Anonymous Page #7
Free?
Aye.
Some anonymous nobleman's
paid for everything.
Been rehearsing all week.
Uh... SO, uh...
My best so far.
I'm sorry, Ben.
Will, he's part owner, and, uh...
I'm sorry, Ben,
but I had to agree.
No Jonson plays at the Globe.
Ever.
- Mm.
- Drink.
Best villain in
theater history, Richard Ill.
Better than Mephistopheles?
No doubt. Jonson's not bad for
everyday scalawags, but Shakespeare...
My God, the main knows his villains.
Not even the Greeks compare.
To Shakespeare!
And villainy.
To Shakespeare and villainy!
- Try your luck.
- Thanks.
Fancy a tumble?
Only tuppence.
Wet in all the wrong places.
- I haven't got all night, Jonson.
- I...
There is a...
There is a play to be performed
on Monday.
All Bankside is talking of it.
The Tragedy
of King Richard the Third
by William Shakespeare.
He kills the king and half
the royal family to get the throne.
I know who Richard Ill was.
Yes.
But in William Shakespeare's
version,
he is played as a hunchback.
As a what?
Shall I close the theater?
No.
Pray, stand back!
The theater is full!
There is no more room!
The theater is full!
You can't get through the crowds.
We've turned hundreds away.
Never seen anything like it.
And you said I was mad
for building a bigger theater.
Has Francesco left?
Yes, my lord.
Now is the winter of our discontent,
made glorious summer
by this sun of York.
He's got a hunchback.
And all the clouds that
loured upon our house
in the deep bosom of the ocean.
It's Cecil, isn't it?
Now are our brows
bound with victorious wreaths,
our bruised arms hung up
for monuments,
our stern alarums
changed to merry meetings,
our dreadful marches
to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath
smoothed his wrinkled front.
But I, that am not shaped
for sportive tricks,
nor made to court
an amorous looking glass.
I, that am rudely stamped,
and want love's majesty
to strut before
a wanton ambling nymph.
I, that am curtailed
of this fair proportion,
cheated of feature
by dissembling nature,
deformed, unfinish'd,
sent before my time
into this breathing world,
scarce half made up,
and that so lamely
and unfashionable
that dogs bark at me...
Hear this! Hear this!
By order of the Privy Council, the
bridge must be cleared immediately!
Anyone resisting will be
taken to the Tower!
Clear the bridge! Clear the bridge!
Nothing rash.
No man is to draw sword or fire musket
without direct order.
Yes, my lord.
And the mob?
When does it arrive?
By the stroke of 4.
The streets are quiet.
They are all at the theater.
Edward promised us a mob,
and a mob we will have.
I am determined
to prove a villain...
A pox on you!
A pox on Cecil!
Why is Oxford's man
with the ground lings?
Where?
There.
... and hate
the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid,
inductions dangerous,
by drunken prophecies, libels,
and dreams, to set the...
To set my brother Clarence
and the king...
What's going on?
To see a fine lady
Ride on a white horse
Rings on her fingers
Bells on her toes
She shall have music
Wherever she goes N'
Me lord?
Her Majesty will be
with you shortly.
Young, valiant and wise
and no doubt right...
Down with Cecil!
Richard!
Get over here!
Off to Stratford, then.
To Essex House!
- To Essex House!
- We want Essex!
Oh, my God.
Essex! Essex!
Francesco!
To Essex House!
I have to warn him!
Francesco!
The Tower!
Francesco!
Francesco! The Tower knows!
How do you think it ends?
No doubt, tragically.
- Join us!
- Francesco!
Essex! Essex! Essex!
For Essex! And England!
Francesco! I went to the Tower!
To your positions!
Make ready!
Open fire!
Fire!
Aah! MANI Go back!
- Francesco!
- Signor Jonson!
We are betrayed! Unh!
No!
Robert, wait.
No more waiting.
We go as we are now.
Mount your horses.
Mount your horses!
On your horses, everyone!
To the queen! Hyah!
To the queen!
Hyah!
It's a trap!
Spread out!
Fire!
Freedom!
Fire at will!
Fireworks? Huh.
Majesty! We must away.
Essex is in armed revolt.
He's come to overthrow you.
But, Edward...
You must flee quickly, Majesty.
He means to kill you
and take the throne for himself.
Please, Majesty.
Your Majesty.
Aah!
Robert!
The men!
We must yield!
We yield!
Hold your fire!
- Hold your fire!
- Hold your fire!
Deliver up your arms!
Put down your arms.
Keep still!
Lay down your muskets.
We yield.
Yield, sir!
She will not forgive him this,
Edward.
Essex will be convicted,
and executed
for treason.
As will your son.
What?
Didn't you think I knew?
My father told me all his secrets.
All of them.
Though the most fascinating
was not made known to me
until after his death.
He hated you, Edward.
But still, he married
his only daughter to you.
He wanted his grandson
to be an earl.
No, Edward.
He wanted his grandson to be
a king.
Elizabeth had several
bastard children, Edward.
Not just Essex and Southampton.
She was 16 for the first.
Bloody Mary was still queen and
our future Gloriana was out of favor.
No one thought her very important
at all, except my father, of course.
And when her first child was born...
a male,
my father took it and hid it.
The foundling, of course,
had to be reared a nobleman.
John de Vere,
the previous Earl of Oxford,
agreed to accept the task.
You lie!
Do I?
Why did he work so hard to become
your guardian after your father died?
He had it all planned.
Years in advance.
He would teach you everything
he knew about statecraft,
marry you to his daughter, and after
Elizabeth's death, proclaim you...
heir.
His own grandchild
to follow you on the throne.
But he could not possibly predict what
kind of failure you would become!
How you would fail in politics!
Ignore your estates
to the point of bankruptcy.
All to write...
Poetry,
Nor could he have predicted
that you would commit incest.
Oh.
Delicious, isn't it?
Right out of a Greek...
tragedy...
Elizabeth...
What? would never have...
Slept with her son?
I don't think she ever knew,
to tell you the truth.
Though you never know
with the Tudors.
They all have had such strange
tastes in bedfellows.
You could have been
a king, Edward.
And your son after you.
Except for the fact...
that you...
were you.
Sentence has been passed.
They are to be beheaded.
Essex tomorrow.
Southampton in a week.
Your son is
going to be killed...
by his own mother.
Put that in one of your plays.
Robert Devereaux,
Earl of Essex,
is hereby executed
for treason by Her Gracious Majesty,
Queen Elizabeth
on the 25th day of February
in the year of our Lord,
Strike true.
God save the queen!
Leave us.
All of you.
Sir Robert,
you as well.
You look old.
I thank Your Majesty
for seeing me.
You cannot have him.
He is our son.
He is a traitor, like Essex.
They only wished for a voice
equal to their birth.
You caused this.
Your play, your words.
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"Anonymous" Scripts.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 29 Dec. 2024. <https://www.scripts.com/script/anonymous_2946>.
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