Cradle Will Rock Page #7

You're holding on

to secrets, Olive Stanton.

There's things that

have happened to you.

Bad things.

I guess I'm just not...

used to kindness recently.

You took me by surprise.

We've all been

hit by it, Olive.

We've all been hungry.

Nobody here

is gonna judge you.

This is your family now.

I make a little bed from wood

So, my son

Sleep good

So my

Son

Sleep good

- Really?

- My official position is that I love it.

Yes, that it's...

That I'm thrilled.

I think it's in my best interest to

be publicly excited about the piece.

But I must admit, I have great

trepidation about the mural.

First of all, I'm not sure

that it's great art.

It will be great.

It is not finished yet.

- It's not Picasso and it's not Matisse.

- They said no to you.

They did not want

to paint your lobby. Diego did.

You are not going to get anywhere

attacking the quality of the art.

First of all, you are wrong.

Second of all, you cannot win.

There will always be an art critic

somewhere to call you a boor,

an unsympathetic, unfeeling capitalist

blockhead incapable of appreciating true art.

- And I know... that is not you, Nelson.

- Of course that's not me.

There's not a greater appreciator of

modern art and freedom of expression than I.

- Yes, yes.

- Will you talk to him?

See if you can get him

to cheer it up just a little?

"Cheer it up"?

Margherita,

there are microscopic cells of

bubonic plague on the wall of my lobby.

Oh.

Orson, if you feel that way,

why do you want to do

Cradle Will Rock?

Because it will piss off

all the right people.

And when you piss people off in the

theater, you're doing something right.

Because the theater should

provoke. It shouldn't pander.

People should leave the theater wanting

to fight, to argue, to jump, to f***!

Goddamn it, if people leave

Cradle and head for a bistro...

for a Spanish coffee

and a cigarette...

to discuss the intellectual underpinnings

of our story, then we're dead men!

- To Marion!

- I want angry, lust-filled theatergoers!

- I think they're...

- To the theater!

To the theater!

There was another play

called Processional.

It dealt with a miner who had torn up

the American flag and was put into jail.

Later, he killed this soldier

who had seen him in a church or a,

a labor temple, having...

sexual intercourse, if you please,

- with his mother.

- Uh-oh.

That was the type of play

that was put on.

I'm so nervous.

You're doing great.

Did that really happen?

- What?

- In the play? He had intercourse with his mother?

Well, not on stage,

but they talked about it.

Oh. Oh.

Do you think I'll be called to testify?

I have so much to say.

If they don't call you,

they're crazy.

Okay, it's your turn.

"Now, thanks to Revolt of the Beavers,

many children unschooled in

the technique of revolution...

have an opportunity,

at government expense,

to improve their tender minds.

Mother Goose is no longer

a rhymed escapist.

She has been studying Marx. jack

and jill lead the class revolution. "

Saturday Evening Post.

The gist is that Federal Theater

is teaching poor people to hate...

and possibly murder

rich children.

- This is ridiculous.

- Well, I'm stunned.

It's so absurd, it's funny. The Revolt

of the Beavers is a fairy tale.

- What about the guns, Hallie?

- They don't shoot the big, fat beaver.

They just kick him out of Beaver Land.

So what does that say?

- Class war.

- It's a fairy tale!

Big Fat Beaver

is a big, fat capitalist.

The big, fat beaver

is a bad big, fat beaver.

He is a greedy beaver.

He's a bad beaver.

Why are they singing this song?

Who taught him this song?

I don't know.

- Who taught him this song?

- What song?

His cousins. What's the problem?

They're singing a blackshirt song...

in my house.

They're singing a song of Italy.

They're proud to be singing this song.

- Proud? It's a Fascist song.

- It's a beautiful song.

- Did you teach him this song?

- What if I did?

Where do you live,

huh?

Where do I live?

What are you talking about?

This is America,

you dumb sh*t.

You wanna wave

your arms around, huh?

Go back to Italy,

all right?

You insult Italy. You betray the land

that gave your mother life.

You spit on Italy.

You slap your mother on the face.

- You spit on your mother?

- That's enough.

I'm 36 years old.

You can't smack me around anymore.

Out. Get out.

- You respect your family.

- I respect my family. I just want him to leave.

He's your family!

- Then you can go too.

- I can go too.

- Yeah.

- Are you gonna kick me out, big boy?

You can't afford to kick us out. Who

do you think pays for this apartment?

- Then you want us to go?

Then we'll go, all right?

It costs too much to hear

my son sing Fascist songs.

Take the kids, we're going.

Let's go. We're going.

- Let's go. We're gonna go. Joey, come on.

- Not the babies.

You call yourself an artist?

The Italians were bringing art

and culture to this world...

while your

Anglo-Saxon wife's relatives...

were still picking the fleas

off each other, living in caves.

I'll get the kids.

Chance, joey, let's go.

So a fella comes to work one day and there was a

girl there who'd been a chambermaid in his hotel,

and had, uh, talked Communism

to him on many occasions.

And he says, "What on Earth are you doing

here?" She says, "Oh, I'm an actress. "

He says, "Go on.

You're not an actress.

I know you. You were a chambermaid

in such-and-such hotel. "

She tosses her head and said,

"Yes, but it was a theatrical hotel. "

You're gonna say that

to the congressman?

The point I'm making

is that she was a maid,

now she's an actress.

Because of her connections

to the Communists in charge.

Mr. Crickshaw, your, your lurid

stories about chambermaids...

This is the U. S. Congress,

not a, a beer hall.

I am sorry, Hazel,

to disappoint you.

I... I assure you it is the

furthest thing from my intentions.

Mr. Crickshaw, there is an evil...

that must be rooted out.

We must choose our words carefully,

or the press will mock our accusations.

I'm attracted to you.

Mr. Crickshaw, I...

view our relationship in

purely professional terms.

We are chums,

nothing more.

Diego!

- Diego!

- Who is it?

- Margherita!

- Who?

Margherita Sarfatti! How many

Margheritas do you know, Diego?

Oh, I knew someone

by that name once.

She was a jew, and then she

started going to bed with Fascists,

so I assumed by now

she'd changed her name.

- Fascist. just one.

- What?

I had one Fascist.

And Mussolini and I are over.

- But you still work for him.

- Yes, and you...

- You are working for that cute little Rockefeller, huh?

- Touche.

Ah, times.

They change, huh?

So many roads we travel.

I was wondering

when you'd come.

It is so big.

- I hope you are getting paid

by the foot.

- I wish.

- Oh, the cute little Rockefeller,

he is hoping...

it could be more... cheerful.

- He sent you here to tell me this?

- He's worried.

Whose head has fallen?

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