna, you must choose between Max and me.

Gusto, please!

Your choice must be made out of love, not duty.

Duty destroys,

duty always destroys.

Stop cabbaging Kasha, I hope you're all

hungry. About five minutes, right?

Lovely, I'm ravenous.

- What is that, Otto? - Something new.

It's not finished yet. It's called "Sunset".

Sounds interesting.

Interesting is easy, beautiful is difficult.

You'll write beautiful music in time.

And she'll type beautiful letters. Business Collage.

It is a waste of money.

At least I'll be able to earn some money when I get my diploma.

When you finally do finish studying at your precious Conservatoire,

what guarantee have you got that anyone's

going to pay to hear your music?

Look at Gustav.

If he can't do it, what chance have you got?

Why should he be the only 'bread winner'?

Bread, bread, bread, morning, noon and night.

Hey Otto! No wonder Jews have got a bad name.

- How's school? - Rotten.

When are we going to America?

The minute our dear brother gives us the fare.

You are incorrigible.

I'm only asking for a loan.

America is the land of golden opportunity.

And once my name is in lights I shall pay back every penny.

Liar!

And drag down the family name into the bargain.

We may never be rich but at least Gustav and

I are members of an honourable profession.

Then I'd rather be a member of the oldest profession. Thank you.

I simply can't stand this any longer.

Shut up the lot of you!

It'll be alright.

I'll get the job at the Court Opera and our troubles are over.

Wolf Hugo thought that and look where he landed up.

Hugo told me.

He gave me the answer.

Perhaps my religion is against me.

Apart from that I'm more qualified than anyone else in the country.

The only thing between me and that job is Cosima Wagner.

So what are you going to do? Marry her?

Nothing so drastic.

I'll just become a catholic.

Ah!

THE CONVERT starring Cosima Wagner with Gustav Mahler.

VALHALLA Shrine of the Goddess of music, Cosima Wagner.

BAPTISM OF FIRE

Intercession of the SACRED HEART.

DESTROY THE DRAGON OF THE OLD GODS

STILL KOSHER...?

...and then came the TALKIES!

No longer a Jew boy.

Winning strength through joy, you are one of us now,

Now you are a Goy.

All doors are thrown open.

When on you I smile.

Dictator of Opera. Mahler, Sieg Heil.

You've made me a star.

AYou'll go very far.

My passport to Heaven That's what you are!

- No longer a dog. - You've got me the job.

Now you're in the market.

- Thanks be to God. - Thanks to be God.

- Thanks be to God. - Thanks be to God.

- Got it! - What, Gustav?

One passport to Heaven.

The keys to the Kingdom of the Vienna State Opera.

What was it like?

It's no worse than having a tooth filled.

The incense acts as an anesthetic.

Gustav! What would mother have thought?

At last the boy's inside the Buckingham Palace already.

No, I mean, changing your religion just for the sake of the family.

Oh devil, take the family. I did it for me.

Well, I hope you don't live to regret it.

What do you expect me to struck dead by the wrath of God or something?

Don't worry about him. He's dead.

Man is his own God.

Well, that's that. Been baptized in the Church of Christ

now it's time to me to be received into the House of Mammon.

You can baptize me with champagne at the Cafe Royal.

But I'm not dressed properly. And what about the others?

Let's take a bottle home. They'll be so happy, especially Otto.

Amen to that!

We'll get a Magnum. Two Magnums!

Oh, Magnum Mysterium!

Are you sure it's gonna be enough?

"One less mouth for you to feed."

"Your second-rate brother, Otto".

No. Never do anything out of duty.

It's a treadmill. I sacrificed my work to it for years.

It always ends in disaster.

Do things out love, not duty.

If you love Max more than me, you must go with him.

Thank you.

Look!

It's Putzi.

Close the blinds!

A corpse doesn't like being stared at.

But the children. They want to give you their bouquets.

Wreaths!

Not bouquets, wreaths.

Close the blinds.

Oh doctor, thank you for coming. It's my husband.

I was putting a case on the rack, doctor.

When did you suffer your first attack?

Gustav! Gustav! What are you thinking of?

I'm trying to think about the development section

of the 1st movement of the 6th Symphony.

- But why? - Is the house on fire?

What do you mean?

Because it must be bloody important for

you to interrupt me while I'm working.

What is the meaning of this?

Songs on the death of children.

Why not, songs on the joy of children?

Songs on the life of children?

There are many forms of death. Those songs are...

they are on the death of innocence.

I don't choose what I compose it chooses me.

Now, you take care of the children and I take care of the music.

Your inhuman, you'd rather sacrifice the lots of us

than lose one note of your wretched music.

It's still there.

In stormy weather, in winds that howl.

I shelter the children in safety at home,

But a cry within the tempest has called them outside.

I was not able to warn them.

In stormy weather, in winds that howl.

I shelter the children in safety at home.

I acknowledge the danger before them.

My mind is in torment for them.

In stormy weather, in winds that howl.

I shelter the children in safety at home.

I fear they may die in the dawn.

There is no way I can save them.

In stormy weather, in winds that howl.

I shelter the children in safety at home.

But now in the storm I have lost them.

I was not able to warn them.

In stormy weather

when tempests rage.

And winds do howl.

Rest,

Rest,

As calm as in mother's...

In mother's arms.

But ow no evil can take them,

For God will not forsake them.

They rest,

They rest,

as in their mother's arms...

as in their mother's arms.

Mommy!

When your sweet mother

comes through the door

and I turn my head to look at her,

Not on her face my first glance falls

but on the place closer to her side

where your dear face would be.

Smiling your good night to me

as yo used to do,

little one.

When your sweet mother comes through that door

in the candle's glow,

I remember how you always came to me

running before her to say good night.

Now, in the growing darkness

we are left alone.

OH! Light of joy.

Forever gone

I had my first heart attack shortly

after the death of one of my children.

Yes, I read about that.

Not the heart, but the coincidence I mean.

The child's death and those morbid songs of yours.

I was terrified all the time I was writing them something might happen.

But I had to go on whatever the consequences.

The more I see of life and death,

the more I think it is all nothing but a huge terrible joke.

Why do we live? Why do we suffer? And do we have to die to find out?

Once upon a time I thought I knew. Now...

If I could tell you the answers in words doctor

there would be no need for me to write music.

Well, that's a pity. But if you have found the meaning of it all

I should never know I'm tone deaf. Say "Ah".

Ah.

Slight infection, I thought you sounded a bit hoarse.

Still there's nothing to worry about there, nor your heart either.

But don't overtax yourself.

Avoid violent exercise, no running, no swimming.

You take care of yourself and you'll live for years.

What about conducting?

I've got a concert tomorrow night. It's up to you. See, how you feel.

When did you last have a thorough medical examination?

Yesterday, Paris Clinic. Just before we got on the train.

They noticed that throat infection, too.

This will take care of that.

Doubtless they'll send your own doctor a report.

Which will confirm my findings about your heart.

Watch the throat. Gargle night and morning.

You take a large dose of Mendelssohn for your malady, doctor.

What? Oh, to cure my tone deafness, you mean?

I think I'd rather die than listen that stuff.

You maybe right. They do say the devil has all the best tunes.

We'll sing them together.

Mahler, Mahler, Mahler, Mahler.

Speak! Let him speak!

That was good news.

For me or Max? What did you tell him!

I meant the doctor, your heart.

Just rest and you'll be all right.

You'll be coming into Sant Polten soon.

You can leave me with a clear conscience.

Yes, I can.

As long as I thought you loved me I didn't mind being your housekeeper,

your music copyist or your whore.

One day I thought you'd stop loving your music

and start loving me.

Did you never realize?

My music is my love for you.

It is you.

I thought it was all about the birds and the bees.

Do you remember the summer of 1904?

It was hot.

- Is that all? - Oh, and you were foul.

- There was a reason. - Yes, that wrteched 6th Symphony.

I was bitter it's true. I was foul.

I was filled with despair of the waste.

Hugo, Otto, I wanted to end it all.

Who was it? Brought me back to life?

What is the one bright, positive spark in the whole symphony?

Don't you remember the 2nd subject of the 1st movement?

I copied it out, remember?

Didn't you recognize yourself?

That's you, my love.

As long as my music lasts

our love will last.

Hello Sister! It's Dr. Roth again. I'm phoning from the station.

I just heard in the rush straight down here.

It's positive. They confirmed their diagnosis

from the smear of the throat infection.

It's flared up again. Yes, the old carditis I'm afraid.

No chance. A week or two at the most.

Is everything ready?

Good. We should be at the hospital in about 15 minutes.

That is if I don't miss him. Yes, a great tragedy. Bye.

- Here is Dr. Roth. - Oh, how nice of him to meet us.

You can go to home doctor We're going to live forever.

Subtitles: mitbrille Karagarga@2014