'Bright Lucifer' Script
bright lucifer by angus macfadyen improvised from the welles/bogdanovich interviews final draft 03-30-04 INT. CORRIDOR - NIGHT, OCTOBER 10TH, 1985 The young Orson Welles, a nine year old boy, stands at one end of a long corridor, staring at the other end. In the distance, an open door. He can hear someone cough. He approaches the open door cautiously. Another cough, then the sound of papers being shuffled. A deep baritone voice begins to speak. WELLES (V.O.) The moon is very important to me. My greatest inspirations came to me at night. The hour of the wolf. Bergman. I've a lack of sympathy with the preoccupations of his particular Northern world. The boy has edged his head around the door to peek in. INT. STUDY - NIGHT, 1985 There sits a giant of a man, back turned to us. His ogre voice has ceased, and he switches off a tape recorder, old style, reel to reel, very sixties. As the old Orson Welles ponders some inexpressible thought, shuffling another wad of papers scattered across his old oak desk, the boy watches. Orson rewinds the tape machine. With a fast squealing of his voice rewound backwards, he finds his spot and plays again; WELLES (V.O.) The moon is very important to me. My greatest inspirations came to me at night. The hour of the wolf. Bergman. I've a lack of sympathy with the preoccupations of his particular Northern world. He stops the machine and rewinds an instant. Then records. WELLES I liked "The Seventh Seal". And "Wild Strawberries". WELLES I suppose he didn't let it ruin his life, and that in itself is a feat accomplished by the few, an Everest scaled by those with steel in their balls, or hearts, or whatever. The only thing to fear is fear itself. Who said that? Roosevelt? Nietzche? When Sir Winston Churchill bowed to me everyday in Venice, at the festival, this was after the war now, he'd been booted out of office by now, and, well, you know, I had a gaggle of rich Russians and I was wanting to get some crumbs off their table to make another of my experimental films, God! I detest the word experiment, life is no experiment! its not a game! It's an opportunity to tell the truth, to, you know, be who you truly are, and not kowtow to some boss who doesn't appreciate the wine he's drinking at Chasens, prefers coca cola. Anyway, I was sitting with these "producers" at the Excelsior on the Lido and as I passed by Churchill, who was sitting there with his wife, I bowed. And Churchill, I don't know why, for reasons of irony, to send me up, half stood, bowed back and sat down again. Well, the Russians, after, said "you're close to Churchill" and the deal was closed right there, so, I saw Churchill again next day, and I said "Mr. Churchill, you don't know what you did for me. By greeting me that way, you got me money for my next picture, well, wouldn't you know it, the next day, I'm passing his table, Churchill stood up! And for the rest of the time I was in Venice he stood when I passed! And people said, "this great man, he is standing every time this actor passes!", Churchill's thinking, "Well, why not? Get him some more dough!" What a wonderful man he was! He stops. Silence. Suddenly Orson turns around and sees the young boy sitting by the door. They stare at each other. Orson raises his eyebrow and puffs on a Havana cigar. INT. LAFAYETTE THEATRE, HARLEM - MORNING, 1936 The twenty year old Orson Welles wakes up from this dream. He has been sleeping across a bank of chairs, red velvet. Next to him, an enticing young brown skinned Harlem prostitute. As he stirs, an empty bottle of vodka slips off his chest. He dusts off some cigarette ash and splutters dry mouthed into the cold spring morning air. ORSON Hellooo! Hellooo! Sam? Sam, the assistant stage assistant and general whipping boy stirs bleary eyed from beneath a blanket on the stage. There he lies on a mattress, next to him, another half naked prostitute, sleeping beauty. SAM Yeah, Orson? ORSON Sam, coffee now. SAM Yes, Orson. Sam stands and hurries off-stage. He clangs about with a coffee machine back there. ORSON Jack! A few rows in front, Jack Carter, very dangerous physical specimen, African American actor, stirs from his alcoholic slumber. JACK Yes, Orson. ORSON Jack, I had the most peculiar dream. I was a young boy, and along a corridor was this giant deep voiced Prospero with his back to me, and he was me! I saw myself. JACK Well, there's the cocaine, the booze, the amphetamines, the speed, the downers, the grass, the liquid morphine you tried last night before the cops arrived, and then the magic mushrooms back here... ORSON Come on now, everybody, wake up! Wake up! Back to work, back to work, Abe, don't you look at me in that tone of voice. ABE Yes Orson. ORSON Come on, no more tomfoolery, actors awake! Awake! Awake! Arise from the ashes of your broken dreams. I said get the fuck up. As he pounds on an African drum, his voice thunders through the empty theatre as dozens of actors begin to rise from their sleeping spots. INT. THEATRE, HARLEM - LATER The cast of "Voodoo Macbeth" all rehearse a scene from the play, as Orson sits in the darkened stalls, drinking from a flask and mouthing the Shakespearian lines. John Houseman, Orson's much maligned producer, sits close by, eyes fixed on Orson; his needs, his wants, his whims, his furies. Jack Carter recites Macbeth, as the voodoo dancers slowly encircle him, chanting softly. MACBETH Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 'til the last syllable of recorded time. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death; out, out, brief candle. Life is but a walking shadow; a poor player who struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. The chant has become louder and louder, until Macbeth is shouting the final word while being overwhelmed by the chanting figures and the ominous drums. The lights on stage go dark. Silence. Orson jumps up. ORSON Good. Lights please. OK, good, now, Jack, take it back to the beginning of the speech, he's a damned man, you know, you can't be too big with this, and by big I don't mean broad, don't smear it all over the place, be specific. I'm not happy at all with the shuffling leaves, wardrobe? WARDROBE Yes, Orson? ORSON Can't we do something about that sound, it's distracting me from the poetry, isn't there some kind of spray or something? Oil? Make 'em less dry, if you know what I mean? WARDROBE I'll send someone out to get some baby oil. Take an hour or two. ORSON Houseman! HOUSEMAN Yes, Orson? ORSON John, darling. Darling John. HOUSEMAN What do you want, Orson? ORSON John, darling, you sound weary. HOUSEMAN Not as weary as you, Orson, no doubt you caroused all night again? ORSON Were you tucked up in bed with your little wife again? HOUSEMAN Yes, can't function without the eight hours, as you know. ORSON How terribly disciplined of you. HOUSEMAN We can't all thrive on chaos, Orson. ORSON Chaos? Nothing chaotic about a life lived fully, John. You should try it sometime. HOUSEMAN One can always live in hope, Orson. ORSON I do, I do. What's that smell? HOUSEMAN Stay away from me. ORSON Mmm. You smell divine. Rose scented. HOUSEMAN It's for men. ORSON Oh, I never doubted the matter, Iago darling. Have whoever it is deliver me a case of the stuff. Can one drink it? HOUSEMAN I haven't tried, no doubt you will, one night, when the booze runs out. ORSON Wicked, John. Can I taste it? Orson licks Houseman"s neck, who starts back uncomfortably, with a giggle. HOUSEMAN Orson, you are a bad boy. ORSON That's more like it, now, where IS the party tonight? HOUSEMAN Twenty One club. ORSON That stuffy joint? Why can't we have it up here? HOUSEMAN But I've already organized it. ORSON Well unorganize it, John. You're the producer. It's gotta be up here. Get 'em drunk, the glitterati. Make 'em stay the night. HOUSEMAN Well, they're all coming, the house is sold out, all 1223 seats. And the tickets for the entire run are going at a rather healthy rate. ORSON Like the beating of my heart, I can smell it, John. HOUSEMAN The sweet smell of success. So can I. Of course, it'll all go away if we don't get the reviews. ORSON I've taken care of that. They're all coming. Cecil Beaton, Martha Graham, Jean Cocteau, Brooks Atkinson, New York Times, Percy Hammond, Herald Tribune, Burns Mantle Daily News, all coming, I've worked my magic, John, I'm the voodoo King and I've cast a spell. HOUSEMAN You certainly seem to cause quite a stir wherever you go. ORSON Yeah, should've been a politician, make more money 'n in this line of work. HOUSEMAN You do nicely. ORSON And so do you, considering I'm the one who does all the hard work, you know, create electrical storms, throw my thunderbolts around, dance to bring the rain down. HOUSEMAN Yes, and I conjure up the greenbacks which pay for this elaborate spectacle that is your mad, mad life, Orson. ORSON Shit. What's the time? HOUSEMAN Eleven AM, why? ORSON I've got the radio shows in half an hour, uh...I'll be back at five. HOUSEMAN Orson, you can't keep doing this. ORSON What's that? HOUSEMAN The tightrope act, you're going to fall down one of these days. ORSON Yes, but I've got you to catch me, haven't I John? Houseman looks away shyly. Orson smiles. HOUSEMAN Well...yes. ORSON Then I'm in the arms of an angel. Besides, I always bounce back. Like a big fat toad. And he's gone. INT. AMBULANCE - DAY Orson sits strapped into the back, lying on the stretcher, smoking a cigar, as the ambulance wails. EXT. AMBULANCE - DAY As it screams through halted traffic and red lights, heading downtown New York, 1936. INT. AMBULANCE - DAY As Orson leans his head back, closes his eyes and tries to catch a few winks. INT. STUDY - NIGHT The sound of the ambulance is an ear-splitting screech on the reel-to-reel. The old Orson puffs on his fat cigar and regards the small boy, still sitting on the floor. He turns the reel-to-reel off and talks to the boy. WELLES Of course, a true ghost story is always appropriate for little boys, isn't it? I was directing the Scottish Play back in, oh, must have been '36, yes, '35 or '36, in Harlem, a voodoo production, with one hundred and thirty singers and dancers who were all from Africa, Haiti, Caribbean, thereabouts, where magic is still very much a reality; they can cast a spell on a man and he'll drop dead in a week, very powerful divide, this cultural chasm which exists between the old mysteries and the new world order. VOICE Orson? INT. AMBULANCE - MINUTES LATER DRIVER Orson? ORSON Hunh? Orson opens his eyes. The ambulance has stopped, as has the wailing. The driver looks back. DRIVER Orson, you're here. ORSON Right. DRIVER See you at five. Orson has opened the doors and leaps from the ambulance. EXT. AMBULANCE - DAY Orson makes his way into a New York skyscraper. Ping! INT. ELEVATOR - MOMENTS LATER Orson rides up in the elevator with the young boy, yes, Orson, by his side. ORSON Where was I? BOY (ORSON) ...this cultural chasm which exists between the old mysteries and the new world order. ORSON Ah, yes. The mysteries enfolded in our hearts, that most intimate of hiding places where dreams are kept on ice, the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns. This is the tale of which I wish to speak, and so you'll pardon this leap of faith, my bringing you along or perhaps indeed it is you who are bringing me along on the roller coaster ride of my life? BOY Perhaps. Orson smiles at the boy and pops a couple of pills. BOY What are those? ORSON Uppers. I need 'em to get through the day. BOY Can I have one? Orson eyes him up. ORSON Oh, why not? You're gonna start sooner or later. EXT. ELEVATOR, 7TH FLOOR - DAY Ping! The doors slide open and Orson strides alone and boyless along the carpeted floors of corporate power. An assistant hands him a script. A smiling executive tries to confront him. RADIO EXECUTIVE Hi Orson, you're cutting it a bit fine, aren't you? ORSON Life is like finely sliced Andalusian carpaccio. And this smells like cheese. He is flapping the radio script pages beneath the executive's nose. RADIO EXECUTIVE Thank you, Orson. ORSON Good quality cheese, but cheese nevertheless, and therefore a mere appetizer, anyway I'm here now, let's get the show up... RADIO EXECUTIVE Aren't we paying you enough? ORSON I never discuss finances, that's what we have agents for, God bless 'em, now, excuse me. He enters a sound recording booth, leaving the executive at the door which he has closed in his face. It turns beet red with frustration. INT. SOUND RECORDING STUDIO - MOMENTS LATER The radio program has just begun. ORSON Who knows what evil lurks in the heart of men? The shadow knows... Orson laughs deep throated. INT. STUDY - 1985 The 70 year old giant chuckles at the memory, as the laughter echoes across the chasm of time. EXT. SOUND RECORDING STUDIO - 1936 Orson exits. Strides past the waiting executive to the elevator. RADIO EXECUTIVE Orson, people are complaining, not me, of course, but the other actors, the sound men, they can't function without rehearsals... ORSON It's in my contract, what's your name again? RADIO EXECUTIVE Peter. ORSON Pete, CBS agreed to it, want me to dishonor my contract? RADIO EXECUTIVE I'm only asking on behalf of the actors, it rattles them to see you blow into the sound stage thirty seconds before they go on air live to America. It's a big audience. ORSON Relax, Pete, they're probably all asleep out there, tuned out, in fact, why don't we concoct some show that'll really wake 'em up one day? You know, an invasion of sorts. Communists from the North, marching down from the icy caps of the Bering Strait, the bogey man is coming... RADIO EXECUTIVE Why not aliens from outer space while you're at it? ORSON Aliens from outer space? He has stopped at the elevator. Ping! The doors open. There stands the nine year old Orson. INT. ELEVATOR, 7TH FLOOR - DAY Twenty year old wunderkind steps into the elevator. Smiles at the radio executive. ORSON Aliens from outer space. What's that HG Wells book? War of the Worlds. Get me a copy, will you? Have it messengered over to the Lafayette Theatre, Harlem. Aliens from outer space. The doors have closed. Orson beams at the boy. BOY I want to direct a movie. ORSON Oh, God. Why? Living theatre is alive. A movie is not only dead, it's not even very fresh. It comes in a can. To make a picture costs hundreds of thousands of dollars, and it takes time, to plan, to cast, to shoot it, then edit it down, get it a distribution date, and because time passes, the very latest film is always bound to be slightly shop soiled, subtly old-fashioned. That movie opening next week is last year's movie. What movie? I detest the word "movie". EXT. ELEVATOR, 9TH FLOOR - DAY Ping! Orson exits followed by the boy. BOY A film about the heart of darkness, about a fascist, a man who has lost his soul to the temptations of power. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. A damned man. A monster. An assistant hands a sheet of typed dialogue to Orson who cursorily glances at it. ASSISTANT Chinese mandarin, seventy five years old. And the narration is Queen's English. ORSON (Chinese accent) And what of his beginnings? Humble? BOY Perhaps. A mystery. A puzzle to be pieced together, keep the audience guessing. Perhaps the key clue is something he mutters on his deathbed. Famous last words. Orson winks at the pretty receptionist in passing. Practicing his Queen's English now. ORSON Hello, Rosebud. What is he? A politician? No, more powerful. Corporate giant. Information, yeah, tycoon of some denomination. BOY I want you to play the lead role. ORSON Oh God, I'm not a film actor. I'm too big for the screen. Camera will just blow me up. I'll be horrible. BOY Precisely. But you can't be too broad. Power, explosive power, but without the explosion. ORSON Mm hm. But not too many close-ups. Only if you can't get a performance out of an actor should you move in for the infernal close-up. BOY And none of those Antonioni master shots which go on long after the characters have walked out of the frame leaving us to stare at a pretty sunset. ORSON God no! I hate the pomposity. No. We must use language too, sound is very important, choreographed dialogue, with certain words punched in. Do you play any instruments? BOY Piano and violin, and I conduct too, my mother was a most gifted pianist. ORSON Was? BOY Yes, I haven't played a note since she died and thus I find myself without a vocation. ORSON I'm sorry to hear that. But that might work for this monster you're creating. You know, build up sympathy for the devil. Show him crying at his mother's coffin. BOY Perhaps too sentimental. ORSON You think? Sincere, yes, I've nothing against sincerity. It's the cynics I can't stand. You know, the actors who comment on the picture they've whored themselves out to by walking through it. BOY I detest vulgarity. ORSON And I'm not naming names, I do detest common gossip. BOY I concur. ORSON Got a title? BOY "Bright Lucifer" ORSON You're a smart kid. I like you. BOY You're not too dumb yourself. ORSON Don't be facetious. BOY I got it from you. ORSON Now you're being esoteric. BOY Esoteric; beyond the reach of the average intelligence, recondite, abstruse, hermetic, occult, profound, secret, enigmatic, dark, obscure, cabalistic... ORSON You are a depraved baby. Orson holds a door open for the boy. He enters. INT. FILM STUDIO, 1985- DAY As the two Orsons enter. The nine year old and now, the seventy year old, barely able to fit through the door because of his heavy frame. WELLES God, I hate hustling for cameos in other people's films. BOY It's the lead, Orson. And it's not my film, it's a collaboration, I'll make you a producer. WELLES I don't believe in actors being producers unless they also direct. Too many conflicts of interest. And I'm not a collaborateur, young man, I am firmly entrenched in the ranks of la Resistance. Besides, aren't you a little young to be directing pictures? BOY You were young. WELLES I was twenty five. I grew a beard. BOY Well, I'm not about to let a few facial hairs get in the way of a brilliant future. WELLES That's the spirit. If they don't break you, boy, you'll go far with that attitude. Your own worst enemy, you will discover, as you get older, will only ever be yourself. You know, when I broke into the New York stage scene, I was seventeen, I believe, and I put an ad in the trades; "Internationally acclaimed actor seeks employment on the New York stage." I'd done one play in Dublin, went there to paint, discovered I couldn't, needed some quick cash, auditioned for and got the lead role at the Gate theatre. Fifteen years old, playing "Jew Suss", a sixty year old character. Never acted before in my life. TECH. MAN Orson, we're ready to watch this. We're running late. WELLES Go. Go. I'm an old man and you talk to me about the sands of Time? The room goes dark. On a screen, after the numbers flash by, we watch a scene play. There is the young 20 year old Orson, in a French courtyard, 1789. A crowd jeers and taunts him as he approaches the guillotine, hands tied behind his back. The old giant speaks into a microphone. WELLES (V.O.) It is a far, far better thing I do now than I have ever done. It is a far, far better world I go to than I have ever known. The young Orson on film mounts the scaffold and is manhandled onto the cutting block. His neck is strapped into a vice. The masked man begins to undo the rope which holds the blade up there, high in the blue sky. Orson on screen is brave. As the blade sweeps down. Silence. As Welles turns and stares at the boy. BOY Excellent, Mr. Welles. The nine year old Orson stands before a documentary camera and crew. CLAPPERBOY Reloading. Someone brings a chair for Welles. He sits down wearily as young Orson approaches. BOY I think it's in the can. Do you want another one? WELLES Not if you don't. I'm quite tired. It's true, you know, when I shoot on location, I sense and see the place in such a violent way that now, when I look at those places again, they're like tombs, completely dead. Jean Renoir, I think it was, who said, "We should remind people that a field of wheat painted by Van Gogh can arouse a stronger emotion than a field of wheat in nature." It is important to remember that art surpasses reality. And film becomes another reality. BOY Rest a while. We've got an hour before the next set up. WELLES An hour? A whole hour? But I've got to get back to the Lafayette Theatre. BOY What? WELLES The Scottish Play. Must get back. Opening tomorrow night. BOY Sleep now. WELLES Yes. A cat nap will do me the world of good. Yes. Lost it all in that fire. The house in Spain. Burned to the ground. Manuscripts, letters, a marvellous long one from Roosevelt. A cup that Abraham Lincoln gave my grandfather when he was a little boy. BOY Terrible. WELLES I try not to think so. I've got a thing about possessions. All my life I've tried to avoid letting them possess me. Can you imagine it? This five year old hand once shook the hand of Sarah Bernhardt. She had a wooden leg and she was playing vaudeville. That hand I took was a claw covered with liver spots, but when she was young, hers had touched that of Madame George, who had been the mistress of Napoleon! Just three handshakes from Napoleon! It's not that the world is small, but that history is so short... He dozes off. A wailing, like the sound of sirens in World War II, in the distance, getting closer, louder. INT. AMBULANCE 1936- EVENING The twenty year old Orson wakes up and tries to sit up, but the straps keep him horizontal. The siren is screaming. EXT. THEATRE, HARLEM - EVENING The ambulance pulls up in front of the theatre, and Orson leaps out. He pushes through a crowd of chanting demonstrators, all African American, with placards; "Don't Pay Where You Can't Play". "We want Orson's Head". "White Man Go Downtown." A man stops Orson. HARLEM COMMUNIST Hey, Orson, why don't you go back downtown where you came from and stop exploiting the folks up here. ORSON Exploiting them? I've given a hundred and thirty actors a job and countless stagehands a wage packet. HARLEM COMMUNIST Yeah, kept the best jobs for you and your cronies, haven't you? How much you getting paid? ORSON Believe me, the government is paying for this out of the taxpayer's pocket, so there's not a lot there, few coins and some cobwebs, I'm losing money, if you must know. Look, why don't I get you some tickets for the show, not tomorrow night, we're all sold out, but... HARLEM COMMUNIST You can't bribe me, boss. I'm onto you. I know where you comin' from. ORSON You've got the wrong man, I'm on your side, I support the trade unions, hell, I'm even a bonafide member of the Communist party... The crowd that has surrounded Orson is ominous. Canada Lee, one of the actors in the company pushes through into the centre of the crowd. CANADA LEE Okay, make way. We're going in. HARLEM COMMUNIST Hey there, Uncle Tom. CANADA LEE What you call me? Huh? ORSON No need for that, Canada. HARLEM COMMUNIST Makin' fun of the black man doin' Shakespeare. ORSON No no no, this is not a travesty, I'm not making a mockery of anyone, come and see the play. CANADA LEE What you call me? Now Orson is pulling Canada Lee away from the communists, the scene is tense, but no-one seems to want to do anything more than make threats. INT. THEATRE LOBBY, HARLEM - EVENING As Orson and Canada push through the glass doors, John Houseman hurries up, wiping his red cheeks. HOUSEMAN Do you have any idea what time it is? The cast and crew are virtually rioting! They've been on call waiting around for the entire afternoon, it's nine o'clock at night, for heaven's sake, Orson! ORSON Shut up, John, I'm giving notes, now Canada, when Banquo appears at that table, you've got to somehow communicate without words the horror of that vision. Think Cagney, displace the air, you're supposed to be too big, bigger than life, you're a ghost for crying out loud. Damned. Be damned. Did they get those leaves fixed? HOUSEMAN Yes, yes, everything's been ready to go for hours, everything that is except for you. ORSON I can't be distracted by your incessant pouting, Jack! Get off my back! You poisonous creature, you! Orson bars the entrance to the auditorium from Houseman. HOUSEMAN I'm coming into the theatre. ORSON You're not invited! HOUSEMAN It's the final dress rehearsal and I'm the fucking producer of this show! ORSON You're useless, Jack! Only time you ever showed up in the past six weeks is when you had a retinue of nobodies in tow you wanted to impress! We're all artists hard at work, it's our sweat and misery up on the boards in there and you are not welcome, you are not a participant in this process, go raise some money or something. Make some phone calls, pay a few bills, get lost! INT. THEATRE, HARLEM - EVENING Orson has closed the doors on Houseman's nose, and leads Canada Lee up the aisle and onto the stage. ORSON Now say those lines, uh..."And oftentimes, to win us to our harm..." CANADA LEE "And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, the instruments of darkness tell us truths, win us with honest trifles, to betray's in deepest consequence." ORSON Taste the words. Savor them, I don't want realism, I want magic! This is Shakespeare for the love of God! Poetry! You're not a classically trained from the neck-up nincompoop treading the boards on Broadway with no passion in you, don't swallow the language like a cock sucker, sing the words, Canada Lee, sing the words. CANADA LEE (Singing) "And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, the instruments of darkness tell us truths, win us with honest trifles, to betray's in deepest consequence." ORSON That's more like it. Come along, back to work! Back to work! We've got twenty four hours and counting to blow the roof off this establishment, Act One, Scene One. Let's go! Where's my leading lady? Edna Thomas, who plays Lady Macbeth, approaches Orson. EDNA THOMAS Here I am, my dear. Really, we all love you dearly, Orson, but, and I speak for the entire cast when I say this, you really must put aside all these other responsibilities for the time being, we're all feeling very neglected. And anxious. And I don't think you're setting a good example for your actors by carousing until the small hours of the morning. ORSON It's called bonding with my actors, Edna. EDNA THOMAS Yes dear, but Jack is an alcoholic and he's very unstable, very insecure. This life-style is not good for him. He needs the discipline of a monk for this role, you're just not helping by turning him into a raging drunk every night. ORSON Where the hell is Jack, anyway? EDNA THOMAS He's gone. ORSON Gone? He's gone where? EDNA THOMAS He left several hours ago in a terrible state, cursing you Orson, saying he'd be at that bar. ORSON Watson's Bar and Grill? EDNA THOMAS I tried to talk him out of it, but he's so restless, so tormented. ORSON A perfect Scottish King, wouldn't you say? And you, Edna, darling, you are the world's greatest mother. You look after us all, I adore you but I must go and round up my missing King now. EDNA THOMAS This just isn't how you direct a play, Orson dear. ORSON Isn't it? We will attempt to resurrect the corpse later, Edna darling. All right, everybody, take your evening break, we'll start the final dress rehearsal at eleven PM tonight on the dot! Groans all around. A mutinous atmosphere which Orson retreats down the aisle from at a breakneck speed. Canada Lee follows. SAM Orson! Orson! ABE FEDER Orson! WARDROBE Mr. Welles! EDNA THOMAS Orson, darling. I need to talk to you about this wig. ORSON Later. Later. Virgil Thomson, the musical director is tearing his hair out. VIRGIL THOMSON I can't fucking work like this! I quit! I quit! D'you hear? I quit. Orson has slammed through the exit doors into the theatre lobby. Followed by Canada Lee. INT. THEATRE LOBBY - EVENING He brushes past John Houseman, who stands there with a grim "I told you so" expression, arms folded. ORSON Oh stop looking so damn pompous and make yourself useful, our musical director is having a nervous breakdown, tranquilize him. Virgil Thomson follows Canada Lee out of the auditorium. Canada Lee follows Orson out of the front doors. VIRGIL THOMSON He's a monster! A dictator! First he has the gall to rewrite my musical phrases, but when I disagree, as musical director, with his changes, he dismisses me with a hand gesture, comme ca, non mais il est fou ce monstre. HOUSEMAN Ecoutes, Virgil, nous sommes dans le meme bateau. Je ne sais que faire avec ce salaud. VIRGIL THOMSON Partons. HOUSEMAN Mais non. VIRGIL THOMSON Partons. HOUSEMAN Mais non voyons. INT. WATSON'S BAR AND GRILL - NIGHT Orson enters the bar, the room goes silent. Harlem faces stare at him. Canada Lee enters. And all the heads turn back to their drinks, conversations resume. Orson has made his way over to the bar. Sits on a stool next to Jack Carter. ORSON All hail Macbeth, thane of Glamis. All hail Macbeth thane of Cawdor. All hail Macbeth, that shalt be King hereafter. JACK CARTER Fuck off, Orson. CANADA LEE Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear things that sound so fair? JACK CARTER Orson, lemme tell you something, you're fucking with a gangster, a man who has killed for a living. ORSON Hey, Joe, set 'em up. JOE, THE BARTENDER Sure thing, Orson. ORSON I want to propose a toast. JACK CARTER Just go away. Let me drink alone. You're lost. We're all lost. ORSON I know how it feels, Jack. The voices inside our head, cursing the day you were born, wanting to just crawl inside a hole and drink ourselves to death, but your curse is a gift, Jack. You will take this town by storm tomorrow night. You will be its King. Harlem and its earthly delights at your feet. The world, your oyster. You are the black Barrymore. Just don't fuck it up. Wait till after opening night, and then decide. Make a choice, Jack. Try success, see if it has a sweet taste in your mouth, if you like it, plenty more where that came from, like whisky on tap, and pussy, as much as you can eat, and if you don't like it, well then, go ahead, kill yourself with the bottle, but at least it'll be on the house, know what I mean? Let them pick up the tab, and the pieces. Leave 'em something to remember you by. A great King came to Harlem and did bestride this narrow world like a colossus. JACK CARTER Who you kiddin'? Anyone knows if you pull this off, you'll be the King around here. You its crown prince in exile, man. The martinis have been poured. Orson holds up his glass. ORSON Thank you, Jack. My father once taught me that the art of receiving a compliment is no small matter, then he died, leaving the rest of my education in such matters unresolved. Jack and Canada lift their glasses to Orson's. They drink in silence. A moment before Jack smiles at Orson, who beams back at him with bright eyes and whispers. ORSON Now let's knock back a few before we return to the theatre and slip on our dancing shoes, shall we? It's eight. We've got a good three hours to do some damage. Joe. Once more unto the breach, dear friend. Joe begins to pur another round of martinis. INT. WATSON'S BAR AND GRILL - 11.30 PM The atmosphere is loud and rowdy. A jazz piano tinkles, a mama belts out a blues tune, Orson, Jack and Canada lounge at a booth, surrounded by easy street ladies. Orson is performing magic tricks for the ladies while reassuring an inebriated Jack. Canada keeps a cool, watchful eye. JACK CARTER I'm the best there is. Everyone knows it. Yeah, so I'm a drunk. But it doesn't ever affect me on stage. I'm a pro. I'm the heavyweight pro, no offence, Canada, but you're in the middleweight division, there ain't nobody for me to fight, you know? Robeson? He lost it, man. He sold out. Singing in the Hollywood sunshine, "Show Boat", shit. I'm the best there is. My shit is revolutionary. That's why you chose me. Orson completes a trick and the girls applaud. JACK CARTER That's why you chose me, right? ORSON Correct you are. It's your physical prowess which fascinates me, you're deadly up there beneath the lights. You mesmerize, can't take my eyes off you, just sing the words. Orson is already entertaining the girls with his next trick, Jack begins to sing; JACK CARTER 'Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee! I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Or art thou but a dagger of the mind, a false creation?" ORSON Bravo! Bravo! Orson applauds, and the rest of the bar, which has gone silent to listen, also breaks into laughter and perplexed applause. John Houseman enters the bar and proceeds with a handkerchief over his mouth, coughing at the smoke, over to Orson's table. He stands there as Orson finishes another magic trick. The girls applaud. Orson sees John and begins to howl in mock pain. ORSON Nooo! Nooo! I don't want to go back to work. Nooo! John Houseman just stares at him with repressed fury. ORSON Have a drink, Houseman. On me. HOUSEMAN It is precisely eleven thirty five PM, the actors are ready to mutiny. ORSON Nooo. Nooo. HOUSEMAN Come on. Let's go. ORSON Siddown, have a drink. HOUSEMAN I said let's go. Now. Now. Now! Houseman has screamed this last now piercingly. Orson gazes at him curiously, then breaks into a laugh. He begins to rise from the table. ORSON With friends like this, as they say. HOUSEMAN This is not about our friendship, it's about professional courtesy. ORSON I'm having a fucking conference with my two leading men, for crissakes, Jack. No sweat. It'll be a critical smash hit, you'll make money, I'll be turning down Hollywood offers within the week, oops. He slips and crashes to the floor. Canada Lee and Jack help him up and escort him to the exit. Houseman starts to leave. JOE, THE BARTENDER Hey. The bill. Houseman looks at Joe, then at the girls, sipping champagne that has flowed eagerly at Orson's behest. HOUSEMAN How much? JOE, THE BARTENDER With dinner and the champagne for the girls, plus a dozen rounds of martinis for the boys, that'll be a hundred bucks. HOUSEMAN A hundred dollars? But we're in Harlem. You're charging me downtown prices! JOE, THE BARTENDER Hey man, who defines what's up and what's down? Who draws the line around here? You? HOUSEMAN No, I didn't mean to suggest... JOE, THE BARTENDER A hundred bucks. And that does not include the tip. Houseman stares at Joe, then begins to count out the twenties. EXT. HARLEM STREET - NIGHT A gaudy atmosphere. Orson, Jack and Canada stroll along the street, taking in the sights and sounds on this warm Harlem night, April 10th, 1936. ORSON Yeah, picture this, the male sperm thrusts into the female egg in the womb, punctures a hole in her, damn it and just keeps going, well that yielding feminine principle gently opens wider and wider like a wild wet mouth until she bends back out on herself and enfolds the sperm in her wet fluid warmth, completely wrapping herself around the male thrusting energy and thus is the miracle of a human embryo brought to life, and that act, gentlemen is called Love. Love. PROSTITUTE I'll love ya baby. ORSON Love is the guiding principle, see? Not these opposites, male, female, right, wrong, good and evil, simply Love is the invisible force that moves inside the womb. And I quote the Koran. How mankind chooses to sully the innocent is another tale altogether and I don't want to get angry this evening. JACK CARTER You said it. You're a poet, Orson. Perhaps the greatest moralist I've ever encountered. ORSON Morality? God, I hope not. I hear that word and I reach for a drink. Or a whore. In fact, I didn't come up with that theory, the Love Principle, at all, my wife did. Virginia. The virgin who bathed His holy feet. She even came up with the idea for this! A voodoo Macbeth. Christ, I was gonna set it in Scotland again. Hahahahaha... They have walked into the Lafayette Theatre lobby. The doors close. Street life passes. The door opens again and Orson roars out. ORSON Houseman! Houseman, get your pear shaped ass in here and call this company together. Houseman comes running up the stairs and into the lobby. Orson stares into the street, smiles at someone and waves. Shouts out. ORSON Hey! Tomorrow night! Sold out! Buy your tickets now! Voodoo Macbeth. The moon is full tomorrow night. The holy ghost has arrived! It's the end of the world as we know it! And he closes the door. INT. FILM STUDIO - 1985 The seventy year old Orson opens his eyes and whispers. WELLES Virginia. My darling Virginia. He looks around him at the electricians rigging the lights. Moving cables. Carrying ladders. Closes his eyes again. INT. ORSON'S APARTMENT, GREENWICH VILLAGE - DAWN, 1936 Orson, bleary eyed, drunk, exhausted, has returned home like a stray dog, to catch a few hours, shower and shave. He stumbles into the hallway. Books everywhere, piled up on either side of the walls, makes the hall small and cramped. INT. ORSON'S BEDROOM - DAWN Orson tries to tiptoe in, but trips over another pile of books. Organized bohemia. A light goes on. Virginia, his wife, sits up in bed, sleepy eyed. VIRGINIA Orson? What time is it? ORSON Oh, it's neither early nor late. It's that bewitched hour where the drug addled mind slips into the epiphany of a queer emptiness, a tranquility hard earned in the night, while you, my rose, slumber in your Cinderella sheets. He kisses her gently. VIRGINIA Orson, I miss you. You're never here. ORSON But this is it, my love. The curtain rises tonight, no more slaving at the hot coals for your poor baby faced boy, he'll lie in bed all tucked away, positively smothered in your love. VIRGINIA Come to bed. ORSON Yes please. Orson lies next to her, still fully clothed. She takes his large head in her tiny hands and places it on her chest. He smiles and closes his eyes. ORSON I need to get up in two hours. VIRGINIA I'll wake you. ORSON Thank you, my sweet. There by the bed, on a table, is a typed first hand copy of a manuscript; "Bright Lucifer, a play by Orson Welles." BOY (V.O.) Wake up, Orson. Orson, wake up. INT. STUDIO SET - 1985 The old master opens his eyes again. He takes a small sharp breath, and holds back a tear. BOY Orson. Wake up. We're ready for your shot now. He is whispering this gently in his ear. Then he takes the old man's hand and helps him to rise out of the chair. He leads him over to the set. A hotel lobby. Grand Detour, Illinois, 1924 A clapper board is snapped shut. CLAPPERBOARD BOY Scene 80, take one. BOY Action. WELLES What scene is this? BOY Grand Detour, Illinois, 1924. WELLES Oh my God. It's beautiful. I remember this hotel so vividly. My mother was still alive then, as was father. He didn't attempt to run the place as a hotel, it was a mere facade. Grand Detour was a place where you can fade away gracefully. The end of the line, population, 130, no cars, no train station, no electricity, just gas lamps. A sort of Paradise Lost. What's the scene? BOY The Fall from Grace. WELLES Whose coffin is that? BOY Mother's. WELLES Oh my God. They approach the open coffin and gaze on the corpse of the mother. WELLES My heart broke that day. I never touched a piano again. Played her one last tune. The boy has sat at an old Steinway and begins to play. Orson gazes upon his dead mother. A tear rolls down his cheek. The crew silently watch and try not to cry with him. The piano stops. The boy stands. Takes Orson's weary hand and leads him back to his chair. BOY And cut. Warm applause breaks out. WELLES Thank you. Thank you. Was I adequate? BOY (sings) Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb... WELLES Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow. Well, I'm no virgin, I drag my myth around with me. Bright Lucifer indeed. BOY Regrets? WELLES Millions, but I like the people who are willing to make fools of themselves. Lots of nice felines who just can't. If you belong to the cat family, you can't bear to be laughed at. You have to pretend when you fall down that you really wanted to be down there just to see what's under the sofa. BOY So you're a dog? WELLES I'm a comic, even if I don't wag my tail very often. But don't mistake it for courage. Just the nature of the beast. BOY Are you a martyr, Orson? WELLES God no. Saint Sebastian. That's a martyr. Bows and arrows. Real ones. Shooting at you. I haven't the vocation for it. Why all the piercing questions, anyway? BOY Our monster. WELLES Ah, yes, our broken-hearted Frankenstein, with whom an audience must be manipulated into a sympathetic bond. How's the rewrite coming? BOY It's writing itself. WELLES I love it when that happens. Divine intervention. BOY Yes. The muse flourishes. WELLES I had my day. BOY And posterity? WELLES Oh, let's just say that concern for posterity is just as vulgar as concern for worldly possessions. And how is your first directing experience? BOY It's the world's easiest job. I could go blithely on for fifty years without anyone ever finding out that I might be incompetent. Give me a good script, a good cast, and a good cutter and the movie makes itself. All I have to say is action and cut. An old man contemplates his mortality. WELLES The examination of power and what it can do to one man. Machiavelli's perfect prince, that terrible creature, a great man of power. BOY Citizen Kane. Touch of Evil. F for Fake. Mr. Arkadin. Chimes at Midnight. Othello. Macbeth. WELLES Sshh...don't for heaven's sake say that word. BOY What word? WELLES The Scottish play! It's highly dangerous. BOY Surely we're not superstitious? WELLES Superstitious? I will tell you a tale that will make the hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention. I killed a man. Yes. Murder. It came from a moment of doubt. You see, life, like directing a play or a picture, is like lion taming or conducting an orchestra, you have to come in and know where you are, or there are all sorts of evil demons who will attack you, and the doubts will show up in life, on screen, on stage, in everything. You have to be on top of it. Megalomania, I suppose. Or you end up an old man, like Don Quixote, chasing windmills, but what if they really were dragons? What? BOY I didn't say anything. WELLES Oh oh oh. My heart. My heart. He grabs at his chest with alarm. He winces. A voice screams. INT. THEATRE LOBBY, HARLEM - OPENING NIGHT 1936 A scuffle is in progress. A man has attacked Orson, who is falling to the floor. The woman's voice screams again, as Canada Lee tackles the aggressor, manhandling him to the ground. Others help, and haul the man to his feet. ATTACKER Hey, man, all I wanted was an autograph. Canada Lee displays the man's cap. In its rim, a razor blade normally used for shaving, is sewed into the lining. CANADA LEE An autograph, huh? Orson is on his feet, surrounded by Houseman, his wife Virginia, and other men in tails. ORSON Throw him out. I'm fine, Virginia. Canada Lee smashes his fist into the aggressor, and he is then carried out unconscious through the lobby doors. ORSON Canada, don't forget you've got a show tonight. The lobby is packed with the glitterati, who have come up 7th Avenue into the mean streets of Harlem for one night only. Sumptuous dresses, silk gowns, chocolate truffle scarves, pink lemonade gloves and cucumber hats. EXT. THEATRE, HARLEM - OPENING NIGHT 1936 The attacker is thrown into the gutter by Canada Lee and company. The line of glitterati spills out onto the curb and flows into the street. Traffic is stopped out there. Curious audience members stand in line and watch as Canada kicks the unconscious man several times before re-entering the theatre. NERVOUS MAN Probably deserves it, huh? LADY I'll say. The anxious shrill of her laughter is drowned out by a brass band, playing a full tilt Charleston number in the middle of the street. Hallie Flanagan is handing out leaflets to members of the glitterati. HALLIE FLANAGAN Come to the meeting. Support the Arts in New York city. We need your support. A warm April evening. Laughter and singing. An event is occurring. The Harlem Communists are still there, picketing the performance, chanting slogans, carrying banners. Expensive avocado colored cars drive up, as more glittering gowns step out, hands held by men in coat tails. Meanwhile... INT. THEATRE LOBBY, HARLEM - OPENING NIGHT 1936 We find Orson in mid-flow, welcoming his many, many friends and a few enemies. ORSON Ah, Jean, may I introduce you to a very influential gentleman here in Harlem, our very own church filling crowd pleaser Adam Clayton Powell, III. Adam, this is Jean Cocteau... ADAM CLAYTON POWELL III The artist, yes, I've admired your films, very sensual, very lascivious. JEAN COCTEAU You are a sensualist, monsieur? But I thought you were a churchman? ADAM CLAYTON POWELL III Ah, monsieur, there are the lambs, and rules are created for them, their lot is obedience, and then there are the wolves, the leaders of the pack, and I would be amiss in my duty as a seeker of Truth, and indeed a hypocrite if I were to deny my own, shall we say, darker instincts... JEAN COCTEAU I hope you will tell me more about zis after ze performance... ADAM CLAYTON POWELL III I look forward to it. ORSON And so do I, you old dog. HOUSEMAN We have to get people seated, it's 8.45 Already. Show's supposed to go up now, Canada Lee, backstage now. CANADA LEE Orson? You cool? ORSON Oh, yeah. HOUSEMAN Backstage now. I'll have to make an announcement. ORSON Relax, for crissakes, Iago darling. You seem to have acquired an unfortunate habit of not enjoying your life. You've got one of 'em. Don't throw it away. HOUSEMAN I'll make an announcement. I can't. Will you? Make an announcement. Please. ORSON Ladies and Gentlemen. Silence please. My name is Orson Welles. I'm the director of this extravaganza. Dear Harlem gangs. Dear black bourgeoisie. Dear terribly chic crowd from downtown. The show must begin. Kindly take your seats, the natives are getting restless. Laughter, and the crowd continues to force its constipated path into the theatre and to each well tailored member's respective seat. Percy Hammond, critic for the Herald Tribune, approaches. PERCY HAMMOND Mr. Welles? ORSON Yes, my good man? PERCY HAMMOND I'm Percy Hammond. ORSON Percy, darling! Welcome! Have you everything you want. Had a drink at the bar? PERCY HAMMOND I don't drink. ORSON Ah, well, nobody's perfect, eh? May I introduce you to the celebrated Jean Cocteau. Jean, this is Percy Hammond, critic for the Herald Tribune. PERCY HAMMOND I am delighted. Delighted. JEAN COCTEAU Monsieur. PERCY HAMMOND So, are you looking forward to the show? JEAN COCTEAU Oh but of course. PERCY HAMMOND Me too, haven't seen a production of Macbeth in, oh, several years now. ORSON Oh no no no no no. PERCY HAMMOND What? ORSON You can't say that. PERCY HAMMOND What? ORSON The Scottish Play. You mentioned the Scottish Play. By name. Inside a theatre. No. No no no. PERCY HAMMOND You don't really believe that superstitious tripe, do you? ORSON Yes, I do. I do. You have no idea. The terrible cloud that has hung over us for the entire rehearsal period. It's so oppressive. Terrifying, stays with you all day and even at night in your bed. Keeps me awake at night. PERCY HAMMOND Things go wrong? ORSON You help make them go wrong. You can't help it. If those forces are conjured up, the play has a terrible magic in it. Jack. HOUSEMAN Yes, Orson? ORSON You must get some salt. HOUSEMAN Salt? ORSON Yes, Mr. Hammond has mentioned the Scottish Play by name. He must make the appropriate ritualistic amends. PERCY HAMMOND Ritualistic amends? You must be kidding? ORSON Oh no. No no. I'm not smiling, am I? PERCY HAMMOND No. ORSON No. PERCY HAMMOND Where's my seat, I'm going in. Sounds like a lot of mumbo jumbo to me. ORSON How dare you, sir. The mumbo jumbo you are so obscenely referring to is William Shakespeare, sir, the holy ghost of William Shakespeare, greatest writer in the English language. Now step outside and perform the necessary ritual. PERCY HAMMOND And what might that be? ORSON Step outside, turn around three times, each time throwing a pinch of salt over each shoulder, and sing "I love William Shakespeare" at the top of your lungs. PERCY HAMMOND That's absurd. ORSON I'm afraid I can't let you into the theatre without it. HOUSEMAN Orson, really. Silence. Percy Hammond breaks. PERCY HAMMOND But of course I shall. Good joke, Orson. Hahahaha. Good joke. You artists. You're a funny lot. INT. LADY MACBETH'S DRESSING ROOM - OPENING NIGHT Orson enters, beaming. The room is blossoming with flower bouquets and good luck cards. EDNA THOMAS Dear Orson, I'm concerned about Jack. ORSON How are you, my darling? EDNA THOMAS The dress? ORSON Oh, exquisite. You are transcendent. My Earth Mother. EDNA THOMAS I'm concerned about Jack. These delays unnerve him. forty five minutes, Orson. ORSON I've just been to see him and he's cool as a cucumber. EDNA THOMAS Oh. ORSON Break a leg, darling. EDNA THOMAS Come to me at intermission? ORSON Of course. Orson offers her a swig from the flask. EDNA THOMAS Orson, darling, I'm a professional actress. But I'll have a glass of champagne when the curtain comes down. Is your darling wife here? INT. MACBETH'S DRESSING ROOM - OPENING NIGHT Jack Carter stands naked before his full length mirror, staring at himself. Orson enters and closes the door. Jack never takes his eyes off himself. ORSON Well, I've fulfilled my side of the bargain, Jack. They're all out there. Now go out and be that great tyrant in decay, who knows good wine and loses the taste for it. JACK CARTER I can't do it, Orson. ORSON 'Course you can. You were born to play this man. This man is you, Jack. Look at yourself. Trust me, Jack. Here. Orson opens a flask, takes a shot and hands it to Jack. Jack takes a shot. Then another. JACK CARTER Aaggh. I can't wait any longer. Get the curtain up. Aaagh. ORSON That's the spirit. Break a leg. Orson winks and lifts the flask to his lips. Drinks. INT. STUDY - NIGHT, 1985 The old Orson takes that same flask away from his lips. Studies the flask, now battered and rusty. He chuckles. WELLES It was a triumph, dear boy. A triumph. He puts the flask down on the desk. There, scattered across it are old black and white photos of the opening night, so many years ago. And the newspaper reviews. He picks them up and reads. WELLES 'As an experiment in Afro-American showmanship the Macbeth fairly rocked the Lafayette theatre. If it is witches you want, Harlem knows how to overwhelm you with their fury and phantom splendor.' The New York Times. And the Daily News; 'a spectacular theatre experience. This West Indian Macbeth is the most colorful, certainly the most startling, of any performance that gory tragedy has been given on this continent'...ah, yes, Percy Hammond. He took his revenge. A mirror cracks. Welles looks up. In its broken reflection, a ghostly apparition. Percy Hammond begins to speak, a ghost from the past. PERCY HAMMOND What surprised me last night was the inability of so melodious a race to sing the music of Shakespeare. The actors sounded the notes with a muffled timidity that was often unintelligible. Welles turns to see Percy Hammond's ghost behind him. But he's not there. His voice calls out to Welles, who turns back, and there he is. Still inside the mirror. PERCY HAMMOND Tell them what happened then, Orson. The ghost of William Shakespeare, was it? Welles turns and looks into the camera. WELLES I can't do this. Behind the camera which Welles at 70 is staring into, the young boy's face appears. BOY OK, cut. Cut. The camera crew begin to reset. Make-up approaches an exhausted old Welles, and wipes his sweating brow. The 9 year old Orson looks impatiently at the old man in the mirror. BOY I need this shot, Orson. WELLES Kane, Arkadin, Falstaff, Harry Lime, Othello, Macbeth, you know most of the big characters I've played are various forms of Faust, whom I've also played, on stage, and I am against every form of Faust because I believe it's impossible for a man to be great without admitting that there's something greater than himself, whether it's the law, or God, or art...I have played a whole line of egotists, and I detest egotism. But of course, in all these characters there is something of Orson Welles. And when I play someone I hate, I try to be chivalrous to the enemy. I hate all dogmas which deny humanity the least of its privileges. If some belief requires denouncing something human, I detest it. BOY The tragic hero is always something of a villain. In my books. Can we try again? WELLES I suppose we must. For art's sake. Just...don't bring the camera too close, I beg you. BOY It's a medium shot, Orson. WELLES Yeah. Dante's Divine comedy. Close ups and long shots are tragedy's domain. Harrumph. He clears his throat and looks back into the mirror. Reflected is the crew, preparing for the shot. And the actor playing Percy Hammond, smoking a cigarette. Smiling strangely at Welles. He speaks; PERCY HAMMOND They seemed to be afraid of the Bard... INT. WATSON'S BAR AND GRILL - 1936, 2ND NIGHT After their second night performance, they appear to have taken over the bar, all 130 cast and crew. The atmosphere is joyous, successful. Orson delivers the bad review with dramatic amplomb. ORSON "They seemed to be afraid of the Bard, though they were playing him on home grounds. De luxe boondoggling." EDNA THOMAS How nasty. ORSON No such thing as bad publicity. CANADA LEE I'll take care of him. ORSON It'll only stir up more interest, and sell more tickets, relax everybody, it's one rotten review in a handful of great ones, let's paint the night red! Come on! Drink up! It's on the Houseman. HOUSEMAN Really Orson, last night's party cost a pretty packet, I can't bleed the profits dry like this every night, we're setting a bad precedent here. Orson hugs Houseman with drunken affection. ORSON John. Dear John. Have you heard the tale of the scorpion and the frog? Frog was basking by the river, up came scorpion. Hey, Frog. Hmm? Said frog. Frog, let me climb on your back and carry me to the other side of this here mentioned river. I'm not naive, said, frog. If I let you get on my back, you'll sting me. And I'll drown. Talk sense, frog, said scorpion. If I sting you we'll both sink in the river and drown. Now why would I wanna do that? Guess so, shrugged the frog, that does make sense, hop on, so on crawled the scorpion and off across the river hopped the frog until suddenly, bam! The scorpion stings the frog. And as the frog sinks into the strong river current, carrying them both to their death, the frog croaks, now why did you go and do that? Now we're both gonna die. Can't help it, shrugged the scorpion, as he went under, it's my nature. It's my nature. Suddenly, Jack Carter upturns the table with a violently drunken roar. Drinks go flying. Smashing to the ground. A scream. JACK CARTER Motherfucker. I will tear that motherfucker's throat open and piss in it. Motherfucker. ORSON Hey, Jack. Silence. Jack breathes heavily, his eyes swivel dangerously toward Orson, an enraged rhinoceros. ORSON Jack. Whatever is wrong? JACK CARTER You promised me. You motherfucker. Listen to this. He rips at a page from the papers. Reads. JACK CARTER "Jack Carter seemed a bit too conscious of his handsome physique and a bit closer to the Emperor Jones than Macbeth." And this. "As Macbeth, Jack Carter is a fine figure of a negro in tight-fitting trousers that do justice to his anatomy. He has no command of poetry or character." You motherfuckers. ORSON Jack, there's ladies present. Come on. Let's take a walk. Jack. Jack Carter lets Orson take him by the hand and lead him out of the bar. At a table, a group of the African drummers speak in their dialect. The word "voodoo" is repeated several times, and nods of agreement. One of them produces a doll and proceeds to wrap it in the black and white print words of Percy Hammond, critic for the Herald Tribune. INT. STUDY - 1985, NIGHT The same words in print that the 70 year old Welles holds in his hand now. He looks into the mirror. The reflection of Percy Hammond's ghost watches him. So too, the 35mm camera which is gently humming as 26 frames a second capture the moment. EXT. THEATRE, HARLEM - MIDNIGHT, 1936 A full moon shines bright over New York city tonight. INT. THEATRE, HARLEM - MIDNIGHT, 1936 The party is still in full swing, for those with the stamina for it. Canada Lee and Jack Carter wrestle aggressively on the stage. Drummers are drumming, singers are chanting. The atmosphere is tribal. Primitive. Prostitutes are getting drunk on champagne in the aisles. Bodies have already passed out in seats and on mattresses. Sex is happening in dark corners. One of the African drummers is talking to a very drunk Orson Welles, who is presently sprawled out across the stage like a gargantuan baby. He seems to be in a semi-trance. AFRICAN VOODOO PRIEST We can put a curse on this man. Voodoo. ORSON Mmn hmn. AFRICAN VOODOO PRIEST We will make him very sick. He will die. ORSON Are you sure that's entirely necessary? AFRICAN VOODOO PRIEST Yes. Bad man. Bad man. Voodoo. ORSON Yeah. Well. Why not put a hex on the Houseman while you're at it. Oh, I can't even think about him without getting depressed. AFRICAN VOODOO PRIEST But you must take blame for his death, yes? ORSON Mnm hmn. Orson nods and winks devilishly. AFRICAN VOODOO PRIEST You are killing him. He holds up the voodoo doll of Percy Hammond and places the first pin into it. He smiles. Golden teeth wink back. Orson breaks out into Mephistophelian laughter. INT. STUDY - 1985 Welles and Percy Hammond watch each other through the mirror. The laughter now belongs to Percy Hammond. VIRGINIA (V.O.) Orson, come home. INT. THEATRE - 1936 Virginia stands over Orson, who opens his glazed eyes. VIRGINIA Orson, please come home. ORSON Virginia darling, I'm bonding with my actors. Please be as understanding as I know you are capable of being. I adore you. Virginia's tears begin to bubble down her cheeks. The poor heartbroken girl with her false idol sprawled out before her. VIRGINIA I thought you were the one. ORSON I am. The one. The. One. And only. Go home. I love you. Go home. VIRGINIA I will go home. ORSON Home to mummy and daddy. VIRGINIA Is that what you want? ORSON They never fucking liked me anyway. VIRGINIA Is that what you want, Orson? ORSON Yes! Go home! Get off my back! I can't keep sucking at the tit of human kindness. I'm not good enough for you, am I? I'm staying right here. I'm not coming with you. Go. Ah. Fuck it. Fuck the lot of you. He stands drunkenly centre-stage and begins to rant at his cast members. ORSON I come with nobody! I am a free spirit! Free spirit! I am Faust! Get up! Canada, Jack. Get up! Get out! Everybody out! I want an empty theatre. I love empty theatres. Clear off, the lot of ya. I come with nobody! His behaviour is so enraged, that silence ensues, and people actually begin to exit. INT. STUDY - 1985 Welles studies a drawing of San Sebastian, riddled with arrows. Everybody watching him, camera rolling. INT. THEATRE - LATER Orson stands on stage. Alone. ORSON I love an empty theatre. His foot knocks against the voodoo doll. He picks it up. It is covered in chicken blood, and punctured with nails. Orson looks into the camera. EXT. NEW YORK CITY - NIGHT The moon, hovering over the 1936 skyline. INT. PERCY HAMMOND'S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS The moonlight crawls up across Percy Hammond's sleeping face. Like a hand, caressing each feature gently, so gently; lips, nose, eyelids. The music is building, building, the tension is unbearable. The music stops as Percy Hammond's eyes open. EXT. CENTRAL PARK - 1936, NIGHT In the distance, the unmistakable presence of Orson Welles, cursing at the moon. He has quite literally raised Hell. INT. STUDY - 1985 Orson gazes into the camera. A tired figure. WELLES An optimist is someone incapable of understanding what it is to adore the impossible. I'm a part time idealist. Which makes me a pessimist rest of the time. But, like Cyrano de Bergerac, my nose is intact, and I can still appreciate a decent bottle of wine, one glass only. I don't drink now. However, my taste in pictures appears to have passed its sell-by-date. Some say before my time, I don't know. I rather identify myself with old Don Quixote. How could he ever be contemporary? But he's alive somehow and he's riding that mule down the highways of Los Angeles, and across the dusty plains of La Mancha, stopping off at the chic water holes along the Croisette, Cannes film festival for a Palme d'Or, when was that? '53? An aristocrat in exile obsessed with the irrelevant virtues of grace and gallantry. Did I tell you about the sequel to that Martian broadcast, "War of the Worlds"? Which sent the country into a blind panic. They actually believed it. Those who weren't sleeping, anyway. This was four years later. December 7th, 1941. That morning I had a patriotic broadcast and I was interrupted in the middle of it. I was reading Walt Whitman, on how beautiful America was, when they announced that Pearl Harbor had been attacked by the Japanese. Now doesn't that sound like me trying to pull the wool over the eyes of Americans again? Roosevelt sent me a wire about it. Something about "crying wolf". I can't think of any more dialogue today... BOY And cut. WELLES Can we clear the set? BOY Everybody clear the set. Now! The crew members begin to exit the study. WELLES So yes. One week later, the poor bugger died. Pneumonia, I think it was. Made something up, I guess. Medical establishment thinks it has all the answers but that one must've stumped them. Haven't you got your damn picture yet? BOY We're almost done. Few more set ups. WELLES Set ups, Christ, saps all the juice up, this waiting around for a cloud or sunlight, I just keep shooting, there's an energy see, that the actors possess, and you don't want to lose the focus of momentum, like some great Sisyphean rock we're all pushing up the mountain, perhaps we're just like those ancient Egyptian slaves, still building our pyramids. The study is now abandoned except for the two of them. BOY What are you working on these days? WELLES Oh, still trying to raise the end money for that picture. "Other Side of the Wind." Got another script, called "The Big Brass Ring". Sent it to Beatty, Nicholson, uh...few other movie stars, but they just won't touch it. I think they object to playing a homosexual senator running for President. Then there's my script about the making of "The Cradle Will Rock", got a young man, Rupert Everett to play me, gonna be a big star, and Amy Irving, you know, Spielberg's wife, as Virginia. Took Mr. Close Encounters to lunch at le Dome the other day, and I enthralled him with my raconteur wit but he wouldn't give me a cent for the film, can you imagine? I even cast his wife. Lead role. And I had to pick up the cheque. It's been seven years since my last film came out. I'm finished in this town. A has been. Studios haven't given me a job since 1958. I can't even get on the lot nowdays. And I was friends with all the big brass, Jack Warner, Cohn, Louis B. Mayer, Zanuck. All gone now. BOY You're highly respected in Europe. WELLES But it's not where the money is, is it? Not the big bucks needed to make a film nowadays, not when you're competing with conglomerate summer blockbusters, great big sharks just swallow us up like sardines. BOY Retire from the ring. WELLES A boxing analogy. Yeah, I'm an over the hill heavyweight. Just embarrassing myself every time I step in there now. But I get so depressed. Bored. Keep taking one more shot. Just one more shot. It's a sickness you know. A disease, some restless mercurial spirit in me that won't let me be. All those voices in me. All in the past. Gone forever. Glory days, I was too busy moving onto the next conquest to enjoy what I had before me, a shark can never rest you know, or it dies, so it just swims along in the silent seas, consuming everything before it. I was the big fish. All such an illusion, youth. The Elvis Presleys, the Deans, the Rat Packs. Sands of Time. Running out always. Can't go back and right the wrongs. Ever. But I transformed the fear into folly. Like a good alchemist must, and I've made it the vocation of a lifetime. What was that? For the boy has surreptitiously turned off the camera. BOY Gary must've left the camera rolling. WELLES You've been filming me unawares. That's unforgiveable. BOY Whatever it takes, Orson, you know that. WELLES Cold blooded. Ambitiously reptilian. BOY Yes. Was Houseman the scorpion you referred to? Or was he the frog you stung and as you went under together, did you regret for an instant, the nature of self, self, self? WELLES Last time I saw the Houseman, Chasens, sometime in the early fifties? Hadn't seen him in years, supposed to be a reunion, perhaps an occasion to scheme up something together again. Well. The meal ended rather abruptly when I started lighting napkins and tossing them in his direction. Last time I saw the old codger. He was my Iago, you know. BOY May 6, 1915. WELLES Taurus. The old minotaur, crashing around the rest of them stars like a bull in a tinkling china shop. Disrupting the Balance. Ravaging virgin twins in the night. Stamping out all the little scorpions scuttling around in the Hollywood desert, feasting on crab claws, devouring all the little fish in the sea, yearning still for the impossible to arrive. As professor Freud said, "I owe nature a death." To conclude... BOY Yes. WELLES This emphasis on the artist himself, this glorification of the artist is one of the bad turnings civilization has taken in the last two hundred years. In other words, the whole purpose of a picture like this is what I quarrel with. BOY You don't like the picture? WELLES I detest this analysis. Who did what when? Who takes credit for this or that act. Who cares how Orson Welles felt about his mother or what he said to some critic in 1936? It's a waste of time. Hold up a mirror to nature, that's what Shakespeare said. Teaching isn't just stuffing a lot of useless information down some unfortunate kid's throat. If you don't know something about the nature to which you're holding up the mirror, how limited your picture must be. The more directors pay homage to each other, to films, not to life, the more they are approximating a series of mirrors reflecting each other. Like in "The Lady from Shanghai". A picture is the reflection of the entire culture of the man who makes it. His education, human knowledge, his breadth of understanding. BOY A director is the Creator. WELLES Sure. And must always remain a slightly ambiguous figure, after all, because so much of what he signs his name to came from elsewhere. The best moments are mere accidents over which he presides. The good fortune he receives. The State of Grace. BOY And the mechanics of film-making... WELLES Can be taught over a weekend. BOY Gregg Toland taught you in a weekend for Citizen Kane. WELLES Yep. The rest is what you bring to the machinery. BOY Who you are. WELLES The angle at which you hold that mirror. Welles holds up a mirror, and angles it so that we can suddenly see an entire audience, out there, listening to the Master, Orson Welles. His audience is made up of all the figures we have come to know; Jack Carter, Edna Thomas, Houseman, Abe Feder, the Harlem communists, Jean Cocteau, Canada Lee. INT. THEATRE, HARLEM - 1936 The twenty year old Orson, cleaned up, smooth-faced baby killer, smiles, as he holds the mirror to the audience, reflecting them in the stage lights, as he sits there, addressing them. ORSON What's finally interesting is not the romantic tilt or spastic quirk at which you hold it, but what the mirror has to show back to you. Human nature. Good and evil lurks inside. Long before the terrible blow that creates the crime thriller, is thrown. The subject, not the technique. Not that I'm attacking technique. But it is in fact the angle of the mirror that is determined by moral, aesthetic, and ideological orientation. The mirror just is. We must take some stand. Choose an angle, when I step into a room, I make immediate gut choices. Trust your instinct. The rest is intellectual posturing, or worst, spineless covering of every angle, at the pace of a turtle. I'm saying be the hare. You can fit in a very pleasant nap here and there. The audience laughs appreciatively. Orson Welles notices that the audience is wearing late seventies clothing. ORSON And I cannot abide surrealism. We'll have none of that. The walls may be paper thin, but ignoring them just leads us down a lot of meaningless dead ends, confounds the senses, to what end? Like sacrificial victims to the slaughter of common-sense. Percy Hammond, the interviewer, asks another question. PERCY HAMMOND And what of your parents? Did they see the show? ORSON Next question. PERCY HAMMOND You're such a brilliant genius, Orson, isn't it a cross to bear sometimes? ORSON Oh shut up, Percy, or I'll have you thrown out of the theatre for good, I haven't forgotten your review for The Scottish Play, and I will be revenged. PERCY HAMMOND What a joker, ladies and gents. One last question. If you get through the pearly gates, what would you like to hear God say to you? Silence. Orson stares at Percy. The evil eye. Percy becomes uncomfortable. He begins to cough uncontrollably. He falls off his chair and people rush onto the stage. Orson just watches as Percy Hammond chokes to death right on stage in the Lafayette theatre. Orson looks up. The African voodoo priest flashes that golden grin at him. When Orson looks back down, Percy Hammond is dead. And the cast all look to Orson for a reaction. Orson bolts from the stage and down the aisle. Out the doors. EXT. THEATRE, HARLEM - 1936, DAY Bursting through the front doors and sprinting off down Seventh Avenue in broad daylight, as pedestrians turn to watch him fly. EXT. GREENWICH VILLAGE BUILDING - LATER Orson bangs through the front door of the building. INT. GREENWICH VILLAGE STAIRCASE - MOMENTS LATER Bounding up the stairs, four at a time, sweating like a desperate man. INT. GREENWICH VILLAGE APARTMENT - CONTINUOUS Smashing through the front door, dishevelled, panting for breath, wild eyed. ORSON Virginia? Virginia? He stalks down the corridor. INT. ORSON'S BEDROOM - LATER He is sitting back to us, on the corner of the bed. Silent. Virginia's affairs are gone. He holds a note from her in one hand. We can see only from the ink that has run and blurred these farewell words, that Orson has wept. Perhaps he is still weeping. How can we be sure? The silence is deafening. And nothing stirs in this lonely room. VIRGINIA (V.O.) Orson, darling. You are a rare man who has been given a gift. A magic wand of sorts. But be ever so careful what you wish for. It may come true. And so the gift can become a curse, my magician, my exotic bird, my Orson the Manificent, fly away. Farewell. His fist crumples the letter into a ball. He releases the ball of paper and it drops to the floor. INT. STUDY - 1985 A hand picks up the crumpled ball and flattens it out. Our seventy year old Orson Welles gazes at it for a moment, then places it into a manila file which he closes. WELLES I feel as if I'm some terrible monster on trial. Maybe I'm innocent. But I've had recurring nightmares of guilt all my life. I'm in prison and I don't know why. I'm going to be tried and beheaded and I don't know why. What terrible crime have I committed? What dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil...Because dreams are somehow magic. We create entire worlds in our dreams, filled with people we've never seen, places we've never been, worlds that echo and hum with memories we've never experienced, and yet there they are, they are real. Like some terrible dream. That's what a picture is. Public dreamtime. Perhaps that's what being an actor is. All these people inside me; Brutus, Faust, Quinlan, Kane, Macbeth, Harry Lime, Falstaff, there are very few actors who make you believe they can think outside of a scene, Scofield is one of them, he possesses a very strong internal map, or perhaps he's possessed by it, and without it, an actor can really get lost in here because in films certainly, everything is shot out of sequence. I've never been rich enough to shoot in sequence. And that's the director's only real job...it's to help the actor to read that inner road map if you will and to bring it out of them. You have to make an actor believe he's better than he is. Give him arrogance. He really has to think he's great, in order to reach deep within, you know, the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns. Anything else is self indulgence to the point of narcissism on the part of the director. Hitchcock hated actors. Most of the bad pictures out there suffer from uninspired performances by misdirected actors. Welles, the old man is talking to Orson, the 20 year old, dressed up in priestly robes. PRIEST Don't you want to make your confession? You have only minutes left. A pause. The old man eyes this young priest warily. He turns to the camera. WELLES No, you see, this isn't going to work. It's miscast, see? We should simply reverse the roles and the scene will cook. BOY Cut. WELLES Well, that's my opinion, it strikes me as ludicrous that a seventy year old man should be confessing his deeds before they behead the poor old bastard. He needs to be young. He needs principles, ideals, good looks, youth, a movie star's virile ambiguity. Come on kid. Take some advice from the fat man. BOY Goddamn it Orson, you're not directing this picture, I am. You're hired as an actor, we're wasting time and money while you argue for complicated shots, while you suggest editing points and now you want to recast the priest? WELLES No. I'll play the priest. And he plays me. Try it. BOY OK. Orson. Just this once. I'm gonna let you take the reins. Go ahead. Direct a scene. But this one time only. No visits to the editing room. No more pages of notes on tomorrow's schedule, no no no. WELLES Very well. You there. ORSON Me? WELLES Yeah, you. What's your name? Never mind, sit here. ORSON Where? WELLES Take off the priestly robes. Hand 'em to me. Sit there. ORSON Here? The 70 year old sits the 20 year old in his spot. The 9 year old looks on, as does the small crew. WELLES I'll tell you what, strike this scene, too much intellectual garbage, let's go outside, the sun is out, good time to shoot the final walk up to the guillotine. Yeah. You. ORSON Me? WELLES Yeah, kid, take off the shirt. The 20 year old takes off his shirt. He is flabby. Orson looks disappointed. WELLES Put it back on, wardrobe, tear it a little, dramatic flair is the vision. Come on! EXT. COURTYARD, FRANCE - 1789 Or so the set suggests. A crowd is gathered to watch the beheading. The 70 year old seems to stride up the gangway, kicking up hay and dust. God, he loves directing. WELLES I want it messy, not pristine. How are you there, Gary? GARY GRAVER, DP Good sir. WELLES Got a good night's rest? This shot's going to be a killer. GARY GRAVER, DP I can't wait sir. WELLES I want the camera up here. He bestrides the wooden stage at the centre of the courtyard. He peers up into the glinting blue sky. A dark shadow leers back at him, the shimmering blade of the guillotine, poised high up; fast down. WELLES First shot. What's the line? ORSON It is a far far better thing I do now than I have ever done. WELLES And then? Not too long the pause, don't overindulge me, I'm fat enough already, carry on. ORSON It is a far far better world I go to than I have ever known. The 70 year old director eyes a flock of crows circling noisily in the distance. WELLES Yes. The moral courage. Having lived the life of a true gentleman, who lives by codes of honor. Grace. Gallantry. I want the crows to be left where they are, they are a gift from God on this solemn occasion, he is the ultimate painter of the landscape, his poetry far outshines ours, sound department, kindly refrain from chasing them away, I will simply loop later... SOUNDMAN But I only wanted to... WELLES Yours is not the centre of existence, you are an orbiting moon. Mercury rules over the retrograde. Come on. Where are we? GARY GRAVER, DP We're ready to shoot Orson. Indeed, the camera is set up. WELLES Damn it Graver, stop reading my mind. How did you know I wanted to shoot his approach first? GARY GRAVER, DP Leave the dramatic climax for last, sir. Icing on the cake. WELLES OK, now, Orson, I want you to run back to the entrance over there and when I call action just walk like a man, no character stuff here, just approach the...ahem...guillotine with the dignity of a man who's not afraid of losing his ego because he's already let it go. Thank you. ORSON Mr. Welles? WELLES What is it? Come on now. ORSON Why am I walking to the guillotine? WELLES Well who else is going to do it? Me? Come on now. ORSON Yes but. WELLES Just do it. I'll tell you when you get here. 20 year old Orson is hurried away by hair and make-up, as they fuss over him. 75 year old Mr. Welles sits in his director's chair. Someone lights his cigar, and he puffs contentedly. WELLES Let's shoot. GARY GRAVER, DP Turn over. SOUND MAN Speed. Welles shouts at the crowd of extras surrounding the guillotine. WELLES I want you to boo and hiss and catcall, laugh, scream. OK? Silence. Don't forget to throw the fruit and cabbage begin to throw it...and are you ready Orson? Action! The crowd erupts. Orson walks through the crowd, pelted by fruit and vegetables, booed, hissed, somebody spits on him. He climbs the stairs to the guillotine, walks right into the camera. 70 year old Welles' mouth is ogre wide, screaming. WELLES Cut! Moving on! The crowd erupts in applause for the old man who has stood up, and takes a bow. His myth is a circus elephant. WELLES Beautiful reserve, Orson, I detest it when I see an actor hamming it up, makes me want to retch, the stink of weaning ambition, what was it the Bard said? "oh it offends me to the soul to hear a perriwig pated fellow tear a passion to tatter, to very rags." OK. ORSON Could someone untie my hands please, the ropes are very tight. WELLES Nonsense, no time for that, my dear boy, we're moving on, guerrilla warfare, hit and run. Now, somebody grab a quick insert of those crows. Orson. Pay attention. Put your head on the block and let's frame up. You look like a sturdy fellow. He is speaking to the masked man. A tiny fellow with no physical presence. WELLES Good God, we can't have this. Find me a bigger fellow. Orson's head is on the block. Welles takes out a light metre and sticks it in Orson's face. Reads the light. ORSON But I haven't said the line. I said it but don't we need the close-up? WELLES Close-up? Christ. If you're not man enough to say it in a wideshot, then I'm not man enough to shoot it in close-up. We'll loop the voice later. ORSON I'll say it here. WELLES No! Absolutely no. We had that shot. This is the next deal. Now I need the moment where you very nearly break. ORSON I'll very nearly break right now if someone doesn't untie my hands immediately. WELLES We're ready to shoot. ORSON I'm not ready to shoot! WELLES It's not the whole thing. Just this section up to the blade coming down. ORSON Not the beheading? WELLES God no, we'll have to rig a dummy for that. Let's shoot. ORSON So I can take a break? WELLES Sure. After the shot. Ready? ORSON Yes. Ready. GARY GRAVER, DP Turning. SOUND MAN Speed. WELLES Action. Welles, sitting in his chair, watches closely as Orson is forced down, his head placed on the guillotine block. The machine being locked into place around his neck. WELLES Cut. Orson. "Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor, suit the action to the word, the word to the action" you're getting your head chopped off here, be a little more open about this, a little more honest. ORSON It's very uncomfortable with this contraption around my neck and I don't enjoy being manhandled so roughly. WELLES It's for art's sake, boy. An actor must find it in him to die a thousand deaths should it be required of him. Come on. Gimme more. OK? ORSON OK. OK. Come on, let's shoot this. God, I hate acting. WELLES We're all whores, darling. The only subtle detail is are you getting paid your price? ORSON I am. WELLES Then why complain? One easy ride begets another. ORSON Said the scorpion to the frog. WELLES How's Houseman? See him often do you? ORSON Don't even talk bout him. How depressing. WELLES He was my Iago. ORSON I can see it coming a mile away. That pompous sense of self-importance. Welles chortles with laughter. Orson cackles. Welles suddenly frowns and claps his hands. WELLES OK OK, no letting up here, I want to get this scene in the can before nightfall, and I really cannot abide this little masked man. I need a big brawny fellow or the audience will start to giggle. BOY There's no-one else. It's one of those obstacles, sir, let's see one of those famous improvisations of yours. Welles eyes the nine year old Orson, then begins to take off his jacket and hat. He gestures to the masked man. WELLES Come on, give me your mask. Welles is stripping down to his trousers, the audience around the guillotine begin to cheer and laugh. WELLES I'll play the damn role myself. Another unfortunate cameo in one of my no budget pictures. ORSON Well, if this is going to take a few minutes, I'd just as soon get up and have a smoke. WELLES Leave him there. Light him a smoke, put it between his lips. ORSON Excuse me? Are you breaking union rules here, Mr. Welles? WELLES Fuck the unions! We have to get the shot and move on here. Hit and run. ORSON Let me up! Let me up! Orson is screaming. Someone has put a cigarette between his lips. He spits it out, furious. ORSON Let me up this instant. I insist. Do you have any idea who you are fucking with? I'm Orson Welles. WELLES No, I'm Orson Welles. ORSON I'm Orson Welles. This is insane. Welles is a frightening sight, bare-chested and mammoth. The mask his over his head. Only his eyes peer out. He picks up Orson roughly. WELLES Now let's get this over with. Gary, have you got second camera ready? GARY GRAVER, DP I'm with ya, Orson. WELLES Then I don't need to tell you to focus it in on the guillotine blade and carry that shot down as the blade drops? GARY GRAVER, DP Nope. WELLES And see if you can't swing into the shot and catch that flock of crows. GARY GRAVER, DP Yep. Orson stares with horror at the second camera, pointed up into the blue sky. He stares up at the ominous glinting shadow of the blade. WELLES The perfect shot, hey? Orson looks back into the fierce eyes of the masked Mr. Welles. ORSON B...b..but I thought you were going to rig a dummy for that shot? WELLES You're the dummy. Welles laughs madly. Orson screams. WELLES Come on, boy. I detest ham. ORSON This is some horrible nightmare and I'm going to wake up any second. GARY GRAVER, DP Camera ready. WELLES OK, come on now. Pull it back inside. Do you know where God is? In you. Not another world. In Never Never Land, no, in you, you'll wake up and look down on this scene, a masterful wide shot will pull away into the sky, unfortunately I haven't the budget for renting helicopters, so we'll have to improvise probably with a balloon or a rope-pulley system, something. ORSON The Kingdom of Heaven is within. WELLES After all, one has to search for that forgiveness in one's own heart, eh? Where all our battles must be fought. GARY GRAVER, DP Turn over camera one. OTHER CAMERAMAN Turn over camera two. SOUND MAN Speed. WELLES Action. The old Welles manhandles Orson into the cutting block. Straps him into the neck brace. Stands back and begins to untie the rope which controls the guillotine blade. Silence. Orson is brave. He looks at the faces in the crowd. There they are, in 1789 peasant clothing. Or as aristocrats. Houseman, Jack Carter, Canada Lee, the Harlem communists, Abe Feder, etc... There too is Virginia, who looks at him from the discretion of a carriage. He smiles sadly at her. And she back. Closes her curtain. The carriage draws away. And there too is Percy Hammond. But it is his head. Lying in the bucket beneath him. The previous head cut off, dried blood spattered across him. But his eyes are open and he's smiling right at Orson. A lifeless grimace. Revenge at last, says the dead one. A metallic grating sound from above. The second camera follows the blade down, faster and faster. Orson's face is peaceful as CHUNK! Darkness. WELLES (V.O.) The Medusa's eye. Know what I mean? Yeah. Somebody once told me about that. Maybe it's true. The eye behind the camera. Maybe it's an evil eye at that. There were some Berbers once up in the Atlas Mountains that wouldn't let me even point a camera at them. They think it dries something up in the soul. Who knows? Maybe it can. Aim too long at something. Stare too hard. Drain out the virtue. Suck out the living juices. The girls and boys, even the places, I've shot 'em all. Shot 'em dead. INT. ORSON'S BEDROOM - 1936 He opens his eyes. Silence, except for the traffic outside the window. His eyes watch the warm breeze blow the curtains in gently. His eyes shift to the fan in the ceiling. Turning, turning slowly, the blades slicing through air. The ceiling just stares back. INT. ORSON'S BEDROOM, GRAND DETOUR - PRE-DAWN 1924 The nine year old boy opens his eyes. The fan in the ceiling is slicing, slicing. His eyes shift to the open window. A summer breeze blows the curtains out. He rises up and goes to the window. Looks out. EXT. HOTEL, GRAND DETOUR, ILLINOIS - PRE-DAWN 1924 The young boy is still in his Paradise. It was just a bad dream. INT. HOTEL BALLROOM, ATTIC - PRE-DAWN 1924 As ghostly music from a bygone era haunts our ears, the nine year old Orson Welles waltzes around and around the dusty old boards with an invisible lover. In a corner, the spectre of the 75 year old Maestro, sits and lifts a small glass of sherry to the boy, with a chortle on his lips. And of course, the 21 year old wunderkind, sits on a platform, peering through the camera, as the grips pull him away and away... EXT. HOTEL, GRAND DETOUR, ILLINOIS - 1924, DAWN Out from above, through the ceiling whose walls miraculously part, in a magnificent sweeping shot that encompasses the entire hotel and this sleepy little town lost in time, a dawn shot worthy of ending his motion picture masterpiece. The end?
