Shakespeare in Love

Henslowe, do you know what happens

to a man who doesnt pay his debts?

His boots catch fire!

Why do you howl...

when it is I who am bitten?

-What am I, Mr. Lambert?

-Bitten, Mr. Fennyman.

How badly bitten, Mr. Frees?

Mr. Fennyman, including interest.

-Aaah! I can pay you!

-When?

Two weeks! Three weeks at the most!

Oh, for pitys sake!

Take them out.

Where will you find...

Including interest, in 3 weeks?

-I have a wonderful new play.

-Put them back in.

-Its a comedy!

-Cut off his nose.

Its a new comedy

by William Shakespeare.

-And his ears.

-And a share!

We will be partners, Mr. Fennyman!

Partners?

Its a crowd-tickler.

Mistaken identities.

Shipwreck. Pirate king.

-A bit with a dog, and love triumphant.

-I think I've seen it.

I didnt like it.

-But this time it is by Shakespeare.

-Whats it called?

"Romeo and Ethel,

the Pirates Daughter".

Good title.

A play takes time.

Find the actors, rehearsals.

Lets say we open in 2 weeks.

Thats, what, 500 groundlings

at tuppence a head.

In addition, 400 backsides at

three pence, a penny extra for cushions.

Call it, uh, 200 cushions.

Say two performances for safety.

How much is that, Mr. Frees?

-20 pounds to the penny, Mr. Fennyman.

-Correct.

-But I have to pay the actors and the author.

-Share of the profits.

-Theres never any...

-Of course not.

Mr. Fennyman, I think you

might have hit upon something.

Sign there.

So, "Romeo and Ethel,

the Pirates Daughter".

Almost finished?

Without doubt hes completing

it at this very moment.

Will. Will!

Where is my play?

Tell me you have it nearly done.

Tell me you have it started.

Doubt that the stars are fire,

doubt that the sun doth move.

No, no, we havent the time.

Talk prose.

Where is my play?

-It is all locked safe in here.

-God be praised.

Locked?

-As soon as I find my muse.

-Who is she this time?

She is always Aphrodite.

Aphrodite Baggot, who does it

behind the Dog and Trumpet?

Henslowe, you have no soul...

so how can you understand

the emptiness that seeks a soul mate?

Ow! Will!

I am a dead man and buggered to boot.

My theater is closed by the plague

these twelve weeks.

My actors are forced to tour

the inn yards of England...

while Mr. Burbage and the Chamberlains

Men are invited to court...

and receive 10 pounds

to play your piece...

written for my theater,

by my writer, at my risk...

when you were green and grateful.

-What piece? "Richard Crookback"?

-No! It's comedy they want.

Like "Romeo and Ethel".

-Who wrote that?

-Nobody. You were writing it for me.

-I gave you 3 pound a month since.

-Half what you owe me.

I'm still due for

"One Gentleman of Verona".

What is money to you and me?

I, your patron, you, my word Wright.

When the plague lifts...

Burbage will have a new play

by Christopher Marlowe for the "Curtain".

-I will have nothing for the "Rose".

-Mr. Henslowe.

-Will you lend me 50 pounds?

-50 pounds? What for?

Burbage offers me a partnership

in the Chamberlains Men.

For 50 pounds, my days

as a hired player are over.

Oh, cut out my heart.

Throw my liver to the dogs.

No, then?

Theaters are handmaidens of the devil!

The players breed lewdness in your wives

and wickedness in your children!

And the "Rose" smells

thusly rank by any name!

I say, a plague on both their houses!

Where are you going?

My weekly confession.

Words, words, words.

Once, I had the gift.

I could make love out of words

as a potter makes cups of clay.

Love that overthrows empires.

Love that binds two hearts together,

come hellfire and brimstone.

For sixpence a line,

I could cause a riot in a nunnery.

-But now...

-And yet you tell me you lie with women.

Black Sue, Fat Phoebe...

Rosaline, Borages seamstress,

Aphrodite, who does it behind...

Yes, now and again.

What of it?

I have lost my gift.

I am here to help you.

Tell me, in your own words.

Its as if my quill is broken...

as if the organ of my imagination

has dried up...

as if the proud tower

of my genius has collapsed.

Interesting.

-Nothing comes.

-Most interesting.

Its like trying to pick a lock

with a wet herring.

Tell me, are you lately humbled

in the act of love?

How long has it been?

A goodly length in times past,

but lately...

No, no.

You have a wife, children?

Aye.

I was a lad of 18. Anne Hathaway

was a woman half as old again.

-A woman of property?

-She had a cottage.

One day she was 3 months

gone with child, so...

And your relations?

-On my mothers side, the Ardens.

-No, your marriage bed.

in Stratford.

A cold bed, too,

since the twins were born.

Banishment was a blessing.

-So, now you are free to love...

-Yet cannot love, nor write it.

Here is a... a bangle...

found in Psyches temple

on Olympus.

Cheap at 4 pence.

Write your name on a paper

and feed it into the snake.

Will it restore my gift?

The woman who wears the snake will

dream of you, and your gift will return.

Words will flow like a river.

See you next week.

-Now where?

-To the palace at Whitehall.

All right.

Hello, Will.

Prithee, Mr. Kempe. Break a leg.

-You too, good Crab.

-Crabs nervous. Hes never played the palace.

When will you write me

a tragedy, Will?

-I could do it.

-No, they'd laugh at Seneca if you played it.

There is no dog in the first scene,

Mr. Kempe, thank you.

-How goes it, Will?

-Im still owed money for this play...

-Burbage.

-Not by me. I only stole it.

My sleeve wants for a button,

Mistress Rosaline.

Where were my seamstress' eyes?

When are you coming over

to the Chamberlains Men?

When I have 50.

-You writing?

-A comedy. All but done.

A pirate comedy.

-Wonderful.

-Bring it tomorrow.

-Its for Henslowe. He paid me.

-How much?

-10.

-Youre a liar.

He wants Romeo for Ned

and the Admirals Men.

Mmm. Neds wrong for it.

Will?

Heres 2 sovereigns. I'll give

you another 2 when I see the pages.

-Done.

-Burbage, I will see you hanged...

-for a pickpocket.

-The queen has commanded it.

She loves a comedy. And

the Master of the Revels favours us.

And what favour does Mr. Tilney

receive from you?

-Ask him.

-She comes!

Cease to persuade,

my loving Proteus.

Home-keeping youth

have ever homely wits,

were it not affection

chains thy tender days...

When will you write me a sonnet, Will?

-Ive lost my gift.

-You left it in my bed.

Come to look for it again.

Are you to be my muse, Rosaline?

Burbage has my keeping...

but you have my heart.

You see?

The consumptives plot against me.

Will Shakespeare has a play.

Lets go and cough through it.

My father weeping,

my mother wailing...

our maid howling,

our cat wringing her hands.

Yet did not this coldhearted cur...

shed one tear...

You see?

Comedy.

Love, and a bit with a dog.

Thats what they want.

He is a stone, a very pebble stone,

and has no more pity in him

than a dog!

A Jew would have wept

to have seen our parting.

Now the dog all this while

sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word...

Well played, Master Crab!

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