Florence Foster Jenkins

Swounds I should take it,

for it cannot be but I am pigeon-livered

and lack gall to make oppression bitter,

or ere this I should have fatted all the

Bloody, bawdy villain!

Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain!

O vengeance!

Thank you. Thank you very much. Thank you. Thank you, thank you.

That was, of course, a speech of Hamlet's

from a play I was lucky enough to perform in on several occasions,

though not, as yet, in the principal role.

Our next tableau...

...features someone who has devoted herself

to the musical life of this city.

Amongst others, she is patron of the Euterpe Club,

of the Brooklyn Orchestra for Distressed Gentlewomen,

as well as, of course, our very own Verdi Club.

Let us journey back in time to 1850

and the state of Alabama.

America's greatest popular songwriter, Stephen Foster,

has run out of ideas.

He's a desperate man.

But wait. What is this?

Now. That's it.

More.

It is the Angel of Inspiration sent from on high.

At last Stephen Foster can write his song.

Bravo! Bravo!

The Angel of Inspiration, featuring Madam Florence Foster Jenkins!

It's going very, very, very well.

I don't feel that I imbued the moment of inspiration

with the intensity it deserved,

but it was a serviceable attempt.

Better than serviceable. It was good.

- My amulets, please. - Armlets.

Has the impending potato-salad catastrophe been averted?

Even as I speak, the chef has a team out scouring Manhattan for chives.

No chives. What next, I wonder!

Unconscionable, but they tell me there is a war on, Bunny.

Valkyries on stage, please. The overture has begun.

What about the sandwiches?

Ham and tomato, plain cucumber and chicken with a hint of Dijon mustard.

- Actually delicious. - Excellent. How do I look?

Wunderbar!

Now, schnell, schnell. Go on, quickly. You're a very naughty Valkyrie.

We now come to the finale of our evening.

I should warn you that the vision you're about to witness

will be both shocking and terrifying.

A battle is raging. Volleys of arrows pierce the air.

Shields clash and swords do their terrible work.

But swooping down from the clouds

comes the most terrible spectre of all.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Verdi Club presents

the Ride of the Valkyries!

Ch! Ch, my God!

Bravo!

It is my pleasure to present you with this small token of our esteem.

Oh! Thank you. Shall I open it?

Yes!

Well, this is beautiful. Thank you. Thank you all so very much.

You know, years ago when I founded the Verdi Club,

I never could have imagined that I would be here tonight,

25 years on,

with my beloved husband by my side.

Music...

Music has been, and is, my life.

Music matters. Thank you.

Bravo!

And at this dark moment in our history,

with our brave boys fighting for civilization itself,

it matters more than ever.

So I implore you to continue to support the musical life of this city.

- Good evening, Madam Florence. - Hello, Kitty.

- How did it go? - Very, very well, thank you.

And now, my bunny, you must sleep.

I don't want this day to end.

I know, I know.

Shut your eyes.

Only if you recite for me.

Very well.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments.

Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no.

Thank you, Kitty.

- Goodnight, Mr Bayfield. - Goodnight.

A taxi if I may. Thank you.

- Thank you very much. - Goodnight, sir.

Welcome home, darling.

- I'm a tad drunk. - Oh. Lucky you.

- How was Florence? - Magnificent.

And you?

I would say I gave an adequate performance.

I wish I could have come.

- How was Augustus's play? - Oh, terrible.

Finish it. I'm teaching first thing.

The oculist with bad breath and two left hands, both of which tend to wander.

- I love you, St Clair. - Hmm. With knobs on.

Good morning, Miss Rabbit.

Have you seen the reviews, Whitey?

Carlton Smith in the Musical Courier says it was the event of the season.

Well, it jolly well was. Now...

No. Put it on the table. I'm getting up.

Bunny, that's not a good idea. Last night...

On the table. Please.

We have to plan the Verdi lunch.

Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no.

You can't put Mrs James O'Flaherty next to the baroness.

She slurps her soup.

Then let's serve smoked trout,

because I doubt that even Mrs O'Flaherty could slurp a trout.

The Verdi luncheon always begins with a soup. You know that.

How could we not begin with a soup? There would be a riot.

In that case, let us put her over here on the card table

between Mr and Mrs Levi.

- Perfect. - No.

Mrs O'Flaherty isn't keen on the... Jews.

We'll put her between Prince Galitzer and Mrs Oscar Garmunder.

- No. - Yes. They're both deaf as posts.

" No! ' Yes!

Maestro Toscanini is here.

Oh.

Charlie, cup of coffee?

Do show him in, Kitty, please.

- Please come in. - Thank you so much.

Arturo. What a wonderful surprise.

You don't mind me visiting unannounced?

Oh, no. La mia casa é la tua casa.

Ah.

- I have a little gift. - Oh.

My recording of the Bell Song with Lily Pons.

Oh, Arturo, how very thoughtful of you. Thank you.

You know, we are so looking forward to that concert.

- Are the preparations going well? - Very well.

Though there are some financial matters that remain... problematico.

Hmm.

Madam Florence, without your help, there will be no concert.

How much did he want?

A thousand. But he gave me a record.

Bravo! Bravo!

I haven't heard a voice that good since Caruso.

- Extraordinary little thing, isn't she? - Hmm.

Can you imagine what that must feel like?

To hold nearly 3,000 people in the cup of your hand.

- Hmm. - To share such profound communion.

Hmm.

Did you see Carlo Edwards from the Met?

- No. - Well, he was seated to our right.

I gather he's coaching again.

Oh, is he now, Bunny?

I would like to take some more lessons with him.

Then I shall phone him first thing in the morning.

- I shall need a pianist. - Yes.

Someone young. Someone... with passion.

- Oh, my hat. - Not passionate enough?

He's raping my ears. Make him stop, make him stop.

Thank you! Thank you very much, Mr Zeigler.

Thank you, Mr Zeigler! Thank you!

Very good. We'll... We'll be in touch.

Thank you again.

Gentlemen, the chairs are not for practical use. You have been told.

- Cosmé McMoon? - That's me, sir.

Come.

Sorry.

- What should I play? - Well, I really don't mind.

As long as it's not too loud.

- What loveliness. - Hmm.

What is he playing?

Some Saint-Saéns bullshit.

Yeah.

You know...

You know, when I was... when I was 16 years old,

my father told me that if I didn't give up music and marry a dull banker,

he'd cut me off.

That's true.

Sorry. It's OK, continue, Mr McMoon.

Course, he didn't understand musicians.

We'd rather go without bread than Mozart, wouldn't we?

It's not even a choice for us.

Course, he did cut me off,

but I got myself a little apartment in Philly

and I made a living teaching piano to children.

And we'd play The Swan and...

That was my favourite.

Wow. Great story.

Yeah, it is, isn't it?

Course, he came round eventually and then I was back in the will.

Yes.

Well, I must say, I think you're absolutely ideal.

Did I mention that I also compose?

- And he also composes. - Yes, I'm sure he does.

Well, you know, there are some other candidates to hear, Bunny.

- Hmm? - Some more.

- Do you know any of them? - I do.

They're all rather... heavy-handed, I'm afraid.

The son of a bitch.

Madam Florence regrets she is unable to hear any more candidates today.

- It's unbelievable. - I trained at Juilliard...

I am so very sorry.

- Why? - You're not her type.