A Double Life Page #3

Don't talk at all.

All right.

Why shouldn't Max

want you to play it?

All he'll have to do is to

pace back and forth outside,

like an expectant father.

Tony:
Well, what do you

want him to do, play Iago?

I just that I hate to see you

getting pressured into anything.

Maybe you're not sure

I can play Othello.

Now, Tony.

I may not believe in myself,

but I expect others

to believe in me.

Does that make sense?

Oh, of course.

What's this for?

That is for nothing.

Thank you, darling.

You'd be a smashing Desdemona.

You know it?

It's funny. No one has

even bothered to ask me

if I want to play it or not?

Not you, not anyone.

Oh, Brita?

It's all right.

It's all right, darling.

I'm used to it.

I... used to what?

To running after you

while you chase the moon.

Well, if you do go ahead,

it means some hard work

on my blankety-blank

accent.

You will be

able to manage it, I'm sure.

[speaking swedish]

Translation, please.

Oh, no.

Eh, I can imagine.

Right.

What is it?

It's nothing.

The tricks

your mind can play.

You know,

somewhere in the future

I can see it all finished.

I can see the whole

magical production?

Opened, praised.

It feels fine to have

done something worthy,

and then I think

of all the things

that have to be done

between now and then?

The terrifying thought

of that first rehearsal.

The actors nervous

and frightened...

Though in the trade of war

I have slain men...

Tony:
Your inner self

telling you every instant

you're making a mistake

to try this,

knowing all the time

you're caught

and it's too late

to change your mind.

'Tis better

as it is.

Oh, no.

Yes, Tony, it's fine.

Trying to make someone

else's words your own,

thoughts your own...

"Thou cunning'st

pattern."

Over and over and over.

Thou cunning'st pattern

of excelling nature.

You whip your imagination

into a frenzy.

The key to the character?

Jealousy,

and you dig for it

within yourself.

What does it feel like?

Real jealousy?

Try to remember

jealous moments

in your own past.

Jealousy.

Jealousy.

Find it, hold it,

live it!

Jealousy!

And the hours

when you worry about

nothing but shoes

and props

and make-up

and the costume fittings...

That's perfect.

That's wonderful.

Really.

And then the dress rehearsals?

The heartening moments

when it seems

to be going right...

Nay, but he prated.

Hey, look out!

The inevitable things

that go wrong...

Nerves,

arguments,

changes...

Far, far into the night.

Pills to help you

stay awake...

And pills to help you sleep.

The part begins to seep

into your life,

and the battle begins?

Imagination against reality.

Keep each in its place?

That's the job if you can do it.

And all at once...

It's opening night.

And you look out

at the audience,

a terrifying monster

with a thousand heads.

You're in a kind of trance,

only vaguely aware

that the curtain

is about to go up.

Man:
Places, please.

Then, somehow,

the next thing you know,

the play is almost over.

The last scene is about to begin.

But you remember

that you're on a stage

in a theater,

an audience in front of you...

And suddenly?

Suddenly you're startled by

the sound of your own voice.

Yet I'll not shed her blood,

nor scar that whiter

skin of hers than snow

and smooth as

monumental alabaster.

Yet she must die,

else she'll betray

more men.

You try to hang on

desperately.

You're 2 men now,

grappling for control?

You...

And Othello.

Put out the light,

and then...

Put out the light.

If I quench thee, thou flaming

minister, I can again

thy former light restore

should I repent me.

But once put out

thy light...

Thou cunning'st pattern

of excelling nature,

I know not where is

that Promethean heat

that can thy light relume.

I must weep...

But they are cruel tears?

this sorrow's heavenly.

It strikes where it doth love.

She wakes.

Who's there?

Othello.

Ay, Desdemona.

Will you come

to bed, milord?

Have you prayed

tonight, Desdemona?

Ay, milord.

If you bethink yourself

of any crime

unreconciled as yet

to heaven and grace,

solicit for it straight.

Alas, milord,

what may you mean by that?

Well, do it, and be brief.

I will walk by.

I would not kill

thy unprepared spirit.

No, heaven forfend,

I would not kill thy soul.

Talk you of...

Killing?

Ay, I do.

Alas! Why gnaw you so

your nether lip?

Some bloody passion

shakes your very frame.

You all right,

Mr. Friend?

Opening-night jitters.

Look, if mr. Donlan

or mr. Lasler ask for me,

tell 'em I'm in the bar

across the street.

They've been there

since the second act.

Brita:
I hope they

do not point on me.

Tony:
Cease and be still!

Brita:
I will so.

Oh... what's the matter?

That handkerchief

which I so loved

and gave thee

thou gav'st to Cassio!

No, by my life and soul.

Send for the man

and ask him.

Sweet soul, take heed.

take heed of perjury.

Thou art

on thy deathbed!

Ay, but not yet to die.

Yes, presently!

Therefore confess thee

freely of thy sin,

for to deny

each article with oath

cannot remove nor choke

the strong conception

that I do groan withal.

Thou art to die!

Milord,

have mercy on me.

I say, Amen.

And have you mercy, too.

I never did offend you

in my life,

never loved Cassio.

But with such general

warranty of heaven

as I might love,

I never gave him token.

By heaven,

I saw my handkerchief

in his hand.

Oh, perjured woman,

thou dost stone my heart

and mak'st me call

what I intend to do a murder,

which I thought a sacrifice.

I saw the handkerchief!

He found it, then.

I never gave it him.

Send for him hither.

Let him confess a truth.

He has confessed.

What, milord?

That he hath used thee.

How, unlawfully?

Ay.

He will not say so.

No. His mouth is stopped.

Honest Iago has

taken order for it.

Oh, my fear interprets.

What, is he dead?

Had all his hairs

been lives,

my great revenge

had stomach for them all.

He is betrayed,

and I undone!

Out, strumpet!

Weep'st thou for him

to my face?

Oh, banish me, milord,

but kill me not.

Down, strumpet!

Kill me tomorrow.

let me live tonight.

Nay. If you strive...

But half an hour!

Being done,

there is no pause.

While I say one prayer!

It is too late.

Milord!

Milord!

Oh, good milord!

Milord!

Milord!

Milord...

Milord!

What ho!

Oh, good milord,

I would speak

a word with you.

It's almost over,

Mr. Lasler.

Well, you told me

to tell you

when it was the last scene.

Oh, sure. Thanks.

Last scene.

What play?

Our play.

It's good.

There's a murder in it.

You don't say.

Who to who?

What?

Who murders to who?

Tony.

Tony murders this girl.

Kills her dead...

With a kiss.

Ridiculous.

Unbelievable.

Tonight, he murders this girl.

Tomorrow, they'll

probably murder him.

Oh, no.

How came you, Cassio,

by that handkerchief

that was my wife's?

I found it in my chamber,

and he himself

confessed even now

that there he'd dropped it

for a special purpose

which wrought to his desire.

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