Shakespeare in Love Page #2

WILL:

(struggling with his boots)

Doubt that the stars are fire, doubt

that the sun doth move

HENSLOWE:

No, no, we haven't the time. Talk

prose. Where is my play?

WILL:

(tapping his forehead and

heading out the door)

It is all locked safe in here

HENSLOWE:

God be praised!

(then doubt)

Locked?

WILL:

As soon as I have found my muse

EXT. STREET. OUTSIDE WILL'S HOUSE. DAY.

WILL lives in a crowded area of the city. Hawkers are

crying their wares, tract-sellers, delivery boys, and

merchants go about their business. HENSLOWE catches up

with WILL as he strides purposefully along.

HENSLOWE:

(catching up)

Who is she this time?!

WILL:

She is always Aphrodite.

HENSLOWE:

Aphrodite Baggot who does it behind

the Dog and Trumpet?

WILL:

Henslowe, you have no soul so how can

you understand the emptiness that

seeks a soulmate?

HENSLOWE:

Well, I am a dead man and buggered to

boot. My theatre is close by the

plague these twelve weeks, my company

is playing the inn-yards

of England, while Burbage and the

Chamberlain's Men are invited to court

and receive ten pounds to play your

piece, written for my theatre, by my

writer, at my risk when you were green

and grateful -

WILL:

What piece? Richard Crookback?

HENSLOWE:

No--it's comedy they want, Will!

Comedy! Like Romeo and Ethel?

WILL:

Who wrote that?

HENSLOWE:

Nobody! You are writing it for me! I

gave you three pounds a month since.

WILL:

Half what you owed me. I am still due

for One Gentleman of Verona.

EXT. ANOTHER STREET. DAY

HENSLOWE'S hardly paused in his appeal.

HENSLOWE:

. . . Will! What is money to you and

me? I, your patron, you my wordwright!

When the plague lifts Burbage will

have a new Christopher Marlowe for the

Curtain and I have nothing for the

Rose.

WILL stops.

WILL:

Mr. Henslowe, will you lend me fifty

pounds?

HENSLOWE:

(staggered)

Fifty pounds? What for?

WILL:

Burbage offers me a partnership in the

Chamberlain's Men. For fifty pounds my

hired player days are over.

HENSLOWE:

Cut out my heart! Throw my liver to

the dogs!

WILL:

(answering for him)

No, then.

WILL turns down a side street.

EXT. MARKETPLACE. DAY.

HENSLOWE and WILL are crossing a crowded marketplace

where a Puritan preacher, MAKEPEACE, is haranguing anyone

who will listen.

MAKEPEACE:

and the Lord shall smite them! Yea,

harken to me. The theatres are

handmaidens of the devil! Under the

name of the Curtain, the players

breed lewdness in your wives,

rebellion in your servants, idleness

in your apprentices and wickedness in

your children! And the Rose smells

thusly rank by any name! I say a

plague on both their houses!

As he passes WILL gratefully makes a mental note.

EXT. DR. MOTH'S HOUSE. DAY.

WILL turns into a narrow street and walks toward a

doorway.

HENSLOWE:

Where are you going?

WILL:

To my weekly confession.

As HENSLOWE arrives the door closes in his face. A sign

identifies the place as the premises of Dr. MOTH,

apothecary, alchemist, astrologer, seer, interpreter of

dreams, and priest of psyche. HENSLOWE looks puzzled.

INT. DR. MOTH'S HOUSE. DAY

A stuffed alligator hangs from the ceiling, pills,

potions, amulets and charms, star charts and mystic

paraphernalia festoon the place. Testimonials and framed

degrees hang on the walls.

WILL lying on a couch, on his back. His eyes are closed

DR. MOTH sits by the couch, listening to WILL and

occasionally making a note on a pad he holds on his knee.

What we have here is nothing less than the false dawn of

analysis. The session is being timed by an hourglass.

WILL:

Words, words, words…once, I had the

gift…I could make love out of words as

a potter makes cups out of clay love

that overthrows empires, love that

binds two hearts together come

hellfire and brimstones…for sixpence a

line, I could cause a riot in a

nunnery…but now

DR. MOTH

And yet you tell me you lie with

women?

WILL seems unwiling to respond. DR. MOTH refers to his

notes.

DR. MOTH (CONT'D)

Black Sue, Fat Phoebe, Rosaline,

Burbage's seamstress; Aphrodite, who

does it behind the Dog and

WILL:

(interrupting)

Aye, now and again, but what of it? I

have lost my gift.

DR. MOTH

I am here to help you. Tell me in your

own words.

WILL:

I have lost my gift.

(not finding this easy)

It's as if my quill is broken. As if

the organ of the imagination has dried

up. As if the proud tower of my genius

has collapsed.

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