Chariots of Fire Page #4

MAN 1:

It's going rather well.

MAN 2:
I didn't know anything,

but I must say, I enjoy it.

MAN 1:

What about you?

MAN 3:
I've done better productions

myself. Remember them offhand?

MAN 2:

I don't remember seeing any.

So the stone heart's frail after all.

Abrahams' smitten, is he?

Smitten? He's decapitated.

He won't listen to reason.

Reason? The lad's in love.

He just set eyes on her.

I've worshiped her for years.

By the way, where is he now?

He's gone to ask her out to dinner.

- Has he, by Jove?

- In the interval?

- Good for him.

- Thank you.

- Mine, I take it? Mm.

- Harold.

Lovely.

- Uh... Well?

- Well, what?

- Did you speak to her?

- Yes.

- Is she coming?

- Yes.

AUBREY:
To dinner?

HAROLD:
Yes.

She has a kid brother, athletics-mad.

Never stops talking about me.

I think you better have my glass.

I have a terrible feeling

you're going to need it.

[BELL RINGS]

Sorry, Monty.

Yes, thank you very much, sir.

Yes, of course.

Good evening, Miss Gordon.

A triumph, I hear.

[CROWD APPLAUDING AND CHEERING]

[INDISTINCT CHATTER]

Who was that chap over there?

Music critic of the Star.

Boring old buffer, really.

- Well, he obviously enjoyed it.

- I shouldn't think so.

They always say that.

They save the poison for the print.

- Bit off tonight, I thought.

- What?

- You were magnificent.

- Thank you.

One of our little maids has gone

and got herself preggers with a gondolier.

[CHUCKLES]

We had to shove her second on tonight.

TOFFY:

Here you go, Miss Sybil.

Thank you, Toffy.

And you, sir.

Thank you.

This is Mr. Abrahams.

He's a very famous runner.

He's trying your special

for the first time tonight.

- I hope you enjoy it, sir.

- I'm sure I shall.

- Well, go on then.

- Ah.

It's a secret concoction of Toffy's.

A sort of cocktail de maison.

So you'd jolly well better enjoy it.

- Excellent.

- There, Toffy.

You've won yourself a friend for life.

My favorite, please.

[HAROLD MUMBLES]

- For two.

TOFFY:
My pleasure, sir.

What have I ordered?

[SOFTLY]

Surprise.

- Cheerio.

- Cheerio.

The great Harold Abrahams.

My brother will be insanely jealous.

So will mine.

- You don't look very ruthless.

- Should I?

According to my brother.

Tim says that's why you always win.

- Why running?

- Why singing?

My job.

No, that's silly.

I do it because I love it.

Do you love running?

I'm more of an addict.

It's a compulsion, a weapon.

Against what?

Being Jewish, I suppose.

[LAUGHS]

You're not serious?

You're not Jewish, or you wouldn't ask.

Fiddlesticks. People don't care.

Anyway, being Jewish

hasn't done you any harm.

I'm what I call semi-deprived.

That sounds clever. What does it mean?

It means they lead me to water

but they won't let me drink.

You're a funny old stick,

Mr. Harold Abrahams.

Funny...

...but fascinating.

I'll settle for the fascinating.

Life isn't that gloomy, is it?

[SOFTLY]

Not tonight.

You're so beautiful.

Like you.

[TOFFY SPEAKING

IN FOREIGN LANGUAGE]

Pig's trotters.

Oh, my God.

[BOTH LAUGH]

MAN [OVER PA]:

Train arriving at platform two.

The overnight Flying Scotsman

from Aberdeen.

Seven-thirty, Mr. Liddell.

Seven-thirty on the dot.

There you are, sir. Hot tea and toast.

- All right.

- You sleep all right?

Like a log.

Must have a clear conscience.

Far from it. Are we here?

Aye, sir. Just pulled in. King's Cross.

Oh, and...

...here's the paper,

with your picture in it.

Expecting great things,

from all accounts.

Well, indeed.

- Here you are.

MAN:
Seven-eighteen.

Oh, much obliged, sir.

Now, no hurry.

You've got an hour before we kick you out.

And good luck for this afternoon.

- Thank you.

- Come on, sir. Wake up King's Cross.

ERIC:

Aye, Mr. Abrahams. So's the Scot.

Mr. Abrahams.

Mr. Liddell.

I'd like to wish you the best of success.

Thank you. And may the best man win.

[CROWD APPLAUDING]

OFFICIAL:

Get to your marks.

Get set.

[PISTOL FIRES]

[CROWD CHEERING]

Extraordinary.

[CHAIRS CLACKING]

SYBIL:

Harold.

Harold.

Harold.

This is absolutely ridiculous.

It's a race you've lost, not a relative.

Nobody's dead.

For goodness sake, snap out of it, Harold.

You're behaving like a child.

I lost.

I know. I was there, remember?

Watching.

It was marvelous. You were marvelous.

He was more marvelous, that's all.

On the day, the best man won.

I had to look for him. It's absolutely

fundamental. You never look.

He was ahead. There was nothing you

could have done. He won fair and square.

Well, that's that, Abrahams.

If you can't take a beating,

it's for the best.

I don't run to take beatings.

I run to win.

If I can't win, I won't run.

If you don't run, you can't win.

Give me a ring

when you've sorted that one out.

Sybil.

Don't go.

I just don't know what to do.

Try growing up.

[SIGHS]

[FOOTSTEPS APPROACHING]

Harold...

...you're a great man.

You ran like a God.

I was proud of you.

Don't make me ashamed.

It's not the losing, Syb.

Eric Liddell's a fine man,

and a fine runner. It's me.

After all that work.

And now, God knows,

what do I aim for?

Beating him the next time.

Sybil, I can't run any faster.

SAM:

Oh, Mr. Abrahams.

Mr. Abrahams.

I can find you another two yards.

Sam.

SAM:

Charlie Paddock, Californian Cannonball.

World's fastest human.

Winner, 100 Meters,

Olympic Games, 1920, Antwerp.

- Time?

- Ten point three.

Jackson Scholz,

the New York Thunderbolt.

Runner-up, Olympic Games, 1920.

Lost by looking right.

Look, there's the finish.

See Paddock leaping past him at the tape?

That glance cost Scholz the race.

Scholz's fastest?

Ten point three... Four.

Eric Liddell.

Well, you know all about him.

Look at them.

Think them, breathe them.

I want their faces leering at you

every time you shut your eyes.

The Flying Scotsman first.

That bloody well hurt.

What, Eric Liddell? He's no real problem.

[SNIFFS]

He's a great runner...

...but he needs to go further out.

He's no 100-meters man.

He could've fooled me.

He's fast, but he won't go any faster.

Not in the dash, anyway.

He's a gut runner.

He's all heart, digs deep.

A short sprint is run on nerves.

It's tailor-made for neurotics.

HAROLD:

Thanks very much.

No, I mean it.

You can push guts, bully them...

...but you can hone nerves.

Paddock, Scholz, and Eric Liddell.

SAM:

Come here a minute, Mr. Abrahams.

Now, do you know

why you lost the other day?

Because you're overstriding,

just a couple of inches.

These coins represent

the strides in your 100 meters.

Have you got another two coins,

Mr. Abrahams?

Well, maybe we can find them.

As I said, overstriding.

Death to the sprinter.

Slap in the face, each stride you take.

Knocks you back.

Like that. And that.

Ha-ha-ha. Now.

SAM:
I want you to imagine

you're running on hot bricks.

If you leave your feet too long

on the ground, they'll get burnt.

Up, up, up. Light, light, light.

Light as a feather.

Set!

[COUGHS]

[GRUNTS]

No. Got your head back again.

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