Original subtitles

The following programme contains distressing scenes.

Mozart, your father has died.

I thought it might help to have the news delivered

by a friendly face.

Is that what you are?

There, in that demonic figure on stage, was his own father,

and in that poor, wretched philanderer, Mozart himself.

And I knew where, in time, I would place the final blade.

How long do I have?

I wouldn't linger.

The mood is changing. You're a man out of time.

I'm enjoying it. I found it rather, um... tuneful.

I'd say the whole thing is rather thin so far.

You're getting distracted. You have to focus on the music.

You made me realise everything I know about you

I've had to learn through your characters.

And I wondered if you...

If you could ever open up to me.

You can't stay with me. It isn't good here.

There is always a reckoning.

You told me to do this. This can't happen again.

This was your idea, Mozart.

He was weak, broken, and alone.

So, into the darkness we go.

♪ REQUIEM ♪

Frau Mozart.

Yes?

Oh, thank goodness. My name is Alexander Pushkin.

I've been searching for you.

I, um... I've asked around everywhere.

Cafes, bars, concert halls. And then, finally,

I tried the post office.

I don't know why I didn't start there, but, uh, here we are.

What is it that you want, Mr Pushkin?

What is it that I want? Yes.

Well...

Uh, I'm a writer. You might have heard of me.

Uh, or you might not.

Anyway, I'm writing a play. Or rather, I'm hoping to write a play.

Are you going round to everyone's houses to tell them individually?

No, no, I came to find you

because I'm hoping to write about your husband.

Oh. Which one?

I think you know which one.

And what are you hoping to write about him?

Well, I...

I want to write about his death.

He died of a fever.

People think his music should have been some kind of a shield,

but he was flesh and blood, just like the rest of us.

He got ill.

Mm.

I heard something different.

And what did you hear?

I heard it was murder.

-You heard that? -Yes.

From who?

The old Hofkappellmeister, Salieri.

He ended up in an asylum. He lost his mind. Did you know that?

I did.

And presumably you heard he died last year?

Yes.

And they say he was ranting and raving.

Screaming like a baby towards the end.

And they say in the weeks before he died it was mostly incomprehensible,

Mostly nonsense. Mmmm.

Except for one thing.

One thing he kept saying.

He told them

that it was he who killed your husband.

Apparently, they say, he confessed.

And apparently, he confessed to you.

What do you think of that?

Because I can tell you what I think.

I think that would make a pretty good story.

♪ Ahhhhhhhhh ahhhh

♪ Ahhhhhhhh ♪

"I state, merely as fact, that I, on 5 December"

"in the year 1791,"

"Killed Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart."

Well, uh...

What am I to glean from all of this, Antonio?

You still don't believe it.

Well, it's lacking something. What?

Specificity. Oh.

How did you do it?

Poison? Strangulation?

You desire details.

Well, you have given me details

of every other damn aspect of your life so far.

I apologise.

I thought I'd been providing context.

Well, then, let's get to it.

Your confession.

You want me to let the world know that you killed my husband?

I need to know how.

And I need to be convinced.

♪ REQUIEM ♪

Where is it that you go?

I used to be more certain of your indiscretions.

Is it his carnal desires that he feeds tonight?

You were inflicting wounds on me, but they were survivable.

But this spectre walking through my house,

what am I to make of this?

I have known, Antonio.

I have known everything.

And every time I have looked at you, I have seen a fallible, ruined man,

and that has brought me sadness.

Now I see no man at all.

The sins of the flesh are at least human.

But what sins are you looking for when you creep out of here?

I'll lock our bedroom door tonight

and hope you don't think to look for me when you return.

A fever was cutting through Vienna,

killing those who didn't have the strength to fight it.

And so, night by night,

I returned and weakened him further.

His spirit..

his body...

and his mind...

♪ KYRIE ♪

I'd been playing this little game

inspired by Don Giovanni.

I stood outside his window every night for a week.

The masked man, come to drag him to hell.

It's remarkable, really,

how fragile the mind is.

How quickly it unravels.

Yes, that was him.

Unravelled.

Unsure.

And alone.

Mozart.

May I come in?

Please.

Sorry to call on you so late. I...

Well, I've been worried.

You have a new commission?

Did you speak with the Masons about The Magic Flute?

Ah. I did.

Um, I'm afraid they've taken it rather badly.

The symbols were intended as a tribute.

I know. I explained that to them.

I must admit, I was surprised by the force of their feelings

on the matter.

But don't worry. They'll calm down in time.

I'm not sure I have that.

You don't look well, maestro.

I haven't been sleeping.

I try but I can't.

Why not?

Do you believe in hell, Antonio?

Yes, I do.

Do you?

I remember...

...when I was staying in London as a child.

My father became ill.

Bedridden for a few weeks.

There was one night where his fever was particularly bad.

I could hear something in the street outside,

A sort of singing.

I thought perhaps it was the angels, come to take him away.

Of if not the angels, then something worse.

That's the first time I can remember having this feeling.

Like I was being shown...

Death?

I can feel the end is close, Antonio.

I'm writing a requiem.

You just need to eat, Mozart.

Nourish yourself with something other than wine.

I'll get you some food.

I'll be back soon.

Your vessel is weak.

Silence is coming.

Let's see if you can speak without a tongue.

I can stop it.

I can, I can stop it. Let me.

Give up your stubbornness.

God, just...

...give me sign.

I'll end it all.

Alright.

Is this what you want?

Please give in.

Please.

Speak through me once more.

Let me stop.

Let me stop.

Let me stop.

♪ DIES IRAE ♪

Hello?

Please, please.

♪ DIES IRAE ♪

Father, please.

And what do you want from me?

I want to know.

The truth, if there really was a confession.

If I'm to write it, um...

condemn a man, even a dead man,

I want to know he was guilty of the crime I'm attributing to him.

I don't want to be sued.

Thank you.

Did the Kapellmeister talk to you about the death of your husband?

No.

And when was the last time you saw him?

Salieri? Mm.

Uh, it was after my husband's passing.

He conducted a memorial concert for him.

What are these?

Oh, old letters.

From Amadeus? Could I...?

No.

It's a very nice apartment.

And you live alone? No.

No, I live with my sisters, Sophie and Aloysia.

It's a comfortable life.

Looks it.

But your husband never made much when he was alive.

For a while he almost made as much as he spent,

But then it dried up.

Don Giovanni, The Marriage of Figaro,

The Magic Flute.

How does the man who writes all of that end up penniless?

Sabotage?

What other reason could there be?

Wolfgang, where are you?

You feeling better? You get the basket I sent?

The basket?

Basket? Bread and eggs and milk.

I left it outside the door. You didn't get it.

I've been a bit distracted.

Hello, Frau... Cavalieri.

Yes, Katerina. You remember Katerina?

I wanted to bring her to see the great maestro again.

Hmm.

In fact, we're off to see your opera.

-My opera? -The Magic Flute.

Katerina hasn't seen it yet, have you?

Uh, no. I... I've heard wonderful things.

Oh, it's really wonderful.

I thought the Masons were closing it down.

Oh, no, no, on the contrary.

Once they saw how lucrative it was,

they found a place in their hearts to let it play on.

Why did nobody tell me?

Actually, you should... Where's your coat?

You should come with us.

No, I can't.

Oh, come on.

Three old friends and colleagues sharing the joy

of your music together.

When might we get another chance?

Cellos were late.

I want to leave this place, Antonio.

I want to leave.

No, maestro. No, no.

You can't sleep, not yet.

The work must be finished.

Diminish the man, diminish the God.

There you are.

You took me there so people could see what I've become.

I took you there

because I thought it might raise your spirits

to see your great success.

May I?

Dear God.

I've always wondered.

With Figaro,

Don Giovanni,

the Masons,

it's always felt as though some...

...invisible hand was steering me to the rocks.

Did I offend you so much?

Did the music offend you so much?

Yes, you offended me.

You're obscene.

Your nature, it's... obscene.

But your music...

No.

And for it to come from such a creature.

How could I not take it as an insult?

How could I not see the provocation in that?

And all this time it just comes to you.

It just comes to you, it just flows out of you

like a... like a stream running down a mountain,

and you give nothing in return, you make no sacrifice.

No sacrifice?

Look at me, Antonio.

Do you remember

when we sat on that stage

and you asked me

if I think music comes from God?

Yes, and you said when you write it's not to capture

The voices of angels, they're just instructions.

For an oboe player or something, yes.

But you were right.

I knew it.

That this thing...

...is bigger than us.

It's unimaginable.

I knew it then, but I was scared.

Scared? Why? Why were you scared?

Because I don't understand it.

You must understand it. You must. You must know how you do it.

I need to know. I wish I could tell you.

-If only to unburden myself. -Unburden yourself?

Yes, of the music.

For some peace.

It never stops. Oh, my God.

If you could hear yourself. You are unbearable.

I'm surprised you can't hear it in this room.

I'm surprised the walls don't shake with it.

I want to hear it.

For a moment, a minute, a second.

I would do anything to have your gift.

You wouldn't want this. You don't know how it feels.

You wouldn't know what to do with it.

I wouldn't know what to do with it?

You stalk me like I'm prey

but what would you do with this thing that you covet so much?

It would kill you,

like it's killing me.

What would you do with the silence I've suffered through?

It would drive you mad.

I couldn't stop thinking about you.

I couldn't stop thinking about you writing your requiem.

And so I kneeled down

and I prayed to a God I hadn't spoken to in years

to speak through me one last time.

And if he did, in return I would offer him

My own requiem for my own death.

First, I offered him my love.

Then I offered him my hate.

And then, finally, I offered him my whole life.

And you know what I heard?

I heard nothing.

I've heard nothing.

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

Come here.

Come here, Antonio.

Come.

Come.

Hold my hand.

Close your eyes.

Introitus.

C minor.

Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.

Start low.

Grant them eternal rest, O Lord.

Your requiem, maestro.

Offer that to God and see what he says.

You need a doctor, Mozart.

It's too late.

What did I do?

Why did you not let me stop?

He doesn't listen to us, Antonio.

For a moment, I was the only man on Earth

who knew...

Who knew that we had lost the finest composer to have ever lived.

God's tongue cut from his mouth

and only jealous Salieri there to mourn him.

My confession claims murder.

And it's true enough. I'm responsible for his death.

Without me he would have lived longer.

But I loved him. We wrote together.

You wanted the details.

You wanted the specifics.

Well, there they are.

The rest you know.

♪ LACRYMOSA ♪

Wolfgang?

Wolfgang? Wolfgang!

Wolfgang?

Wolfgang!

♪ REQUIEM ♪ continues

♪ REQUIEM ♪ continues

♪ REQUIEM ♪ continues

♪ REQUIEM ♪ continues

♪ REQUIEM ♪ continues

♪ Amen ♪

♪ Amen ♪

Well, there we are.

What a story.

What are you doing?

I'm going to go home, go to bed. No, you can't.

It's late and I'm old. I'm tired.

But what about my confession? What do you want me to do with this?

Run through the streets proclaiming your lies?

You didn't kill him. You didn't compose with him.

And you certainly didn't love him.

I will leave you in peace now.

Leave me in peace?

Everybody's left me in peace!

Do you know what it's been like to watch myself disappear,

to see my name and reputation fade as your husband's has grown?

But there it is.

This entire story has been a pathetic attempt

to tie your name to my husband's legacy.

I'm asking to be remembered.

Just remembered.

I have sat in your husband's shadow,

And it is cold and it is dark.

I have lived long enough to see myself become extinct.

Forgotten.

Salieri, his life, his music,

all gone.

They won't remember your music.

If this confession gets out,

you'll live on, immortal,

trapped in a story you do not control,

told by people who do not care about the truth.

Is that really what you're asking me to do?

I'm begging you.

To be forgotten is a gift.

I looked up Wolfgang's burial records.

His funeral was a modest affair.

Minimal mourners.

You didn't go. It was December, Herr Pushkin.

There was a storm.

I said goodbye to Wolfgang later, my own way.

Some people did go to the burial. Did you know that?

Yes, friends went.

Yes, Herr Sussmayr went.

And did he ever tell you who else was present?

No.

Well, records show six mourners

present at your husband's funeral.

Sussmayr, Von Strack,

three junior members of the Viennese Opera,

and one Antonio Salieri.

You didn't know?

What drove him there, do you think? Love?

Hate?

Guilt? God, I don't know.

And what about Salieri's funeral?

I wasn't invited. No. Well, sparsely attended,

I believe. Not many friends in the end.

But a much more lavish affair.

The old Hofkapellmeister still demands a grand send-off.

He'd even prepared his own composition.

His own requiem to be played.

Taken from the conductor at Salieri's funeral.

Played only once.

At his request.

Have a look.

Why are you showing me this?

Just keep looking.

♪ REQUIEM ♪

Do you see it?

Both their hands.

You knew these two men better than anyone, Frau Mozart.

What is the truth?

You can tell your story, Mr Pushkin.

How Salieri killed Mozart.

But the truth of it?

The real truth?

That will die with me.

I hope your audience enjoys it.

Dawn has come

and I must release you

and myself.

One moment's violence, then it is done.

You see, I cannot accept this.

I did not live on this Earth to be his joke for eternity.

I will be remembered.

If not in fame,

then in infamy.

One more moment

and my battle with him is won.

I shall be immortal after all.

For the rest of time, whenever men say Mozart with love,

they will say Salieri with loathing.

And now I go to become a ghost myself.

But I will stand in the shadows

when you come here to this Earth in your turns.

And when you feel the dreadful bite of your failures,

when you hear the taunting of an uncaring God,

I will whisper my name to you.

Salieri.

The patron saint of mediocrities.

And in the depth of your downcastness

you can pray to me.

I will forgive you.

Vi saluto.

♪ REQUIEM ♪

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