Youth Page #20

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BRENDA:

Fifty-three years. And how many

films have we made together?

MICK BOYLE:

Nine, ten...

BRENDA:

Eleven. And do you really think

that after fifty-three years of

friendship and eleven films

together that now I’m going to

start bullshitting you, of all

people?

MICK BOYLE:

(bewildered) No, no I don’t... I

wouldn’t deserve that.

BRENDA:

Right, you don’t deserve it. You

deserve me to call a spade a spade.

Which is why I dragged my ass here

from LA. To talk to you in person.

Brenda’s seriousness, her severity, makes Mick anxious.

90.

MICK BOYLE:

I see. Look, Brenda, if it’s about

scene 21, where you’re described as

“ugly, feeble, a pale shadow of

your former beauty,” well, please

realize that that’s just poetic

license, but on set, naturally,

we’ll proceed in a totally

different way. I want you to be

extraordinary. You still preserve

intact - you have to - that

mystery, that allure that made you

a diva in the first place.

BRENDA:

Don’t go licking my ass, Mick, it

just breaks my balls even more,

especially given what I came here

to tell you.

MICK BOYLE:

Why? What did you come to tell me?

BRENDA:

I’m not doing the film, Mick.

MICK BOYLE:

What?

BRENDA:

They offered me a TV series in New

Mexico. A three year contract. An

alcoholic grandmother who’s had a

serious stroke. A character with

real balls. With the money I’ll be

able to pay for Jack’s drug rehab,

my niece Angelica’s film school

tuition, pay off my idiotic

husband’s debts, and still have

enough money left over for a house

in Miami, which I’ve been wanting

for fourteen years. That’s what I

came to tell you.

Mick objects, raising his voice.

MICK BOYLE:

But this is cinema, Brenda! That’s

just television. Television’s sh*t.

BRENDA:

Television’s the future, Mick. To

tell you the truth, it’s also the

present. So let’s be frank, Mick,

because nobody speaks frankly in

this f***ing film world.

(MORE)

91.

BRENDA (CONT'D)

You’re going on eighty, and like

most of your colleagues, you’ve

gotten worse with age. The last

three films you made were sh*t,

Mick. I’m telling you, according to

me and according to everybody, they

were real sh*t!

Mick Boyle is practically having a heart attack. He’s

shouting in a way he shouldn’t, given his age and his high

blood pressure.

MICK BOYLE:

How dare you! How dare you! How

dare you! So you want to be frank,

do you? Fine, let’s be frank. Fifty-

three years ago, if it weren’t for

me, who was, is, and always will be

a gentleman, you would still be

crouching under some producer’s

desk. I pulled you out of all those

fat producers’ underpants and made

you into an actress.

Brenda is fuming, her eyes ablaze. She screams at him.

BRENDA:

What a little sh*t you are! I was

just fine in those producers’

underpants. And you know why?

Because I wanted to be there. I

don’t owe anybody anything. I did

it all myself. I paid my way at the

Actors Studio by cleaning toilets

all over Brooklyn, my mother went

into debt for me. And in Hollywood

I walked through the front door,

all by myself. Marilyn, Rita,

Grace, they’d all sh*t in their

pants when they saw me coming. It’s

all written down, right there in my

autobiography, don’t tell me you

haven’t read it?

MICK BOYLE:

Unfortunately I have. Except you

didn’t write it. And it was a piece

of sh*t, your autobiography, just

like this TV series you’re going to

do, real sh*t.

Brenda sighs, as if she needed air, but then, surprisingly,

she stops shouting. She calms down and starts speaking in a

quiet voice that makes her seem even more ruthless than when

she was yelling.

92.

BRENDA:

The real sh*t is this film of

yours, Mick. I understand cinema,

you know I do. You’re the one who

doesn’t understand it any more.

Because you’re old, you’re tired,

you don’t know how to see the world

any more, all you know how to see

is your own death, which is waiting

right around the corner for you.

Your career’s over, Mick. I’m

telling you flat out because I love

you. No one’s interested in your

testament, as you call it, and you

risk nullifying all the beautiful

films you’ve already made. And that

would be unforgivable. It was only

because of me that they were even

going to let you make it. So by

pulling out, I’m saving your life.

And your dignity.

Mick is devastated. Completely drained. His words are

cutting.

MICK BOYLE:

You’re an ingrate. And ingrate and

an idiot. Which is why you got

ahead.

But Brenda doesn’t hear his insults any more. Or maybe she

just doesn’t believe them. Regardless, she stretches out her

diamond-encrusted hand and does something extraordinary: she

caresses Mick’s cheek. Mick is on the verge of tears.

BRENDA:

You’re right, Mick, that’s exactly

right.

Mick hisses between his teeth, his words full of hatred and

revenge.

MICK BOYLE:

I’m going to make this film anyway.

Even without you.

Mick is crying. Brenda is still caressing his cheek.

BRENDA:

Come on, Mick, life goes on. Even

without all this cinema bullshit.

Mick buries his face in his hands, destroyed.

Brenda, like the last of the great movie stars, stands up,

smooths out her dress, which has gotten a few creases in it,

grabs her thirty-thousand dollar purse, and with a regal,

dignified gait, makes her exit.

93.

61. EXT. HOTEL GARDEN. NIGHT

Spring must be coming to an end, because it’s the mime

tonight. The whole nine yards: tails, whiteface, that perfect

melancholy expression.

In a corner, the man we saw earlier, all covered in mud,

approaches Miss Universe.

MUD MAN:

Do you know you are the paragon of

human beauty?

MISS UNIVERSE:

Do you know I was just thinking the

same thing?

The man walks away without uttering another word.

The mime pretends to climb over an imaginary wall, but

without success.

Mick and Jimmy Tree, who has changed back in his own clothes,

are watching the performance. They’re sitting next to each

other, with Fred and Lena.

Mick is catatonic. He looks but doesn’t see, staring off into

space with a monotonous expression.

MICK BOYLE:

Do you know how many actresses I’ve

worked with in my carrier?

JIMMY TREE:

Lots... I guess.

MICK BOYLE:

(venting) More than fifty. I

launched at least fifty actresses.

And they’ve always been grateful to

me. I... I’m a a great women’s

director.

Fred and Lena turn to look at Mick, but they can’t find the

right words or the right expression.

Jimmy Tree stares into Mick's eyes and play acts.

JIMMY TREE:

“That way, Frank, that way you’ll

never forget me.” Do you remember,

Mr. Boyle?

MICK BOYLE:

Of course I remember. I remember

everything I ever shot.

94.

JIMMY TREE:

Mr. Boyle, you’re not a great

women’s director. You’re a great

director, period.

The mime, exhausted from not being able to climb over the

wall, crumbles to the ground and pretends to fall asleep.

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