Inspired by Uncle Bob’s Grinch II, Contravex proudly presents:
Fiddler on the Roof 2: To Russia with Gunsi
(Lights up on the edge of the old shtetl, now looking suspiciously like a socialist block party gone horribly wrong. TEVYE stands centre stage, holding a travel-worn suitcase. He’s older, wearier, and dressed in what can only be described as hand-me-downs from a garage sale held by a guy who hates him. Next to him, GOLDE, his wife, grips a rifle like it’s a rolling pin with better odds. The FIDDLER perches on a ladder that’s clearly hungover, sawing at his violin strings until they resemble a choir of angry geese… in a garburator.)
TEVYE (glancing up at the sky, that is, God’s complaint department):
Well, America didn’t work out. Surprise, surprise. I thought the streets were paved with gold—turns out, it was just potholes and hucksters. We left Russia to escape the Cossacks only to end up arguing with union guys who demanded three breaks per latke. My poor little bagel cart got taxed so hard, you’d think I was laundering diamonds in the cream cheese. Then I realized something: it’s actually easier to deal with corrupt Cossacks than with corrupt bureaucrats. I can handle an angry mob on horseback; it’s the paperwork from the city clerk’s office that truly haunts my nightmares. So, we came back to Russia. Because, hey, if I’m gonna get shaken down, at least I know the language! So here I am, all bright-eyed for the old country—except now the Tsar’s missing, the revolution’s busting down the door, and everyone’s armed like they’re auditioning for the Russian ‘A-Team.’ Forget “tradition”: apparently it’s just ‘Take your neighbour’s stuff and call it even.’ Fair warning: it’s all fun and games until Boris makes it “more just” and absconds with your left shoe.
GOLDE (hoisting her rifle):
It was nuts in America. They called me ‘liberated’ there just because I took a job in a textile mill that nearly ate my hand. Here in Russia, they don’t sugarcoat it: your ‘job’ is to shoot back when someone shoots at you. No pep talks, no speeches — just good, old-fashioned, in-your-face ammo-spittin’… with a shot of vodka on the side too.
(The FIDDLER tries a cheerful tune. It sounds painfully off-key.)
TEVYE (snapping at the fiddler):
Could you pleaaasse pick a different key? Maybe something less “strangled chicken on a roller coaster”? Sheesh, if I wanted to hear torture, I’d listen to a contorted reading of Tolstoy at the White Army’s open mic night.
SCENE 1 – THE SHTETL MARKET
Enter BORIS, the local entrepreneur, behind a stall labeled “BORIS’S BOOM-BOOM-STICKS: BUY ONE, GET TWO MANIFESTOS FREE.” He’s wearing a fur hat made out of something that clearly died of hunger.
BORIS (grinning like a politician before election day):
Tevye, Golde! Welcome back to the Motherland! Heard you tried your luck in the “New Country.” Let me guess: Uncle Sam took half your bagel money, made you gamble the other half in the stock market, and “Prohibited” you from drinking away the pain?
TEVYE (sighing):
Pretty much, Boris. After a few years, we actually started to miss the old-fashioned, above-board oppression of our Mother Country. At least here, they don’t pretend it’s for our own good! In America, we had more paperwork than we had customers. Regulations so thick I could’ve built a barn with them. Meanwhile, here, if the local official wants a bribe, he just says, “Gimme money,” and shoots at your feet. It’s straight to the point; and really rather refreshing.
BORIS: (warmly, if matter of factly)
Well not to worry because you’ll always have a home in Russia, and honestly your timing couldn’t be better. The Whites are fighting the Reds and us shmucks in the middle are finally learning the meaning of “self-defense”.
GOLDE (scowling in agreement, admiring a rifle on the stand):
We never thought we’d live to see it, but it sounds like Russia is ready for *real* change now. We don’t just have to just accept the old ways anymore – we can finally change the political discourse here – one rifle bullet at a time! I mean, how hard can it be? If American Universities can be overthrown with a few keffiyas, imagine what we can accomplish in Russia with guns.
(BORIS offers them a shiny pistol. Tevye waves it off, grimacing, though the glint catches Golde’s eye and she picks up the weapon, brandishing its cool metal surfaces)
TEVYE: (lamentingly)
But Golde, don’t you still miss the Old Days of our simple Stetl life when we churned butter, raised daughters, and prayed to see the next sunrise. Now we’re supposed to exchange potatoes for pistols? Is that the farmer’s market we had in mind?
SCENE 2 – THE OLD HOMESTEAD
They reach their former home, now collapsed like a failed co-op bakery. TZEITEL and MOTEL scurry in, each toting cheap handguns like they’re not sure which end does the business. They come bursting in, sweaty and jittery, decked out in bargain-bin fatigues like they signed up for a summer camp run by ‘Comrade Igor: Che Guevera Enthusiast, And Part-Time Goat Herder.’
TZEITEL:
Papa, Mama! We joined “the resistance,” or maybe it was “the revolution” — we can’t keep track. They change names every Tuesday after the leadership committee meeting. Anyways, everyone’s equal, except of course the guy who gets all the bullets. That guy’s more equal.
MOTEL (nervous grin):
I tried to fix a sewing machine for the group, ended up “redistributing” its parts to the floor. Oh dear Papa, I’m no warrior. I’m a tailor. If you thought the Russian roulette was unpredictable, wait till you see me try to shoot something on purpose.
TEVYE (hands up, exasperated):
So this is the new normal. My children are freedom fighters who can’t find freedom, my wife’s packing more heat than a Clint Eastwood remake, and Boris is running a gun shop like a lemonade stand. Somewhere, some intellectual is saying, “This is what ‘justice’ looks like!” Meanwhile, the pit in my stomach is telling me we’re actually much closer to ‘crisis hotline territory.’
(The fiddler tries an uplifting tune, fails miserably, and shrugs.)
TEVYE (to the sky, again):
Lord, you see what I’m dealing with? I’m not sure if this is a revolution or a traveling circus. Where’s the quiet dignity, the decent living? Is it too much to ask for a quiet afternoon churning butter without a coup breaking out next door? I mean, seriously — our biggest debate used to be skim milk vs. whole milk, now it’s monarchy vs. anarchy.
GOLDE (rolling her shoulders, adjusting her rifle strap):
Tevye, snap out of it — this revolution doesn’t wait on nostalgia. Tradition? Ha! There’s no future in that. The future’s in Five Year Plans… and black-market borscht.
SCENE 3 – THE SHOWDOWN AT DAWN
Silhouettes of new revolutionaries — who honestly look like rejects from a student union rally — approach. The family takes cover, guns at the ready.
TEVYE (clutching a rifle awkwardly):
Dear God, if you’re listening, can we go back to when my biggest problem was a matchmaker with too many opinions? Now we’ve got bullets flying because everyone thinks they can run society better than the last guy. If this is the price of progress, I’d like a refund… or at least a discount. How much now, it’s ripped!
(Gunfire, shouts, chaos. The Fiddler attempts a patriotic anthem but produces something closer to a forklift backing up over bubble wrap. Smoke fills the stage.)
TEVYE (shouting over the din):
If I were a rich man, I’d buy a quiet farm in the Golan Heights and leave you all to your “utopia.” But since I’m not, I guess I’ll just duck and hope these “geniuses” don’t shoot each other before they realize nobody knows what the hell they’re doing.
Blackout. Curtain.
- Starring:
Larry David as Tevye
Sarah Silverman as Golde
Bill Bur as Boris
Michael Cera as Motel
Aubrey Plaza as Tzeitel
Mel Brooks as Fiddler ↩