Mr. Deeds Goes to Town Page #16

HENABERRY:

He's a poet. Have a drink.

LONGFELLOW:

No - I don't want it, thank you.

HENABERRY:

Why, you must drink! All poets

drink!

92. MED. CLOSE SHOT - THE GROUP

BILL:

Tell us, Mr. Deeds. How do you go

about writing your poems? We

craftsmen are very interested in

one another's methods.

HENABERRY:

Yes. Do you have to wait for an

inspiration, or do you just dash

it off?

LONGFELLOW:

(self-consciously)

Well, I don't know. I—

HENABERRY:

Mr. Morrow, over there, for

instance, just dashes them off.

MORROW:

Yes. That's what my publishers

have been complaining about.

They all laugh superficially.

93. CLOSE SHOT GROUP - BABE AND LONGFELLOW

Babe glances up at Longfellow, to see if he's aware that

he is being laughed at. But he apparently isn't.

LONGFELLOW:

(laughing feebly)

Your readers don't complain, Mr.

Morrow.

MORROW'S VOICE

Oh, thanks. Thanks.

BROOKFIELD:

How about you, Mr. Deeds?

LONGFELLOW:

Well, I write mine on order. The

people I work for just tell me

what they want and then I go to

work and write it.

BROOKFIELD:

Amazing! Why, that's true genius!

HENABERRY:

Yes. Have you any peculiar

characteristics when you are

creating?

LONGFELLOW:

Well, I play the tuba.

They all laugh.

MORROW:

I've been playing the harmonica

for forty years - didn't do me a

bit of good.

CLOSE SHOT - GROUP

BROOKFIELD:

You wouldn't have one in your

pocket, would you, Mr. Deeds?

LONGFELLOW:

(smiling)

What? A tuba?

They all laugh.

BROOKFIELD:

No, a postcard - with one of your

poems on it.

Longfellow is beginning to sense he is being kidded.

LONGFELLOW:

(his face sober)

No.

HENABERRY:

You mean to tell me you don't carry

a pocketful around with you?

BROOKFIELD:

Too bad! I was hoping you'd

autograph one for me.

HENABERRY:

I was too.

BILL:

Quite right.

MED. GROUP SHOT

As they keep on. Longfellow has his eyes levelled on each

speaker in turn, obviously cognizant of their ill-concealed

jibes.

HENABERRY:

Wait a minute, boys. Perhaps Mr.

Deeds would recite one for us.

THE OTHER'S VOICES

(ad-lib)

Yes!

BROOKFIELD:

That's a very good idea. Nothing

like a poet reciting his own stuff.

ONE OF THE OTHERS

How about a Mother's Day poem, Mr.

Deeds?

HENABERRY:

Exactly! Give us one that wrings

the great American heart.

THE GROUP:

(ad-lib)

Yes.

Babe has been watching Longfellow, interested. Now, when

their voices die down - and they wait expectantly - he

speaks quietly.

LONGFELLOW:

(deeply hurt)

I guess I get the idea. I guess I

know why I was invited here. To

make fun of me.

MED. SHOT - GROUP

SEVERAL VOICES:

(ad-lib)

Oh, come now.

I wouldn't say that.

HENABERRY:

Look, he's temperamental.

LONGFELLOW:

(levelling off at

him)

Yeah, what if I am? What about it?

Henaberry's face sobers.

LONGFELLOW:

(simply)

It's easy to make fun of somebody

if you don't care how much you

hurt 'em.

(to Brookfield)

I think your poems are swell, Mr.

Brookfield, but I'm disappointed

in you. I know I must look funny

to you, but maybe if you went to

Mandrake Falls you'd look just as

funny to us . Only nobody would

laugh at you and make you feel

ridiculous - 'cause that wouldn't

be good manners.

CLOSE SHOT - LONGFELLOW

AS HE RISES, CONTINUING:

LONGFELLOW:

I guess maybe it is comical to

write poems for postcards, but a

lot of people think they're good.

Anyway, it's the best I can do. So

if you'll excuse me, we'll be

leaving. I guess I found out that

all famous people - aren't big

people . . .

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