Viva Maria!

She was only a little girl

When her Irish father

Gave her dynamite

To blow up the British

It's Christmas all over London

The little girl didn't tremble

Her father's hiding in the dark

Criminal or lover of justice

What a dreadful life

What a destiny for a child

She should have never left Dublin

Will the fierce rock of Gibraltar

Undergo the same fate?

What does she have in her mouth?

Isn't it a cord of dynamite?

The Irish girl has grown up

She has become pretty

But why this slaughter?

The madness of Anglophobia

They reached America

to escape their oppressors

Against the British Empire

They carry on their fight

But fanatics will never

have the last word

No, fanatics will never

have the last word

Open fire.

Hello, old boy.

Did you see that young boy on the way?

Not a sight, not a sight.

Keep your eyes skinned,

he may turn up anywhere.

Watch out, he might be coming on the train.

James! James!

James, don't leave me. Listen to me, James.

If you leave me, I'II... Don't go.

I love you, I love you.

I love you. Don't leave me.

Don't leave me. James!

My world is finished.

Janine!

Go. You're much too young

for this sort of thing.

- But, Mother...

- Be quiet. Do as you're told.

Marie.

You shouldn't shut yourself up

in there all alone.

Why don't you share my caravan?

You're very kind, Rodolfo...

but I've got to face this by myself.

All right, fellows, let's get on with it.

More.

I told you to stay away from that window.

- Was she your sister?

- No.

She was my partner.

Are you French?

English.

I'm Irish.

I was born in Dublin.

In the central prison.

I had to obey and I did.

Blew it all up:

The bridge, the soldiers...

and my father.

They always wind up like that.

- I'm afraid it runs in the family.

- Runs in the family?

You see this?

My people have been fighting

the English for a very long time.

My great-grandfather died at Waterloo.

But he was on the French side.

His three sons were shot for treason

by the English...

in front of the cathedral at Cork.

My mother was French.

She died two years after I was born,

in Glasgow...

in the year they sank the Livingstone

with my Uncle Mike.

Remember?

If they'd waited 10 minutes,

they could've got the Prince of Wales, too.

The Prince of Wales.

His beard smelled of eau de cologne.

- He is a friend of yours?

- No.

In Paris, he once came backstage, walked

right up to me and he gave me a kiss.

I was already a star and only 15.

Look.

That's when I tried drama.

I did all the classics:

Romeo and Juliet, Othello, East Lynnet.

Now I just sing.

Nothing's like music hall.

It's the greatest training you can get.

- Is acting an interesting life?

- Of course, it's the best.

If you like to travel.

Music hall is beautiful.

You don't happen to dance?

Did you ever try to sing?

Of course, in the choir.

One day, I tried to use powder.

Papa grabbed the puff and slapped me

on both cheeks.

No more powder.

We use lots of makeup.

Kills stage fright.

If you paint it on thick enough,

you don't feel scared.

- Scared of what?

- All those people out there.

The men who stare.

Well, I'm not afraid of men. You'll see.

Do you know any?

I guess not.

How frightful not to be able...

to get a decent cup of tea in this country.

My dear Johnson, if the water isn't good,

what can you expect of the tea?

Lace it with a bit of brandy.

That'll cheer it up.

- Passport, please.

- Yes.

We're looking for a terrorist.

A young chap.

Haven't seen anybody, have you?

Good gracious, no, not a soul.

Don't wake her up.

What's happening?

Relax. We've left the British Empire behind.

- Who is that girl?

- Who is that Englishman?

Rodolfo, come here

and meet my new partner.

Oh, that's right.

I don't even know your name.

- Marie Fitzgerald O'Malley.

- Marie?

Mary?

I'm not Mary. Marie.

Mary and Mary.

That's splendid.

You could try a little harder.

Help me!

My God, they are so vulgar.

What's the house like tonight?

Oh, as usual.

They're not too bad. Could be worse.

Go on, once more:

And being drunk on too much champagne

Discovering this gallant heaven

- Two minutes, girls.

- Already?

- Darn!

- What is it?

I can't remember how it begins.

We sang of the sweetness of the tropics.

We sang of Venice and its gondolas.

We sang of the British grass.

But there is nothing like Paris.

We sang of the sweetness of the tropics

We sang of Venice and its gondolas

We sang of the British grass

But there's nothing like Paris

- You all right?

- Guess so.

It's such a stupid song.

Pretty white stockings and black garters

Pretty coquettes with high boots

Sweet darlings in frilly lace

This is Paris

This is Paris

- I have a problem.

- Shut up and sing.

We sang of Geneva and its mountains

We sang of Verona and its lovers

We sang of the guitars of Spain

But Paris will always win

Fleeting glimpses of women

Suzon, Fanchon, Lisette, or Nini

Elegant ladies or housemaids

- What'll I do now?

- Well, do the same thing.

In every corner of our old Paris

From the Eiffel Tower to the Opera

From the Moulin Rouge

to Boulogne and Notre Dame

There's always a heart beating

Laundress or granny

Bejeweled ladies

Seamstress and heiress, too

This is Paris

This is Paris

If you come from Norway or China

From the Transvaal or Montenegro

Whether you come from Egypt or Argentina

You'll feel at home on the Trocadero

Rate this script:3.0 / 1 vote