The Cider House Rules: The Making of an American Classic

In other parts of the world,

young men leave home

and travel far and wide...

in search of a promising future.

Their journeys are often fueled

by dreams of triumphing over evil,

finding a great love...

or the hope of fortunes

easily made.

Here in St. Cloud's, not even

the decision to get off

the train is easily made,

for it requires an earlier,

more difficult decision...

add a child to your life

or leave one behind.

The only reason people journey here

is for the orphanage.

- Good morning.

- We have an appointment.

Yes. Come in.

Welcome to St. Cloud's.

We're going right upstairs

to see Dr. Larch.

I came as a physician

to the abandoned children...

and unhappily pregnant women.

I had hoped to become a hero.

But in St. Cloud's,

there was no such position.

In the lonely, sordid world

of lost children,

there were no heroes

to be found.

And so I became the caretaker

of many,

father of none.

Well, in a way,

there was one.

Here he is.

His name

was Homer Wells.

I named him after

the Greek writer.

You know, Homer, of course?

And I made his name Wells

because I could tell he was...

very deep.

In truth,

Nurse Angela named him.

Her father drilled wells, and she once

owned a cat named Homer.

Bye-bye, Homer.

- Good night,

you Princes of Maine,

- Can we see the doctor?

You Kings of New England.

- Good night.

- Doctor?

Doctor?

There's something wrong with him.

- He never makes a sound.

- He didn't cry.

Orphan babies learn

there's no point in it.

Do you think we could have a look

at someone a little different?

Thus was Homer Wells returned.

He was too happy a baby.

- Bye, Homer.

The second

family to adopt him had a gift

for getting sounds out of Homer.

They beat him.

He couldn't stop crying.

Shh, shh.

Shh, shh, shh.

It's okay now.

Nobody's gonna hurt you

anymore.

Here in St.

Cloud's, I try to consider with

each rule I make or break...

that my first priority

is an orphan's future.

Twice adopted,

twice returned.

It didn't bode well.

And yet it was always clear to

me that he was a special boy.

Near the angle of the rib. And...

- It was with

Homer's future in mind...

- Homer?

- That I began his tutorials.

- If you're going to stay at St. Cloud's,

I expect you to be of use.

I admit

that our lessons were, in part,

- the simple expression

of a father's love.

- Homer.

But in failing to

withhold love...

and making the orphanage

his home,

had I created a true

and everlasting orphan?

- No!

- Keep breathing. You're gonna be okay.

And so my

excellent pupil learned to look

after abandoned children...

- and to deliver unwanted babies.

- Relax!

Long ago, I had decided

that sometimes...

it was the women

who needed to be delivered.

I chose my own path.

No one would ever choose

for Homer Wells.

Dr. Larch!

Dr. Larch!

Dr. Larch?

We have two new patients.

- One to deliver.

- Coming.

- First pregnancy?

- Yes, for both.

I presume you'd prefer

handling the delivery?

All I said was,

I don't wanna perform abortions.

I have no argument

with you performing them.

You know how to help these women.

How can you not feel obligated...

to help them when they can't

get help anywhere else?

One:
It's illegal. Two: I didn't ask

how to do it. You just showed me.

What else could I have shown

you, Homer? The only thing

I can teach you is what I know.

In any life,

you have to be of use.

Of use? Of use.

That was good, Carla. That was perfect.

Everything's gonna be fine.

- I don't wanna see it.

- You don't have to see it, dear.

Don't worry.

I don't even wanna know

what sex it is, so don't tell me!

- We won't tell you.

You're gonna be okay.

- Your baby's gonna be okay too.

- I don't wanna know!

- That's a big boy.

Let me see him.

I wanna see him.

- Would you mind joining me

in the nursery?

- Okay.

Wilbur, the adopting couple

is waiting in your office.

Life is waiting.

Let 'em wait.

Where's the name sheet?

Uh, nobody's named

this one yet.

Oh, it's my turn. Henceforth,

you shall be Little Dorrit.

Oh.

No, you don't like that,

do you?

He's a boy, that's why.

Can't a boy be a Dorrit?

- I don't think so.

- You do it.

Okay.

Henceforth,

you shall be Little Wilbur.

I'm not crazy about

the "Little."

Okay, just Wilbur then.

We haven't had a Wilbur in a year or so,

have we? We used to have dozens.

He sniffs that ether.

I've seen him do it.

It's because he's too tired

to sleep. He has to.

He smells like he could

put you to sleep.

He's a doctor, Buster.

Doctors smell like ether.

- You're a doctor, Homer.

You don't smell like ether.

- I'm not a doctor.

I haven't been to medical school.

I haven't even been to high school.

- But you've studied

with the old man for years.

- I'm not a doctor.

I'm sorry, Homer.

Fuzzy is not uncommon.

There's something about the premature

babies of alcoholic mothers.

They seem to be susceptible to every

damn thing that comes along.

I haven't read that.

I haven't either,

but you will.

Those morons who write the books

ought to do some research here.

Isn't Fuzzy just

underdeveloped?

When doesn't

he have bronchitis?

I wouldn't call his bronchial

infection underdeveloped, would you?

Come on, Fuzz.

Here we go. Feet up.

There you are.

- What's going on here?

- Sit up straight.

Wilbur? Wilbur, can you

come out here, please?

There you go.

- Hi, Homer.

- Hey. What is it, Mary Agnes?

Now calm down.

- What is it?

- Look.

Oh. Uh, did you bite it?

- Did you bite your tongue?

- I don't remember.

Uh, yeah. That looks like you bit it.

You'll be fine.

Well, maybe I was kissing

someone and he bit me.

Oh, I think you bit it. Maybe

in your sleep. Story time, Fuzzy.

O Lord, support us

all the day long...

until the shadows lengthen

and the evening comes...

and the busy world is hushed

and the fever of life is over...

and our work is done.

Then in Thy mercy,

- grant us a safe lodging

and a holy rest...

And peace at the last.

- Amen.

- Amen.

"A dog, which had lain

concealed till now...

"ran backwards and forwards

on the parapet...

"with a dismal howl.

"And collecting himself

for a spring,

"jumped for

the dead man's shoulders.

"Missing his aim,

he fell into a ditch...

"turning completely over

as he went...

"and striking his head

against the stone,

dashed out his brains."

- And that...

- Is the end of the chapter.

That's it till tomorrow.

Good night,

you Princes of Maine,

you Kings of New England.

Good night,

Princes of Maine, Kings of New England.

Whoa.

John, you all right?

Why does Dr. Larch

say that every night?

- Maybe to scare us.

- No, you jerk.

Dr. Larch loves us.

But why does he do that?

- Does it because we like it.

- Do you like it, Curly?

Yeah.

I like it too.

Watch the door.

You two get Copperfield

and Curly. Buster's mine.

- And remember, nobody touches Fuzzy.

- Attack!

Hey!

- Ow!

- Ouch.

What do you think

you're doing?

Children, stop it. No fighting.

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