Original subtitles

What are you getting? Hmm.

Chicken salad sandwich.

You always get the chicken salad sandwich.

Why don't you try something else?

Take a risk.

You're right.

I'll get it on toast.

Is it fresh or not?

I don't know. You smell it.

Thank you.

I can't believe it.

You're Eddie Charles.

Yes.

Oh, my God.

You're Martin Tupper.

Yeah.

Donna Deangelo,

we went to Roosevelt High together.

Oh, sure.

Yeah, Eddie, you remember Donna.

She was in all the plays. Hi. Yeah, hi.

Oh, I can't believe you two guys are still friends.

Hey, do you remember Lee Beasley?

Lee Beasley.

Uh, oh, kind of a geeky kid?

He's dancing with the Cleveland Ballet now.

Huh. Janet Singer and Marsha Vese?

Oh, yeah. They're still together.

They have a place in Vermont and a kid named Rusty.

They're very happy.

That's great. Uh, what about you?

You still acting? Still acting.

How's it going? Ah, great.

I just do this to make my feet swell.

Oh.

Well, it's all right.

I... I'm mostly doing

off-off Broadway stuff.

So what about you, Martin?

Are you a famous writer now?

Oh.

Oh, I haven't written in... in years.

You were so good.

That poem you wrote about the lunch ladies.

"Mustache sadness, apple brown Betty."

Still think about that.

You gave it up. Ah, I am sick.

Oh, hey. It's okay.

No, but you loved it.

Well, but I work with writers now.

Yeah, I'm a book editor. Fiction mostly.

It must be very hard.

It's challenging.

No, it must be hard working with people

that are doing what you should be doing.

Leave me alone.

Isn't it funny?

Eddie here was the total fuck up from high school

and now he's this big star

and we end up a couple of losers.

Leave me alone.

Go back to the doctors where you belong.

No, it's not you.

Yeah, that's me.

The Baudelaire of Roosevelt High.

What's wrong with your pants?

They're called bell bottoms. That's how we wore 'em.

Why?

'Cause they were cool.

They look stupid.

Well, there's a thin line between cool and stupid.

You were cool?

Yeah, in a Neil Diamond sort of way, yeah.

Yeah.

There's your mom. You better get your stuff together.

Hi. Hi.

How you doing? Great.

Uh, listen, this has been bugging me all day.

When did I stop writing?

Writing? Uh, I don't know.

It had to be back when we were still on Perry Street.

No.

No. That long? Sure.

Remember, we used to use your typewriter as a door stop.

Why?

I'm thinking of starting again.

Really?

Well, that's great.

I started kicking some ideas around today.

You know, they're still kind of unformed,

but, uh, I'm kind of excited about 'em.

All right. I like that. Hey, Mom!

My darling son. Hi.

Do a lot of homework today with your father? Oh, mm-hmm.

You want to drive home? Yeah, I think I will.

Let him drive, Judith. Oh, yeah, sure. Right.

Your feet reach the pedals now, don't they? Yeah, sure.

Goodbye. We'll see you later. Take care. Bye.

Chapter one, France,

1760.

Jean-Pierre had finally met his match.

For every thrust, there was a parry.

For every clever advance, a cunning defeat.

But then,

as if his sword was guided

by the very hand of God,

the battle was won.

"Monsieur," he sneered.

And with that, he forced the Baron to...

give him the feather from his hat.

Because that's the sort of thing they did

back then...

in France.

Chapter one, Henderson knew he was dying.

With his last ounce of strength,

he dragged himself across the floor.

If he could just reach the phone,

he could give them the password.

He pulled himself up

and felt the receiver in his hand.

With his dying breath,

he uttered the word...

"Marzipan."

Marzipan.

"Mar..."

And died.

Never knowing

that he had accidentally dialed...

Oh, hello. Hello. Are you still there?

A really wrong number.

Line one, it's your better half.

Toby, I don't have a better half.

Hmm. You're telling me.

Hello. Hi, how's the writing coming?

Oh, the words "Chapter" and "One" are gold.

Everything after that is pretty much just shit.

Well, maybe you should do what you're always telling your writers to do.

Write what you know.

Dad? Yeah?

I want to get my ear pierced.

Funny.

Forget it. Why not?

Why not? You're...

You're only 11 years old.

Josh Lazarian has an earring.

Andy Steuben has an earring.

I don't care if Andy Steuben has an eye patch and a parrot.

Come on. Come on.

You're just not an earring kind of guy.

What's an earring kind of guy, Dad?

My name's Herb. What's yours?

Did you ask your mother about this?

Well, she wasn't crazy about it,

but she said it was my decision.

Is that all she said?

If you say it's okay.

I'm sorry, Jeremy. The answer's no.

I'll bet you can't give me one good reason.

I think they look dumb. So don't wear one.

Well, what do you do when you're out of college

and have to go for a job interview?

I'll take it out.

What happens if you catch it on something

and just rip your earlobe off?

Come on, Dad. Why can't I have one?

Because. Because why?

Because...

Because...

Don't say it.

Because...

I said so.

Finished!

Finished what?

Oh, my God.

Angst for the Memories.

A play by Martin Tupper.

A... a play? Well, you know, they're not as long

and you don't have to describe everything.

Anyway, you want to see the best part? Huh? Yeah.

"The end."

Aren't those the two most beautiful words in the English language?

Martin, this is so...

this is so exciting.

Can I read it? I wanted you to be the first.

You want me to read it now?

Could you?

Well, you're not gonna watch me, are you?

No, I promise I'll be really, really quiet.

Mm, okay.

What?

Martin.

Sorry. Sorry. I'm sorry.

Well?

Oh, my God.

I knew it was good, but I...

Martin, this is us.

What? This...

This is our marriage. This is us.

It's... It's Jonathan and Claire.

They're completely different. Ah.

Claire's a psychiatrist, not a psychologist,

and... and they have a daughter.

Jennifer.

Martin, you are so full of shit.

Well, you said to write what I know.

I know, I know, but is this really how you see me?

First I'm an idiot and then I'm a bitch.

Where are you an idiot?

Here, here, right here in the first scene.

I love you because you aren't beautiful.

I love you because...

you think it's the ice cubes that keep the refrigerator cold.

You aren't witty and you aren't one of the five best dressed women.

I love you because you're just nothing at all.

I meant it to be sweet.

Sweet?

Martin, it's not just me.

You come off so badly.

What do you mean? Well, the whole thing where you stop being a writer.

Jonathan.

Jonathan stops being a writer and he has to go to that job

where they make him pile up all those little things.

I mean, it's like your... his life is over.

Yeah, well, it's hard for Jonathan.

I mean, Claire gets to go back to school

and achieve her lifelong dream of becoming a psychoanalyst,

and his friend Derek has this great career as a hand model.

All right, but what Jonathan is forgetting

is that because Jonathan took that job,

he and Claire were able to move out

of that broom closet in Hell's Kitchen

and... and onto a more reasonable apartment

and have Jennifer.

Well, I guess I could put some of that in.

Martin, I don't mind you writing about us.

You should, but just don't leave out the good parts.

Like when we finally got a honeymoon?

Yeah. Or the Hannah-Hans New Year's Eve party.

When you... you really cut loose?

I don't think we have to share that with the world.

What else?

Okay, let's start the first scene.

Okay.

Right here.

Jonathan looks down

at the music box

and realizes...

he may have lost a wife...

but he has gained...

a best friend.

Lights fade.

The end.

Dad! Yeah, come here.

Look, look, look, look.

Yeah, that's great.

Dad, I just wanted to let you know

it's okay about the earring.

You changed your mind.

See? I told ya.

No, I still wanna get it,

but Richard explained to me why you said no,

so now I understand.

What did Richard say?

Well, just that,

for me, getting the earring

means I'm taking control of my own body,

and that's probably threatening to you.

And by doing something you would never do,

it feels like I'm rejecting you.

Jeremy, if you really want to get the earring...

get the earring.

Oh, thanks, Dad.

He said you'd say that.

Well.

"Dear Mr. Tupper,

thank you for sending us your play.

Unfortunately, we are not interested

"in producing it at this time."

"Dear Mr. Tupper, I'm sorry to inform you

that we are unable to find a place

for your play in our current season."

"Dear Mr. Tupper, we hate your play,

we hate you, we hate your hair.

Please do not send us anything ever again."

I'm paraphrasing.

Rejection, rejection.

Oh! What?

Nope. Rejection.

Rejection, rejection.

I can't imagine why you stopped writing the first time.

Fear of success.

Not the rejection so much.

Yes, it is.

You know,

my ex-lover runs a theater downtown,

but they're always looking for new work.

If you want, I could show it to him.

Really? Yeah.

He owes me a favor. I didn't press charges.

So, do you have a spare copy?

Maybe one or two.

Shit.

They want my play!

I know, I know, I know.

It's not very impressive.

But Martin, we're not about glitz and flash here.

We are about finding the soul of your play.

We are a very passionate group.

We don't just do a play.

Anybody can do a play.

We expand it.

We explore it.

We...

Explode it.

We make it sing.

I think your play can sing, Martin.

I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about.

When would you do it? Right away.

Whoa, I... I don't know if I can get off work.

Actually, Martin, we would prefer

that you not be present during the rehearsal process.

Why?

Martin, when one of your authors is having a book published,

does he go to the printers to watch them set the type?

No. No!

Martin, I know this book is like your baby,

but it's time to cut the cord.

I don't know, Andre.

Andr

Look, if any of this makes you uncomfortable,

you can always refuse us.

I'm certain you have had many, many, many, many,

many, many, many, many, many, many,

many offers to do your play,

but we love this play.

We really, really do.

You're just another kid with opening night jitters.

Andre!

Martin!

How's it look? Like Paris before the war.

I ask you to remember that even as you watch this act,

it may well end in triumph or in tragedy.

Excuse me.

You made it! Sorry we're late.

We were arguing over jewelry. Yeah.

Oh. Oh.

That looks good. Thanks.

How was it? Really hurt.

Great.

Oh. It's Andre.

Nice neighborhood.

Some guy tried to bite me

in the subway station.

Oh, my God. What happened?

He thought better of it.

Oh, we should sit. Let's go.

My name. That's so sweet.

Thank you.

Oh.

Martin! Break a leg.

Oh, thanks, I didn't even know you were coming.

Coming? I'm in it!

You are? Who are you playing?

I'm in the dream ballet.

Okay. Open your eyes.

Welcome to your first New York apartment.

Why is there a bathtub in the kitchen?

Oh, that's part of the old world charm.

Well, at least there's a lot of closet space.

No. That's the bedroom.

Do you hate it? No.

Yes.

But I love you.

Honey, come to bed.

I just have to finish this chapter.

It's almost 2:30.

Damn it, Claire!

It's not my play.

I didn't write this. It's... it's not mine.

It's not mine. I did...

I did...

Oh, Martin, please forgive us.

Maya could not hit the high note.

She is ovulating.

Where's my play?

How do you mean?

Where's my play?

I take it you're referring to our process of adaptation.

You just shut up.

Martin. I said shut up.

What you wrote was a pathetic little exercise

interesting maybe to you, your ex-wife

and your therapist, but this is universal.

This sings.

Now wait.

Let's discuss this thing like two rational,

normal human beings.

Look, you pretentious fuck.

It's not so much that you're trashing my play here.

You're trashing my family, the people I care about.

This... this woman.

This woman, this woman is not a "wo".

Martin. Andre.

This is the last performance of my play.

If you have a problem with that, take it up with my lawyer.

We're not staying for the second act.

Come on. Pretty cool, Dad.

I hate to miss that dream ballet.

Well, after that,

you'll probably be hanging up your pen again, huh?

Of course not, Judith.

I'm a writer.

Not an alarm clock.

By jingles. That's mighty inspiring.