The Princess of France

Synopsis: A year after his father's death in Mexico, Victor returns to Buenos Aires with a twofold mission. On the one hand, he brings with him a new project for his former theater company; on the other, he abandons his part as The Princess of France and takes up a new role in front of five actresses who know him all too well, but who don't know that time to work will soon become a time to think again about lost loves.
Genre: Comedy, Drama, Romance
Director(s): Matías Piñeiro
Production: Cinema Guild
  2 wins & 2 nominations.
Rotten Tomatoes:
67 min


Thank you all listeners

for following us tonight.

The first symphony,

"Fruit of a burning time,"

that Schumann wrote,

was composed

in the winter of 1841

in just four days,

between January 23rd and 26th.

Orchestrated by the composer

in less than a month,

it was finished on February 20th

and performed

for the first time,

on March 31st of that same year

under the direction

of Felix Mendelssohn.

The orchestration

is composed of,

two flutes,

two oboes,

two clarinets,

two bassoons,

four horns,

two trumpets,

three trombones,

timpani, triangle

and harp.

We listen now to the first movement,

andante un poco maestoso,

allegro molto vivace.


10 minutes, 28 seconds.

Specially dedicated to Lorena.


I'm coming!


VICTOR, a player

PAULA, the girlfriend

NATALIA, the ex-girlfriend

ANA, the mistress

LORENA, the friend

CARLA, the unknown

GUILLERMO, the unfaithful friend

JIMENA, the cheated girlfriend




It's started already.

We're in the fourth act.

Sit down there.

Rehearsal's almost over.

- Do you know the plot?

- No.

The four made a pact not to get

carried away by their lovers,

to not love them anymore,

but now they'll start

to betray each other, one by one,

without saying a word.

- Let's go.

- Okay.

The blackness of his hair

shames black itself.

And the monstrosity of his face

shames monsters themselves.

And beautiful like the day.

- If only...

- If only...

If only...

If only...

I would have liked to have forgotten him.

But he is like a fever.

And the desire...

I want to hear him again.


I wish the other three

were in love as well.

Misery loves company.

Poor solace is just an excuse.

His love is not charitable

if he sees we share in his anguish.

What an embarrassment!

Come, Olivia, you blush,

as his your case is such.

You chide at him, offending twice as much.

Don't you love a younger fellow?

I have been closely shrouded in this bush,

and mark'd you both

and for you both did blush.

I heard your guilty rhymes,

observed your fashion,

saw sighs reek from you,

noted well your passion.

"Ay me!" says one.

"O Jove!" the other cries.

What will Antonio say when

that he shall hear faith so infringed?

Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy.

What grace hast thou,

thus to reprove these worms for loving,

that art most in love?

But are you not ashamed? Nay, are you not.

O, what a scene of foolery have I seen,

of sighs, of groans,

of sorrow and of teen!

Tell me, Gentle Bassanio.

Where lies thy grief?

Where lies thy pain, Good Olivia?

And yours, Silvius?

Are we betray'd thus to thy over-view?

We are the cheaters

while other are spying.

Not you to me, but I betray'd by you,

I am betray'd, by keeping company with men

like men of inconstancy.

When shall you see me

write a thing in rhyme?

Or groan for love?

Or spend a minute's time in pruning me?

When shall you hear

that I will praise a hand,

a foot, a face, an eye.

Let's go outside.

Soft! Whither away so fast?

A true man or a thief that gallops so?

I post from love.

- Are you okay?

- Yes, fine.

- Need anything?

- No, no.

The guy next to me wasn't feeling well

and I got worried.

- What happened to him?

- I don't know.

He had to go out.

- He's in the bathroom?

- No, still inside.

Want to go back in?

I'll wait for him here.

Guillermo. And you?


Follow me.

But he may come.

Stay here.

- Okay.

- Thank you.

Come on. Come on!

Not that. The quills.

The knife.

Here's the list. Follow the numbers.

I can't read it.

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