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But they’re right, Mick. It’s the

big ideas that give rise to all the

little ones.

Only now do the others realize Fred is there.

MICK BOYLE:

Oh, Fred, you’re here. Listen, I

still have a couple of hours to go

here, and then I have to talk to

the doctor. I’ll find you after

that.

FRED BALLINGER:

Okay.

Sad, and also a bit disappointed because no one even

commented on his observation, Fred leaves the room, while

Mick hounds his screenwriters.

MICK BOYLE:

Well? Come on, who’s got an idea

for the ending?

20.

Another screenwriter, who hadn’t taken part in the argument,

speaks up. He has a long beard and tousled hair: the epitome

of a well-educated, ironic young man. As if having a vision,

he says dreamily.

INTELLECTUAL SCREENWRITER

So he’s on his deathbed, he can

barely talk, and he whispers to his

wife:
“Don’t cry, honey. You know

I’ve always found women who weep

frivolous and repulsive.”

The two who had been fighting exchange a conspiratorial look

and start to laugh.

The timid, insecure screenwriter thinks for a moment and then

says with confidence.

SHY SCREENWRITER

Nice!

Mick throws him a disgusted look, then says.

MICK BOYLE:

What a totally asinine idea. What

else?

11. EXT. HOTEL GARDEN. DAY

A deep torpor has settled over the hotel guests, as if they’d

been anesthetized. The silence is numbing. In the early

morning light, we watch a slow swarm of rich Russians drop

onto chaise lounges to sunbathe, and a handsome black

American family, immobile in the pool.

Off to one corner, outdoor massages are available, in the

shade of a beautiful canopy. Two teenage boys, in the swirl

of a hormonal tempest, are hanging around there, furtively

eyeing a beautiful woman who is getting an gentle, oriental

style massage.

Few guests, all of them wealthy.

We can make out a pair of parachutists in the distance, set

against the crisp, imposing mountains.

An elderly couple has dozed off in their electric

wheelchairs.

Their Asian caregivers are as discreet and invisible as mice.

A fifty-year old son does gymnastics with his decrepit

father.

21.

At the far end of the garden, near the hedges that act as a

fence, the obese South American is leaning on a cane and

signing autographs for a whole mix of people, all of whom

seem bewitched by their hero. His companion at his side. In

eternal apprehension, she regulates how much time each person

gets with her husband. Someone takes out a cell and snaps a

photo on the sly. She is furious and orders a complete

moratorium on photos of her husband.

Fred Ballinger, wrapped in a white robe and lying on a chaise

lounge, sucks on a candy and watches, with resigned interest,

the autograph-signing ritual. One hand dangling off the

chaise, he rubs the candy wrapper between his fingers, the

irregular tempo creating a clear rhythm.

Jimmy Tree is stretched out on a chaise lounge next to Fred.

He too is studying the South American, but seems more

interested in his cane. It’s of briarwood, made to look old,

all twisted and full of knots.

Jimmy looks around and something else catches his eye: a

mother is rubbing suntan lotion on her thirteen-year-old

daughter.

The girl, so pale you can almost see through her, stares at

the ground, as if overcome by a pathological timidness. Then,

for no apparent reason - she must have gotten nervous - she

starts biting her fingernails, practically devouring them.

After a while, the mother apparently tells her to stop,

because she gets all pissed off, screams at her mother, then

gets up and storms off.

Jimmy, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, studies her

like an entomologist.

The South American, leaning on his cane and his wife, is

coming across the garden. They skirt a deserted tennis court.

But his attention is drawn to a particular: a forgotten

tennis ball lies in the middle of the court.

11A. INT.PHARMACY.DAY

Fred and Mick stand next to each other at the counter of the

pharmacy.

Fred waits impassively while Mick, glasses perched on the tip

of his nose, checks to make sure that the pharmacist is

getting everything right.

The pharmacist places a whole range of drugs on the counter

in front of Mick, creating a veritable "mountain" of

medicine.

PHARMACIST'S VOICE

That's everything.

22.

MICK BOYLE:

Good.

Mick turns to Fred, and only now does he realize that his

friend hasn’t asked for any medicine for himself. We can hear

the puzzlement in Mick’s voice as he asks.

MICK BOYLE (CONT'D)

Don’t you need anything?

So Fred, faking uncertainty, looks around the pharmacy and

fixes his gaze on the first shelf he happens to see, which

contains a full selection of Bandaids.

Fred grabs a random box of Bandaids and puts it on the

counter in front of the pharmacist.

Mick has observed Fred's actions closely.

MICK BOYLE (CONT’D)

What do you need Bandaids for?

FRED BALLINGER:

I don’t. I’m getting them out of

solidarity with you.

Mick turns back to his mountain of medicine and speaks in a

voice that is halfway between serious and humorous. Barely

opening his mouth, he says to himself, but as if he were

speaking to Fred.

MICK BOYLE:

F*** you.

A wry smile appears on Fred Ballinger's face.

12. EXT. COUNTRY LANE. DAY

Fred and Mick stroll through a meadow in a beautiful valley,

with an expanse of trees to the right, and the mountain

village to the left.

The two friends are chatting.

FRED BALLINGER:

Why do you think we come here on

holiday every year?

MICK BOYLE:

Because you always want to go back

to the places that made you happy.

FRED BALLINGER:

(smiles) That’s the screenwriter in

you talking.

23.

MICK BOYLE:

I wish! Actually, it’s John

Cheever.

FRED BALLINGER:

Do you remember Gilda?

MICK BOYLE:

The film?

FRED BALLINGER:

No, Gilda Black. The Gilda we both

were in love with.

MICK BOYLE:

Gilda Black???

FRED BALLINGER:

Gilda Black.

MICK BOYLE:

(laughs) What are you going and

remembering her for? That was a

hundred years ago.

FRED BALLINGER:

To me it seems like yesterday. I

would have given twenty years of my

life to sleep with her.

MICK BOYLE:

Well that would have been a pretty

stupid thing to do! Gilda Black

wasn’t worth twenty years of your

life. She wasn’t worth a single

day.

Fred is suddenly incredibly disappointed and also somewhat

apprehensive.

FRED BALLINGER:

How would you know? Did you sleep

with her?

Mick stammers, he realizes he has put his foot in his mouth.

MICK BOYLE:

What? What did you say?

FRED BALLINGER:

You heard me. Sixty years ago you

swore you never slept with her, out

of respect for my love for her. But

now you’ve changed your tune.

MICK BOYLE:

Look, I have to confess something.

24.

FRED BALLINGER:

Fine, go right ahead!

MICK BOYLE:

The real tragedy -- and believe me,

it really is a tragedy -- is that I

can’t even remember if I slept with

Gilda Black.

FRED BALLINGER:

Are you serious?

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