Barrymore Page #2

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myself.

Right.

Start me off.

Now...

Now's a good

a time as any.

No. "Now" is the first word.

Oh.

Now is the...

Now is the... what?

Now is the what?

Now is the the

winter of...

Now is the winter of what?

...Our discontent.

Now is

the winter of our discontent...

That's what I said!

Don't you listen, schmuck?

I listen!

Frank, don't prompt

me unless I ask.

If I ever need one, I will

just say, "Line".

Line.

Made glorious summer

Line.

By this sun of York...

Line.

And all the clouds that

lour'd upon our house

In the deep bosom of

the ocean buried.

God, that was a killer.

Let's take a break.

You've only

done four lines.

Oh shut up, Frank.

Please Mr. Barrymore,

we must be serious.

All right, Simon Legree.

What's next?

Now are our brows...

Now are our brows...

You know I can

recite two entire

plays by Shakespeare.

I know you've heard that

when I made pictures,

I use blackboards

once in a while, placed

in strategic positions.

Bound with victorious

wreathes...

Well, it's true!

What the hell's

wrong with that?

Bound with victorious

wreath es...

Doesn't mean I'm losing

my marbles, does it?

Bound with

victorious wreathes!

That's right,

keep after me!

Come on! Come on! Come on!

See? He never gives up.

Tonight all is well.

Franklin is at the helm.

What are you doing?

You know what

the manager says.

I do not give a rat's ass

what the manager says.

No drinking on

the premises.

No, no, the drink, the

drink - O my dear Hamlet,

The drink, the drink!

I am poisoned.

Maybe I should do Hamlet.

No, no. Too late.

Alas, middle-aged actors

shouldn't play Hamlet.

Although, I don't look

middle-aged, do I, Frank?

Not anymore.

Malevolent b*tch.

Oh cruelty, thy

name is Franklin.

Condescending Gnat!

Prompter's!

Ah!

So, it's Richard

Crookback or nothing.

And if I don't do it.

Some other ham will beat

me to it. Right, Frank?

Right, sir.

All right, let's

get cracking.

You probably hadn't noticed,

but I tend to stagger.

My whole family staggers.

My father, God rest his soul,

was a great staggerer.

"Staggering is a sign of

strength Jackie," he would say.

"Only the weak have

to be carried home. "

Where were we?

Grim-visaged war -

Grim-visaged war hath

smooth'd his wrinkled...

Aaah!

Ethel sent me these.

Red apples have been the

Barrymore good luck wish -

or the family curse

- for generations.

Here Frank, chew

on that you walrus.

I don't know why

I ever went into theater.

Lionel and I wanted to be

painters - great painters

of the American spirit,

like Homer, Eakins,

Whistler, Bellows.

Ethel wanted to

be a pianist.

But, I loved my drawings.

You may not know this,

Frank, but I was for a

time political cartoonist

for the evening journal.

Really, sir?

Oh, yes.

Some of my happiest moments

were spent at Minnie Hay's

boarding house on 34th

Street - a hangout for the

tough newspaper crowd.

Aah!

Magnificent wastrels!

How come ya always draw

Teddy Roosevelt standin'

in the tall grass?

Because, my dear fellow, I

never learned how to draw feet.

Another fatal flaw,

which got me fired.

I was so in love with my

goddamn profile back then.

All my drawings

looked like me.

So it was back

to the stage.

Dear old Ethel came to the

rescue - got me a job.

But acting isn't an art.

It's a scavenger

profession...

a junk pile of the arts.

It's just that we

three were trapped in

the family cul-de-sac.

The Barrymores

and the Drews!

The Drews and the Barrymores!

They wrote a

play about us.

We were the theater's

Royal Family

and I was the Clown Prince.

Somewhere along the way,

things got a bit shaky

but it's paid well.

That's the narcotic.

Frank?

Yes, sir.

Do you think my fans will

remember me when I'm a has-been?

Of course they do,

Mr. Barrymore.

I don't know what I'd do

without him, but I'd rather.

Incidentally, Frank, why

haven't you been drafted?

The army didn't want me.

Why not?

I'm 4-F.

Flat Feet?

No.

Weak eyes?

No.

Homosexual.

Well, W.C. Fields and I were

turned down for Home Defense.

You know what that

impudent girl behind the

registration desk said?

"Who sent you, the enemy?"

W.C. Replied, "Please correct

me if I'm wrong, my little

hermaphrodite, but is that

your truss that's chafing you,

or is your

tutu too tight?"

Homosexual?

Did you have to tell them?

I didn't.

Well, how did they know?

I think they guessed.

Damnit, you're a good man.

To own up to a

thing like that.

I must say,

you've got guts.

I'm proud of you.

You're outspoken, honest,

incredibly frank - Frank.

You know, the quaint irony

of it is I've sometimes

wished I'd been born on

your side of the fence.

It's when I blamed women

for my troubles and think

all dames are poison.

Odd, that, considering I adore

women more than do most men.

Even though all four wives

were bus accidents.

Katherine, Dolores, Blanche -

Didn't Blanche come

before Dolores?

Katherine, Blanche, Dolores

- and then Eileen.

Elaine.

Elaine. You're right.

Funny how they all

aspired to be actresses.

Can you countenance that?

Well, I don't know.

I think they loved me.

I loved them.

Yes, I did, God knows.

But something tells me

however that there won't

be a fifth ex-Mrs. Barrymore.

I would rather set

fire to myself.

I, - that am not shap'd

for sportive tricks...

Frank?

Yes?

I, - that am not shap'd

for sportive tricks...

Oh, uh -

Nor made to court

an amorous...

To strut...

To strut...

Before a wanton...

Wanton...

Ambling...

Ambling...

Nymph...

What?

Nymph!

Blue mirrors for eyes, a

taffy-haired debutante.

Every vowel a dipthong...

Oh, you spilt lemonade all

over my best whitepique hat.

Foolish girl.

For twenty years, Katherine

and I were ecstatically happy.

And then we met.

Who came after her?

Don't tell me. Tell me.

Blanche.

Blanche. That's right.

Known as Michael.

Yeah, Michael.

That's right...

She was Blanche when I met

her, But wouldn't you know?

She changed into

Michael, a regular Joe.

She had a face of

a Romney portrait,

and the soul of a marine.

But she kindled

fire in me.

I kindled fire in her.

We wore matching outfits.

She looked like

George Sand.

I looked like George Sand.

And then Miss Sappho of

1920 hove into view like

an oil tanker.

Mercedes di Acosta

was her name.

She doted on Blanche.

Mercedes was more

butch than Spartacus.

God,

who can forget her handshake?

Ah, buenos dias, senor.

Que hombre!

And your wife,

Miguel, que mujer!

Ai-yi-yi!

Put'er there, senor.

Ai-yi-yi!

I don't have to tell you

that divorces cost more than

marriages... but goddamnit!

They're worth it!

Lord, the sh*t I put myself

through all those years.

I don't mean just

the marriages.

But those absurd

plays,... all those flops!

One goddamned cow

pie after another.

And then, out of the

Chaos, Ned appears.

My Warwick, my

king-maker, my Voltaire.

Ned Sheldon.

Age twenty-five, a

playwright, just out of

Harvard, with a

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