RKO 281 Page #3

MANK:

Like a bug.

WELLES:

But with compassion and insight--

MANK:

(glancing at his watch)

Christ, we gotta go! The old man doesn't cotton to

lateness.

Mank takes a quick swig from a flask of vodka, shoves it into his coat

and scurries into the other room as Welles checks himself in the

mirror.

A beat. Welles smiles, confident and resplendent

WELLES:

(into the mirror)

How do you do, Mr. Hearst? My name is Orson

Welles.

INT. SAN SIMEON. HALLWAY_FOLLOWING

Welles and Mank walk through an impressive upstairs hallway of San

Simeon. Quick glimpses of the astounding grandeur everywhere around

them as:

WELLES:

How about Howard Hughes? We could do Hughes

MANK:

I'm not f***ing with Hughes. That sh*t-kicker would

kill us dead, baby. Just like Jean Harlow

WELLES:

Howard Hughes killed Jean Harlow?

MANK:

Sure. Dropped her out of his Lockheed over Utah

They disappear down a long stairway

INT. SAN SIMEON. DINING HALL_EVENING

An explosion of color and an immediate swirl of sound

We are in the Grand Refectory -- the mammoth dining room -- at San

Simeon. Five long tables are placed end to end. There are about fifty

sumptuously dressed guests.

WILLIAM RANDOLPH HEARST and MARION DAVIES preside, side by side,

at the

center table.

Hearst is 76 years old. He is a fully commanding figure, towering in

both height (six foot two) and personality. He is shaped rather like a

pear and moves with a delicacy surprising for such a famously merciless

man. Although the word ruthless does not begin to do justice to the

press baron's animus, Hearst is endlessly polite and almost painfully

soft-spoken.

Marion is 43 years old, a shimmering and lively presence. In a word

that might have been coined for her, she has moxie. While the ravages

of alcoholism have left their subtle marks on the edges and attitudes

of her face, she can still charm and captivate with almost effortless

grace.

Around Hearst's feet sit a collection of his beloved dachshunds.

On the other side of the main table, and down a bit, sit Welles and

Mank.

We sweep around the table, hearing bits of overlapping dialogue and

finally settle on Marion and Hearst.

Marion is charming CAROLE LOMBARD and CLARK GABLE, who sit beside

her.

She tenderly rests one hand on Hearst's arm as she speaks. Marion

speaks with an occasionally pronounced stutter.

MARION:

And we would hear them scuttling around at night

with their little red eyes and little yellow t-t-

teeth and I'm just imagining plague lice jumpin' all

over the damn place So we set t-t-traps everywhere.

And every morning we would find the t-t-traps sprung

but no mice!

CAROLE LOMBARD:

Houdini mice.

Laughter

MARION:

Just wait. So one night I notice Pops getting outta

bed and sneaking away. And he's got this little p-p-

paper bag with him, right? Middle of the night. So I

figure the old man's really up to no good this time

and I follow him. Well I'll be g-g-goddamned if he's

not springing all the traps and leaving cheese for

the rats!

MARION:

You and that freak Disney, in love with the damn

rats!

Laughter, even from Hearst

HEARST:

They really are sweet little things

Meanwhile, across the table Welles is rapaciously devouring his dinner

as:

WELLES:

Sigmund Freud?

MANK:

Kid, you just got your ass kicked on Joseph Conrad

and now you're gonna go to Schaefer and tell him you

wanna do the id and the superego? Stop being so

goddamn smart.

Mank surreptitiously pours a huge shot of vodka from his flask into his

glass as:

WELLES:

(suddenly inspired)

Manolete?!

MANK:

Who the hell's Manolete?

WELLES:

The great Spanish bullfighter

MANK:

I don't wanna write about no spic.

WELLES:

No, it's perfect! When in doubt, put on a cape!

False noses and faux beards and flowing capes have

been the life-blood of the actor's craft since the

days of lrving and Booth. (He flourishes his napkin

like a bullfighter's cape.) Imagine me in a

glittering suit of lights on the dusky Andalusian

plains--

MARION:

Why Mr. Welles is attempting semaphore

Welles smiles across the table.

Laughter.

WELLES:

Bullfighting, Miss Davies!

MARION:

And is dear Mank your b-b-bull?

WELLES:

My factotum, ally and comrade-in-arms

MANK:

Writer, flunkie, pimp--

CAROLE LOMBARD:

(wry)

You fight many bulls there in New York, Orson?

WELLES:

Ever met Walter Winchell?

WELLES:

(expansively, warming into a story)

No, when I was but a tender lad--

CAROLE LOMBARD:

Last week would this be?

Laughter. As Welles speaks the whole table gradually stops eating and

listens to his tale:

WELLES:

My father and I made a tour of the grand boulevards

of antique Europe. And when we were in Iberia I had

the chance to face the bulls. At the knee of the

great Manolete I took up the cape and sword -

(he uses his napkin and knife to

demonstrate)

-- across from me stood a mammoth bull reputed to

have gored a full seven men to a grisly demise! So -

- with Manolete shouting encouragement I flourished

. . . I flourished again . . . and the bull charged!

Across the golden dust it came, thundering like the

great minotaur of legend, closer, ever closer, its

calamitous hooves pounding into the dirt, shaking

the earth as I held the crimson eye of the bull with

my own, defying it -- it was almost upon me and I

flourished one last time! -- the monster swept past!

-

(he spins his napkin in the air and his

knife is now gone, a magic trick)

-- and my sword was gone -- buried in the bloody

eye of the beast!

Applause and laughter from around the table. Then:

HEARST:

(quietly)

You are evidently a man who knows a great deal

about bull.

Some nervous titters. A beat as Welles' smile fades and he stares at

Hearst.

HEARST:

Of all man's malignity -- of all his sadism -- none

is more depraved than cruelty to animals.

Silence

Mank gives Welles a desperate warning look to keep quiet Welles cannot

resist speaking:

WELLES:

In Spain the cruelty would be in denying the beast

a fighting end.

A beat as Hearst rivets Welles with a cold, bland stare Deafening

silence around the table.

Then:

HEARST:

Who are you, sir?

WELLES:

My name is Orson Welles

HEARST:

The actor

WELLES:

And director.

HEARST:

I see. And you are in California for what reason?

WELLES:

To make pictures.

HEARST:

And what pictures have you made?

A beat.

WELLES:

None.

A beat. Hearst smiles

HEARST:

Well, I wish you luck. It is a treacherous

business.

WELLES:

So I've been told.

HEARST:

In Hollywood the fiercest bulls are the most

brutally killed.

WELLES:

I'll remember that.

A tense beat. Marion quickly diffuses the situation;

MARION:

Enough Hollywood talk! Can't anyone talk about

anything else?

MANX:

Heard some juicy gossip from Metro.

MARION:

(eagerly)

Ooh, dish.

Laughter. Even from Hearst. Then the dinner chatter continues.

Welles cannot keep his eyes off Hearst, the press baron draws Welles in

like a siren.

Marion gives Hearst a little kiss and grabs Carole Lombard and they

leave the table. Hearst leans into Clark Gable to continue talking.

Welles sits back and reaches for a cigar. Mank takes his arm and

indicates he should stop, nodding his head in Hearst's direction.

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