Ida Tarbell Page #2

---

IDA:

Pending...

SAM MCCLURE:

I see you’ve written well-reviewed bios on

Madame Roland, Napoleon and Abe Lincoln.

You’re quite ambitious, aren’t you?

IDA:

You mean “for a woman”?

SAM MCCLURE:

I meant...for a writer.

A beat. Ida takes the compliment as intended.

IDA:

Thank you.

SAM MCCLURE:

I read your piece in Scribner’s on Parisian

cobblestones, I thought it was brilliant.

Do you know why?

IDA:

(smiles)

You have a thing for French limestone?

7.

SAM MCCLURE:

I couldn’t care less about limestone. But

you made me care. And I’m still not sure

how you did it.

IDA:

Well, sometimes you just have to find the

right angle. The right way in.

SAM MCCLURE:

Exactly. But not everyone can do that.

Smoke?

IDA:

No, thank you.

McClure lights up a cheroot. Puffing furiously on it as he

paces around the room.

SAM MCCLURE:

We’re small, but we’re growing fast. Our

circulation right now is around 175,000. I

think we can get up to 250 by next year.

Have you read our magazine?

IDA:

Yes. I have.

SAM MCCLURE:

And..?

IDA:

You want my opinion of your magazine?

SAM MCCLURE:

That’s what I’m asking you.

IDA:

May I speak frankly, Mr. McClure?

SAM MCCLURE:

Of course. I want you to.

IDA:

(thumbing the magazine)

Well, it’s a little thing I know, but the

print is too small. I had to squint just to

read it, and my eyesight is pretty good.

And this paper...it feels cheap to me.

SAM MCCLURE:

(proudly)

That’s because it is cheap.

8.

IDA:

Is that how you want your readers to feel?

Cheap? There are too many advertisements,

it’s distracting to the eye.

SAM MCCLURE:

That’s what pays our rent.

IDA:

If you get more readers, maybe you can have

fewer advertisers, but charge them more.

A long pause as McClure studies Ida. Intrigued.

SAM MCCLURE:

Go on.

IDA:

Well, the stories...forgive me, but they’re

a little obvious, don’t you think?

SAM MCCLURE:

Obvious?

IDA:

Now don’t get me wrong, it’s interesting,

but it’s the low hanging fruit, isn’t it?

“The man who captured John Wilkes Booth”

“The fat lady who sat on a burglar.” Hearst

is already doing that, and frankly, he’s

doing it a lot better.

(a beat)

The reader needs to feel that you care

about your subject. I don’t get that sense

from reading your magazine.

A long beat as McClure digests this stinging critique.

SAM MCCLURE:

And how do you propose we do that?

IDA:

By showing faith in the intelligence of

your readers. By involving them, engaging

them. Provoking them if necessary. By

telling great stories about great

personalities.

SAM MCCLURE:

Great personalities shape history, they do

not sell magazines.

IDA:

I disagree. I mean, why can’t a magazine be

edifying as well as entertaining? That’s

what I want when I read one. And I don’t

think I’m alone in that.

9.

SAM MCCLURE:

All right, I’ll bite, Ms. Tarbell. Why do

you want to work for McClure’s?

IDA:

I don’t want to write “Postcards from

Paris” any more than you wish to read them.

I want my work to matter. With a smaller

publication, I might have more creative

freedom to choose my own subjects. I think

we both know that McClures is capable of so

much more. And so am I.

SAM MCCLURE:

(considers)

You’re passionate, and I admire that. You

speak your mind freely. And it’s obvious

that you care very much about writing.

IDA:

It’s the only thing I’ve ever cared about.

Do you write, Mr. McClure?

SAM MCCLURE:

I write well enough. It’s the “sitting

still” part that I have trouble with.

IDA:

There is usually a price for everything.

SAM MCCLURE:

Indeed. And the question I’m asking myself

right now is, how much is yours?

IDA:

(without missing a beat)

Fifty dollars a week, my own byline, I

don’t care about title. Contributing editor

is fine.

SAM MCCLURE:

(laughs out loud)

You don’t want much, do you? Fifty dollars

is simply out of the question! I’ve never

paid a writer that much before.

IDA:

You paid Lincoln Steffens fifty dollars a

week when he worked here.

SAM MCCLURE:

Who told you that?

IDA:

I’m a journalist, Mr. McClure. I believe in

doing my research. So should you.

10.

SAM MCCLURE:

Lincoln Steffens is one of the most

respected writers in New York.

IDA:

Yes, and lucky for him he’s also a man. But

if a woman does the same work as a man,

shouldn’t she be paid the same as him?

SAM MCCLURE:

All right, 45 dollars then. But I’m afraid

that’s the best I can do.

Ida drops her head, then slowly stands.

IDA:

Thank you for your offer, Mr. McClure. But

I need fifty dollars a week. There are

plenty of other magazines in New York

willing to pay for my services.

As Ida goes to leave...

SAM MCCLURE:

All right, all right, Jesus Christ! Fifty

dollars then. Will that stop you from

haranguing me?

IDA:

(firm)

Do we have an agreement, Mr. McClure?

SAM MCCLURE:

Yes! Praise the Lord! We have an agreement!

They shake hands on it, Ida too moved almost to speak.

IDA:

(simply)

Thank you.

INT. OFFICE OF MCCLURE’S MAGAZINE - DAY

JOHN PHILLIPS, the grouchy editor we met earlier is showing

Ida around the office. He is 50 but looks 60.

PHILLIPS:

I read your series on Lincoln. Good

writing. Lively...

IDA:

Thank you.

PHILLIPS:

Something of a history buff myself.

(indicating)

11.

PHILLIPS (CONT'D)

What we do here is file all manuscripts,

alphabetical by author’s name. The deadline

for filing stories is 5pm on Wednesday.

IDA:

Do you know who is to be my editor?

PHILLIPS:

I’m afraid you’re looking at him.

(pointing)

That’s my little fiefdom over there.

They come to an old broken down desk. Looks more like a

collection of “spare parts” than a writing desk.

PHILLIPS:

(apologetic)

And this...this is your desk. Apparently,

it belonged to Rudyard Kipling when he

lived in New York. Wrote Gunga Din on here.

IDA:

(amused)

And without a chair it seems. Impressive.

PHILLIPS:

We have to supply our own. Here on the S.S

McClure, chairs are considered an

“optional” accessory.

They continue on down the hall.

IDA:

Does Mr. McClure have a lot of ideas for

new stories?

PHILLIPS:

Like a dog has fleas. He has 300 new ideas

every minute. That’s his job.

IDA:

Then what’s yours?

PHILLIPS:

Figuring out which one’s don’t stink.

INT. IDA’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

It is small and simple. A third-floor walk-up located in

Greenwich Village. Ida is unpacking groceries in the kitchen

when there is a KNOCK at the door. She goes to answer.

At the door stands MRS. HAMMOND, a middle-aged LANDLADY

holding a broom in one hand. She hands Ida a telegram.

12.

LANDLADY:

This came for you earlier.

Ida opens the telegram, reads it in an instant.

LANDLADY:

(nosy)

Letter from home?

IDA:

Yes. You could say that.

LANDLADY:

Good news, I take it?

IDA:

(smiles)

Thank you, Mrs. Hammond. Good night.

Ida closes the door on her. Looks again at the telegram.

It reads:
“FATHER SICK. COME SOON. LOVE, WILL.”

CUT TO:

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes