DISCLAIMER (VERY IMPORTANT!!!) I DO NOT OWN THE MOVIE OR STORY LINE OR
ANYTHING OF THE MOULIN ROUGE, AND I AM NOT ATTEMPTING TO MAKE ANY MONEY OFF
OF THIS FANFIC.
The Moulin Rouge
The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return.
The Moulin Rouge. A nightclub. A dance hall and a Bordello ruled over by Harold Zidler. A kingdom of nighttime pleasures, where the rich and powerful came to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld. The most beautiful of all these was the woman I loved. Satine. A courtesan, she sold her love to men. They called her "the Sparkling Diamond," and she was the star of the Moulin Rouge.
The woman I loved is dead.
I first came to Paris one year ago. It was 1899, the summer of love. I knew nothing of the Moulin Rouge, Harold Zidler, or Satine. The world had been swept up in Bohemian Revolution, and I had traveled from London to be a part of it. On the hill near Paris was the village of Montmartre. It was not as my father had said- "A village of sin!", but the center of the Bohemian world. Musicians, painters, writers. They were known as "The Children of the Revolution." Yes, I had come to live a penniless existence. I had come to write about truth, beauty, freedom, and that which I believed in above all things-love. My father had said, "Always this ridiculous obsession with love!".
There was only one problem. I'd never been in love.
Luckily, right at that moment an unconscious Argentinean fell through my roof. He was quickly joined by a dwarf dressed as a nun. His name was Marie Raymond Toulouse-Lautrec Monfa. He apologized profusely for all the trouble he had caused, and proceeded to tell me about this play he was rehearsing for. A play, something very modern called Spectacular Spectacular. Unfortunately, the unconscious Argentinean suffered from a sickness called Narcolepsy. Just then three very absurd looking men stuck their heads through the hole in my ceiling. One was dressed as a woman, and had a very high voice. Another was bald and wore small spectacles, and the other had a beard that ran down to his waist.
They argued with Toulouse about their unfinished play, and eventually the transvestite wondered who they would possible get to read the role of a young, sensitive Swiss poet/goatherder. Before I knew it, I was upstairs, standing in for the unconscious Argentinean. Spectacular Spectacular was not really as spectacular as it was played out to be. There were small explosions and droning pipes, accompanied by Toulouse's not so wonderful singing. There seemed to be artistic differences over Audrey's lyrics to Satine's songs, to say the least.
The next few minutes were spent bickering over various ways to say a simple phrase. Then the Argentinean awoke and shot in his words of advice, but the group did not seem to hear. I stood on my ladder, trying to get a word in edgewise, but it was close to impossible. I waved my hands urgently, but nothing seemed to be working, so I did the only thing I knew of that would catch their attention. I burst into song.
"The hills are alive with the sounds of music."
That definitely quieted them down. I waited in the moments of silence before receiving the group's approval, headed by the Argentinean who had awoken once again. Since I knew they liked it, I went on, inventing words as I sang.
"With songs they have sung for a thousand years." I made an eager face at the rest of the group, all who seemed pleased except for the Transvestite named Audrey. But Toulouse's suggestions that Audrey and I write the show together was not what Audrey wanted to hear. Audrey left in a fit of rage, slamming the door behind him. Then the group started talk of Zidler and how I had never written a show before. They huddled together and whispered, talking of how Zidler would never be convinced.
But Toulouse had a plan. Satine. They would dress me in the Argentinean's best suit and pass me off as a famous English writer. Once Satine heard my modern poetry, she would be astounded and insist to Zidler that I write Spectacular Spectacular. The only problem was, I kept hearing my father's voice in my head-"You'll end up wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a cancan dancer!" So as quickly as I could, I ran from the eager bunch or playwrights and yelled my refusal to write the play. When asked why, the only response I could think of outright was that I wasn't positive I was a true Bohemian revolutionary. It turns out all it takes is to believe in beauty, freedom, truth, and above all things love, which was at the top of my list already.
Toulouse exclaimed that I was the voice of the children of the revolution. It was the perfect plan. I was to audition for Satine, and I would taste my first glass of. . .Absinthe. It was a yellowish green color and was brought out on a platter with flaming match sticks. As I downed the first putrid glass, I saw green and my head spun. I was soon swept up into a frenzy of drunken people, and we all swayed to the music we heard in our heads. The fairy on the Absinthe bottle seemed to be talking to us, giving us words of help and even a dance or two.
We were off to the Moulin Rouge, and I was to perform my poetry for Satine.
The Moulin Rouge
The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return.
The Moulin Rouge. A nightclub. A dance hall and a Bordello ruled over by Harold Zidler. A kingdom of nighttime pleasures, where the rich and powerful came to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld. The most beautiful of all these was the woman I loved. Satine. A courtesan, she sold her love to men. They called her "the Sparkling Diamond," and she was the star of the Moulin Rouge.
The woman I loved is dead.
I first came to Paris one year ago. It was 1899, the summer of love. I knew nothing of the Moulin Rouge, Harold Zidler, or Satine. The world had been swept up in Bohemian Revolution, and I had traveled from London to be a part of it. On the hill near Paris was the village of Montmartre. It was not as my father had said- "A village of sin!", but the center of the Bohemian world. Musicians, painters, writers. They were known as "The Children of the Revolution." Yes, I had come to live a penniless existence. I had come to write about truth, beauty, freedom, and that which I believed in above all things-love. My father had said, "Always this ridiculous obsession with love!".
There was only one problem. I'd never been in love.
Luckily, right at that moment an unconscious Argentinean fell through my roof. He was quickly joined by a dwarf dressed as a nun. His name was Marie Raymond Toulouse-Lautrec Monfa. He apologized profusely for all the trouble he had caused, and proceeded to tell me about this play he was rehearsing for. A play, something very modern called Spectacular Spectacular. Unfortunately, the unconscious Argentinean suffered from a sickness called Narcolepsy. Just then three very absurd looking men stuck their heads through the hole in my ceiling. One was dressed as a woman, and had a very high voice. Another was bald and wore small spectacles, and the other had a beard that ran down to his waist.
They argued with Toulouse about their unfinished play, and eventually the transvestite wondered who they would possible get to read the role of a young, sensitive Swiss poet/goatherder. Before I knew it, I was upstairs, standing in for the unconscious Argentinean. Spectacular Spectacular was not really as spectacular as it was played out to be. There were small explosions and droning pipes, accompanied by Toulouse's not so wonderful singing. There seemed to be artistic differences over Audrey's lyrics to Satine's songs, to say the least.
The next few minutes were spent bickering over various ways to say a simple phrase. Then the Argentinean awoke and shot in his words of advice, but the group did not seem to hear. I stood on my ladder, trying to get a word in edgewise, but it was close to impossible. I waved my hands urgently, but nothing seemed to be working, so I did the only thing I knew of that would catch their attention. I burst into song.
"The hills are alive with the sounds of music."
That definitely quieted them down. I waited in the moments of silence before receiving the group's approval, headed by the Argentinean who had awoken once again. Since I knew they liked it, I went on, inventing words as I sang.
"With songs they have sung for a thousand years." I made an eager face at the rest of the group, all who seemed pleased except for the Transvestite named Audrey. But Toulouse's suggestions that Audrey and I write the show together was not what Audrey wanted to hear. Audrey left in a fit of rage, slamming the door behind him. Then the group started talk of Zidler and how I had never written a show before. They huddled together and whispered, talking of how Zidler would never be convinced.
But Toulouse had a plan. Satine. They would dress me in the Argentinean's best suit and pass me off as a famous English writer. Once Satine heard my modern poetry, she would be astounded and insist to Zidler that I write Spectacular Spectacular. The only problem was, I kept hearing my father's voice in my head-"You'll end up wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a cancan dancer!" So as quickly as I could, I ran from the eager bunch or playwrights and yelled my refusal to write the play. When asked why, the only response I could think of outright was that I wasn't positive I was a true Bohemian revolutionary. It turns out all it takes is to believe in beauty, freedom, truth, and above all things love, which was at the top of my list already.
Toulouse exclaimed that I was the voice of the children of the revolution. It was the perfect plan. I was to audition for Satine, and I would taste my first glass of. . .Absinthe. It was a yellowish green color and was brought out on a platter with flaming match sticks. As I downed the first putrid glass, I saw green and my head spun. I was soon swept up into a frenzy of drunken people, and we all swayed to the music we heard in our heads. The fairy on the Absinthe bottle seemed to be talking to us, giving us words of help and even a dance or two.
We were off to the Moulin Rouge, and I was to perform my poetry for Satine.