Barrymore Page #6

---

Not on your nelly.

I beg your pardon?

Not a chance!

Oh... I see.

So, we'll go no

more a-roving

So late into the night,

Though the heart be

still as loving,

And the moon be

still at bright.

For the sword

outwears its sheath,

And the soul

wears out the breast,

And the heart

must pause to breathe,

And Love

itself have rest.

Maybe we should get

on with it, sir.

Yes, maybe we should,

Frank, maybe we should.

Oh god, where were we?

Where were we?

Oh, God, I shall despair.

That's right.

What?

That's

the line? "I shall despair?"

Yes. So say it.

What?

Stop stalling

and say the line!

I know you can do this.

You're just wasting time.

Now wait a minute!

Wait a minute?

That's all we've been

doing - Waiting!

All you've been

doing is whining!

Just say the line!

Cut the bullshit!

Who the hell do you

think you're talking to?

You - you

miserable old ham!

Well, screw you, you

nasty little f*ggot!

I was a good Richard!

No! You weren't!

What?

You were a great Richard.

Yeah?

You were a great Hamlet.

Yeah.

Well, what happened to me?

I have of late,...

but wherefore

I know not,...

lost all my mirth, forgone

all custom of exercises;

and, indeed, it goes

so heavily with my

disposition that this

goodly frame, the earth,

seems to me a sterile

promontory; this most

excellent canopy, the

air, look you, this brave

o'erhanging firmament,

this majestical roof

fretted with

golden fire,...

why it appears no other

thing than a foul and

pestilent

congregation of vapours.

What a piece

of work is man!

How noble in reason!

How infinite in faculties!

In form and moving, how

express and admirable!

In action, how

like an angel!

In apprehension,

how like a god!

The beauty of the world!

The paragon of animals!

And yet, to me, what is

this quintessence of dust?

Man delights not me;

no, nor woman

neither, though by your

smiling you

seem to say so.

I wasn't smiling, sir.

I know that, Frank.

Shall we get

back to Richard?

Yes please.

I'd like to get

back to something.

For the love of Christ.

I want to be something,

whatever, the goddamned role.

How else am I going to peer

into the wings filled with

stagehands in dirty

undershirts, crates,

dust, clutter and junk

- and say fervently,

"Come to the window, Cynthia.

Obeserve the crescent moon

rising over the sea. "

And then there's

the audience.

Ay, there's the rub.

Whether it's Barnum

& Bailey or Broadway,...

...they're still the same

great hulking monster with

two thousand eyes and

twenty thousand teeth,

breathing out there in the

darkness, withholding, teasing,

waiting -

...waiting to make or

break men like me.

Oh, that darkness!

That darkness.

Christ!

This is obviously going

to be a vintage Richard.

Perhaps I should've

snuck up to the mirror.

For a moment, I thought

it was my father.

You know, when I do a picture,

I try to get Bill Daniels.

He's the best

cameraman I know.

He makes these oxen

dewlaps disappear.

Garbo won't make a

picture without him.

When we shot Grand Hotel

at MGM, Bill got rid of these

sweetbreads under my eyelids

and this moose's lavaliere.

Ah, vanity!

Of course, Lionel

isn't vain.

Lucky fellow.

I wish I was like him.

He doesn't give a damn

how he looks onscreen.

I've made five pictures

with my brother.

He's always moaning at

the director...

Now look here! I know

Jack is doing treacherous

things behind

my back to steal scenes,

rolling his eyeballs or

showing his goddamned profile.

That's a laugh.

Lionel is the

master upstager.

Our last picture together

was Night Flight.

The big scene

was all mine.

There wasn't a chance in hell

that Lionel could steal it.

The director bet me ten

smackers that he couldn't

manage it this time.

The cameras started

grinding away.

I had all the dialogue.

Lionel turned his back to the

camera, walked slowly to the

door for his exit, and

just as he got there...

he reached around and

scratched his ass.

There's a brother

to be proud of.

Poor Bastard.

He's broken his hip twice,

got hooked up on morphine

and is now confined

to a wheelchair.

Poor Lionel.

Poor Lionel? What am I saying?

It's the best gimmick

an actor ever had,

and he'll agree with me.

Jack, nothing greater

could have been contrived

for me than the character of

the grouchy but likeable old

grandfather in a wheelchair.

Mmm mmm mmm...

As a result, I'm now a

first class hypochondriac,

and I'm enjoying

it immensely.

He's always been

a hypochondriac.

He feels bad when he feels

good, because he knows

he'll feel worse

when he feels better.

God bless my brother.

Back in '23 he told me he

was getting engaged to be

married a second time.

"Not Irene," I said.

"Jesus, how awkward!"

What's awkward about that,

you miserable jackass?

I happen to have been

to bed with her myself.

He didn't speak to

me for ten years.

Oh, well, we made up at last.

He's always

nagging at me...

Jack, you're such a

snob about pictures.

They're so much easier

than the theater.

When a movie's finished, your

performance is in the can.

Or in the toilet.

Of course, Ethel doesn't

approve, but then, that's Ethel.

Oh, Jack, Jack, you've

sold out to Hollywood.

Come back, come back to

your home in the theater.

Come back! Come back!

Oh, Ethel, go f*** a duck.

You too, Lionel.

It's all so ridiculous.

Broadway versus Hollywood,

Hollywood versus Broadway.

What's there to compare?

Gomorrah with palm trees

or Sodom with subways

It's all the same.

Movies!

What were you last

in, Mr. Barrymore?

I believe it was

Joan Crawford.

Oh! What movie!

Something for RKO.

I can't recall, thank god.

Of course, my trusty

blackboards were strewn

all over the set.

"Goddamn it, Jackie, why

don't you learn your lines

like everyone else?"

Because, Anatol, precious,

my memory is full of beauty...

Paradise Lost, the Queen

Mab speech, the great Sonnets.

Do you expect me to clutter

up my mind with donkey-doo?

Those kidney-faced baboons

for whom I labour are some

of the most uncultured

asses in the world.

"Are you sure you want

to make that picture?"

I said to Sam Goldwyn.

"You know, it's

about two lesbians. "

So? We'll make 'em Americans.

Come on, Mr. Barrymore.

What do you want, Frank?

What do you want?

We're wasting time.

What the hell do you care?

You're getting paid for it.

Okay, that's it!

That's what?

I've had it!

Where the hell do you

think you're going?

I'm getting my coat. I quit!

Frank...

You're a spoiled child!

You've always gotten

everything you wanted.

and now that you don't,

you can't take it.

You're not going

to do Richard.

You haven't got the guts.

You're worse than a drunk...

you're a coward!

Jesus. There's the whistle.

Now they all know I'm crazy.

Don't go, Frank!

Don't go. Please.

Please help me.

If I don't finish this, or

they'll put me away.

Frank? Frank?

Frank? Come back here,

come back, please.

I'm sorry Frank.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes