Original subtitles

Yes.

My mandate is to restore

some semblance of fiscal sanity to this institution.

And if we're all honest with each other,

we know that for a long time,

this festival has been a costly exercise in nostalgia.

So if Professors Cleary and Wasserman deign to show up,

then you can pass this along.

Sorry I'm late.

Horse trouble.

Dr. Wasserman,

I've decided that the university

must immediately withdraw its support

for the Annual Literary Festival.

I know you're all disappointed.

But let's be honest with ourselves.

We can't even attract a writer with enough stature

to inspire even modest attendance.

I remember when all the great ones used to come here.

Updike.

That was a banner year.

We-- We should invite him.

He's dead, Arthur.

Oh, That's sad.

Wait, where are you going? Wait, wait, wait.

You're too late.

The axe has fallen on our literary enterprise,

and before you stands the grim figure of the executioner.

Oh, so you're willing to give up the literary event of the decade.

I'm sorry, Professor. I've made my decision.

Really? So what if I told you that the man who is coming to this year's festival

will put us back on the literary map?

I can't imagine who that might be.

Excuse me, isn't that sort of your job? I just--

Okay, Simone, who is it?

Who's the writer that went MIA,

vanished, for 20 years after the publication of his masterpiece?

J.D. Salinger. It's Salinger!

Dead, Arthur.

Shriver.

Shriver.

Shriver?

Shriver? I thought he was dead.

Shriver, it's the goddamn toilet again.

Can you hurry up?

I'm about to miss my window here.

I got this letter.

You got a letter?

Now, are you in trouble?

"Dear, Mr. Shriver, it is my pleasure

on behalf of the festival committee of Acheron University

to invite you to participate in our literary festival this year."

Invite-- Wait a minute, you to participate?

"As your work..."

"...your work is controversial."

What do they mean? I don't-- I don't know.

I-- I think they think I'm someone else. I don't know.

"The theme of which is Truths, Fictions and Alternative Facts.

It's al-- It's also, auspiciously, the 20th anniversary

of the publication of your masterpiece,

Goat Time.

We are also pleased to award you

this year's Acher-- Acheron Prize for Literary Achievement.

Sincerely, Professor Simone Cleary."

Goat Time. What kind of title is that?

You don't know Goat Time? No, I don't know Goat Time.

I mean, like, everybody read Goat Time, man.

That lady, she read Goat Time.

This dude-- Hey, did you read Goat Time?

Goat Time?

What's it about?

What? Goat Time.

I don't know. I didn't read it.

Someone's messing with me.

Yeah?

Maybe it's one of my ex-wife's friends.

Maybe. Nah.

Look, I know how to settle this.

Are you finished? Oh, hey, yeah. How are you? Yeah.

Thank you.

One way to get to the bottom of this...

"Dear Mrs..."

No, that don't sound good.

"Dear... Professor."

Right? Right?

No, no, no, no, no.

"Dear Dr. Clearly,

it would be..."

"...my pleasure to attend

your most esteemed and prestigious festival

and to address the issues of Truths, Fictions and Alternative Facts,

which is totally my thing.

Uh, In fact, I was carrying on to my good friend, Lenny,

about that aforementioned subject just this morning.

Also, is the prize a car?

Just wondering because..."

Okay.

Well, he goes on about the car and, uh...

We're all very familiar with Mr. Shriver's subversive sense of humor.

You know, I recall reading an article about Shriver

several years ago in a-- in a journal-- I can't remember which one.

It was The Journal of Comparative Linguistics.

It doesn't really matter.

But the article was making an interesting point of comparison

between... I wrote the article.

...Shriver's Goat Time and James Joyce's Ulysses.

Now-- I wrote the fucking article, T.

Oh, really?

I still don't think that this is a very good idea.

Yeah, he sounds like a lunatic.

And this the world calls frenzy.

But the wise have a far deeper madness,

and the glance of melancholy is a fearful gift.

Byron, right?

Let's give up.

Just keep churning out worthless degrees

to anyone who will pay the tuition.

One year, I-- I invited Philip Roth.

Fine.

But this is on you, Simone.

Bring Shriver and bring a crowd,

because this is the last chance for this festival.

He never wrote back.

Dear Mr. Shriver,

I can't tell you how delighted we all are

that you've accepted our invitation.

Write her back. Tell her I'm not coming. You write her back.

I'm not a writer.

It's so hard to keep these festivals alive,

so your response has lifted our spirits.

Everyone's a writer these days.

When was the last time you went to Starbucks?

On behalf of lovers of literature everywhere, I thank you.

And I hope this is not too forward of me,

but it would be wonderful if you could perhaps

share a piece of new writing with us.

- I don't write. - Most writers don't write.

All they do is complain about not writing,

then they write about not writing.

And they're depressed. You're always depressed.

Looks like we're having a crisis of inspiration.

Mmm.

Oh, I know, it's that you're a drunk

and an impostor.

You just happen to share a name with the writer.

The arrogance.

They asked me to write something.

It's ridiculous.

Put down the pencil,

have a drink.

The watermark appeared on my ceiling

on the rainy day my wife walked out on me.

At first it was just a spot,

approximately the size of a quarter,

directly above the bed where I lay weeping.

Listening to the rain fall,

I watched the watermark grow

ever so slowly to the size of...

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Salt Lake City.

Those with connecting flights to Acheron proceed to gate 17.

Sorry.

Oh, my God! Sorry, honey.

Yep. Okay.

Hey. Hi.

Oh, my God.

Ma'am. What? What? Sorry.

Do you need to go to the lavatory? No.

Are-- Are you gonna vomit?

I was, uh, wondering if you could do me a favor.

Can you read this?

What the hell? Is this some kind of test?

No. I mean, is it legible?

Your penmanship is terrible.

"The watermark appeared on my ceiling..."

That's right.

Are you a writer?

Nah.

I know who you are.

You do? Yes, I do.

See?

Well, I mean, it doesn't exactly look like you, does it?

You-- You seem to let yourself go a little bit,

but this is the only picture anyone has ever seen of the mysterious Shriver.

I'm Delta Jones.

Hi.

I-- I'm also writing a memoir myself.

I go to this festival every year.

Oh, and actually, if you wouldn't mind...

...I'd really appreciate it if you could sign this.

You know what's crazy?

I wasn't even gonna go to the festival this year.

Then I found out that you were coming,

and I was like, boom, there it is.

That's the sign. That's what I said. I was like, "That is the sign," you know,

because Shriver, he will understand my work. Yeah.

So, yeah, let me just help you out here, um--

If you could, just say it, "To Delta," like, right in that area.

And-- And, please, can you try to make it remotely legible? That'd be great.

I-- I can't. Sorry. I can't.

What?

Maybe later?

O-- Okay. Yeah.

Flight attendants,

prepare for landing.

So, my memoir...

if you wouldn't mind taking a little peek at it.

It's a quick read.

Uh, here you go.

Uh--

Oh, my God, I hope you're not offended by the graphic sex.

Wait a minute. What am I talking about?

Of course you wouldn't be.

Shriver? Mr. Shriver?

- Excuse me, Miss. I gotta... - Mm-hmm.

I need to get on the next flight back to New York.

Hmm.

Yeah. Let me see what I can do for you.

I can get you on a flight about an hour from now. Does that work?

Vodka martini, slightly dirty, three olives, please.

Kangaroo.

Excuse me?

Well, martinis with gin with vodka, it's a kangaroo.

Well, I'm gonna enjoy this vodka martini

and then I just might order another vodka martini.

Sure.

Of course, if you go into a bar these days and ask for a kangaroo,

you get some beer jockey with a man bun looking at you like you're insane,

so, you probably better off just calling it, uh...

Yeah.

Oh.

Now that I have your permission, this whole exchange was meaningless.

Oh...

I suppose it was.

Thank you.

Yeah, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude.

Can we not talk?

You like to read?

No, not really.

Oh, Okay, well, try it.

Or just give it to someone.

Hey.

Excuse me, uh--

Are you Professor Cleary?

I suppose I owe you an apology.

None of that ever happened.

Okay.

I need you to behave for three days.

Can you do that?

Yeah.

I need you to be

the man who wrote one brilliant novel.

And then you can go back to whatever hole that you have been hiding in.

And there's no car.

The prize.

It's a shitty crystal plaque.

Let's see, Shriver.

Shriver. Shriver. Shriver.

Shriver.

How long can this possibly-- Ha!

Here you are, Mr. Shriver.

And your room is already paid for.

May I just see a credit card for incidentals?

I don't have one.

I'm afraid that's not possible, sir.

Uh,

it is. It's-- It's possible.

I just never got one.

That will work. Thank you.

Room service is until 8:00 p.m.

The Rabbit Hole is open from 7:00 a.m. till midnight.

And this is your tote.

Thank you.

Everything you need is in here.

Your have your schedule.

And, um, discount coupons for businesses in town.

Yeah, sure.

I'll come get you in the morning.

Yeah.

Thank you.

What are-- What are incidentals?

For room service, any extra costs to the room.

Oh, right. Mm-hmm.

I won't do that. I won't do that.

What the heck?

Come on.

Come on.

Jesus Christ.

Hey, you.

What's going on? Do you need help with that?

No. You've got to be careful,

'cause with these old locks, you've got to actually turn it to the left.

Ah, there you go.

Oh, my God! Why did they not give you a nicer room than this?

Oh, really, I'll be fine.

Oh, my God, you know what? Take my room.

Oh, my God, please, please, just take my room. It's way nicer than this.

Look at that old TV. Criminal.

I'll be fine. All right?

You sure? I'm sure. Thank you.

Okay. Well, just let me know if you need anything. Okay?

I'll do that. All right.

You almost blew it with that lovely professor back there.

How much longer do you think you can keep selling this farce to everyone else?

Not long, I imagine.

Hmm.

That tag around your neck, that's a nice touch.

I only wonder if your little deception

plays out as comedy or a tragedy.

Is there any difference?

The watermark appeared on my ceiling

on the rainy day my wife walked out on me.

At first it was just a spot,

approximately the size of a quarter,

directly above the bed where I lay weeping.

Listening to the rain fall, I watched the watermark grow

ever so slowly to the size of a baseball.

After a few hours,

the mark was as big as a honeydew melon.

What? Hey, I'll be there in ten.

Who is this? It's Simone.

Oh.

Yeah.

Uh, Shriver?

Shriver.

Hey. Hey.

Yeah. Wasserman. Hey.

You can call me T. Great.

I'm a-- I'm a writer, like yourself.

Uh--

I'll be moderating your panel tomorrow.

Panel? Yeah. Uh, it's listed in your program.

In the tote bag.

Hey, what do you say we go toss back a few

and hash out some talking points?

I...

Well, good morning, Simone.

You know, we all had our doubts when Simone said that she had landed you,

but here you are.

Here I am. Here he is.

Unless

the real Shriver is still in hiding and he sent you to prank us.

T...

Hey, remind me to send you one of my books.

That's generous of him.

He can't pay people to haul those things away.

His last novel had an 80-page meditation on cutting hay, seriously.

And this guy belongs to him as well.

He can't drive for obvious reasons.

Listen, I'm sorry if I got a little testy with you yesterday.

I've just-- I've got a lot riding on this festival.

Oh, no, I understand. It's my fault.

So you ready for this?

No.

Of course not.

I'm going to try to make this as painless as possible.

I promise. All right.

Yeah, I mean that.

I'm a writer. I-- I understand the solitary activity of--

Huh. I didn't know you were a writer.

Well, right now, I'm a-- I'm a program administrator

with a very heavy teaching schedule,

but I-- I do carve out time every day to write.

Yeah.

Hey, sorry to interrupt. Hi.

I have Mr. Shriver's per diem for him. Great. Yeah, this is Teresa.

She's a graduate TA.

Sorry about the coins. We use the--

For me? Yeah, or if you want to just take that.

We use the vending machines, um, on campus for the author expenses.

And then also right now...

Teresa... ...at our b--

Yeah, nice.

Don't care. Okay, cool. Yeah.

Oh, you know who I spoke to after I dropped you off, was your Mr. Cheadum.

Who? Cheadum, your agent?

Um, anyway, I can't even tell you how excited he is that you're back.

And he wanted it to be a surprise,

but I gotta tell you, he's gonna arrive on time for your reading.

Shriver. Oh, shit.

No, no, no. It's-- Sorry.

That's okay. Shriver, this is unnecessary.

She's got this. This is what she's here for. Okay.

Sorry.

Teresa, you can pick those up.

Hi.

Mr. Shriver, Mr. Shriver. Shriver.

If you could just read my manuscript... I know you're gonna love it.

You don't have to read it. You could just write something in support.

I could even write it for you. It'd be very simple.

Shriver.

Hey, hey.

...talk about it?

I really appreciate this.

Thank you very much. Yeah.

Thank you. Sure.

Jesus. Sorry about that.

It was a little overwhelming. Yeah.

That's really nice, but...

Are you familiar with Blythe Brown's work?

Oh, no. I'm not familiar with that.

Oh, well, I'll make sure you-- Teresa, make sure he gets a copy of this book.

It's okay. You can hold on to it.

Thanks.

"She came to you.

You, Black man, cock daddy, protector of the oppressor,

your gun, your stick, you took her hand,

pressed her throat,

inhaled her face

and took her and took her until she could take no more."

What a powerful reading.

I'm sure you have a lot of questions for Ms. Brown,

so, uh, if you please, line up behind these two microphones so we can begin.

Anyone?

Don't be shy.

Anybody? Um--

Mr. Shriver has a question.

What is it?

Um--

Have you ever...

Uh--

Have you ever considered writing from a...

male point of view?

Mm-mmm. Mm-mmm.

What did he say?

Hmm.

You know, Mr. Shriver,

I suppose your question

is precisely what I should have expected

from the man who wrote that overhyped,

adolescent, macho wet dream you call a novel.

Oh, how it scandalized housewives... Well, all right.

...and enthralled undergraduates.

But let's face it, folks.

The only reason we're even talking about Mr. Shriver

is for his famous vanishing act.

Oh, and to answer your question,

why the fuck should I?

All right.

Never mind. I'm sure you're right. Thank you for sharing your poetry.

There's another question over there and then over here.

Shriver, you old devil.

Still causing trouble?

Jack Blunt.

I interviewed you for Rolling Stone

back when Goat Time was published.

Hey, Blunt.

That's a long time ago. I hardly recognize you.

Yeah, but we only talked on the phone.

Oh, of course. Sorry. Forgot. No, that's no problem.

Hey, listen, do you have, like, a few seconds to chat real quick?

I just need a few words about why you decided

to reemerge onto the literary scene?

I'm not doing interviews.

Perfect. You can give me an exclusive.

I don't have anything to say.

Come here for a second. I'm-- I'm gonna level with you. Um--

When I first interviewed you, I was on staff at Rolling Stone.

Do you wanna know what I'm doing now?

Hmm.

I'm working for some fucking online magazine doing profiles

of twentysomething shit bag scribblers

who aren't fit to lick the sweat from your balls.

Do you feel what I'm saying?

I see that you've reconnected with an old friend.

Him?

You-- You don't mind doing this interview, do you?

Besides, you owe me one.

I'll see you at dinner.

I need a drink.

Well, I'm the guy.

Twenty years ago, you burst onto the scene with this huge fucking novel.

You're everywhere.

Front page reviews, Time, Newsweek.

No pictures.

The more you hide, the more they write about you,

the more the book sells. But who is this guy?

Then you win the National Book Award. You don't show up to get it.

Then it's the National Prize for the Humanities.

President Bill Clinton himself is going to hang a medal around your neck.

Surely, you'll emerge for this.

I rented a freaking tux.

And then...

And then?

And then nothing. You're gone.

No Shriver. Poof!

Like Keyser fucking Söze.

I looked everywhere for you.

Where have you been all this time? What you been doing?

This and that. Writing?

Some. What do you got? Books?

Novel, memoir, stories? What?

Now, you show up at this amateur-hour, shit show, poor excuse for a festival?

Come on. What is this?

Doesn't make any sense.

I'm on to you.

I'm not Shriver.

That's cute. That's--

No. I mean, I'm a Shriver.

But I'm not the Shriver who wrote the book.

I'm not that Shriver.

Of course not.

You're Shriver the shape-shifter in Goat Time

who weaves a cocoon around himself and then emerges...

I'm not that Shriver. ...unchanged.

You're reenacting the non-reinvention...

I'm not Shriver! ...of your protagonist!

I'm not Shriver!

Come on. Hey. All right. Fine. Go.

But I'm gonna tell you something, this goes up tonight.

Up? What-- What goes up? This story.

But I haven't told you anything.

You don't know the beauty of Internet journalism.

Absolutely nothing is more than enough.

And I just had drinks with Shriver.

That's the story.

Everything else is just filler.

But you didn't.

I didn't what?

Have drinks with Shriver.

Don't fuck with me, Shriver.

All right.

All right.

I got it. I got it.

What, are you following me? And you can keep the change.

Uh, may I present Victor Shastri Bennet, the playwright.

Ah, no need for formalities. Call me VSB, please.

We're discussing Fugard, Soyinka

and intertextuality as it relates to my work.

Oh, please.

Continue.

This man needs a whiskey.

- Can I get a-- a kangaroo? - Excuse me?

The bartender will know.

I don't know if you've officially met Blythe Brown,

and this is her companion, Layla.

So, Shriver, tell me, are you a big fan of the theater?

Have you seen anything worth writing home about lately?

Mmm. Oh, yeah. Yeah, a lot. I've seen a lot.

What's that? Like what?

Yeah, I-- I've seen some things.

All right. Anything of late, you know?

Any works that you've sort of been taken by? Tell me.

Uh, yes. So, uh...

Oh, here it is.

So, what do you do, Ms. Layla?

I'm a sculptor.

And what is your medium?

Pipe cleaners?

Play-Doh?

Uh, cake.

Did you say cake? Mm-hmm.

Cake. Sometimes we eat them.

She said cake, Shriver. Did you hear?

Yeah.

Yeah. That's odd.

Odd?

No, that's not-- Oh, shit.

That came out wrong. Uh--

Uh, no offense.

I don't know what I find more offensive,

your insistence on seeing the world through the prism of the sexist patriarchy

or your belligerent refusal to take seriously the work of committed women artists.

Yeah, I suppose you could find them equally offensive.

Yeah.

Cheers!

Cheers!

Are you okay?

Yeah. Fine.

Uh--

Do you happen to recall when exactly, uh, this agent is arriving? My agent?

Oh.

He didn't specify.

Okay. He made his own arrangements.

Oh, shit.

Time.

Back to campus

for a play from our very own Victor Bennet.

Ah...

Really?

Hold up.

Are you sure this is okay?

As long as Simone-- Professor Cleary doesn't catch us.

Yeah, I don't want to make her angry.

You're sweet on her, aren't you, Shriver?

No.

Be gentle with her.

She's been hurt.

Betrayed by the man she loved.

Some years ago...

fresh off of her wounds,

Simone fell for a...

decidedly third-rate poet.

A traveler came by

and silently,

invisibly...

took her with a sigh.

He was maddeningly handsome, though.

You better, uh, get on up there.

They'll miss you.

All right.

It's an hour of my life I'm never gonna get back.

Yeah. Yeah.

Oh! Shriver! So, tell me, what did you think?

Uh--

I'm sorry, I missed it.

But perhaps you would do me the honor of allowing me to read it?

Thank you.

That-- That would mean a lot to me, actually.

My pleasure.

Well, my public awaits.

Yes.

I'll see you later. Bye now.

Congratulations. Thank you. Appreciate you.

Thank you

for Victor Bennet.

I hope you know how much it means to the university that you're here.

And to me.

For years, I've been torn between fighting to make this a better place

or just to putting 100% of my energies into making it as a writer, finally.

Either way, I'm just tilting at windmills, you know?

Well, it's better than running into 'em.

Oh, Mr. Shriver.

Jacuzzi time. Yeah.

What? Just text him.

No.

I've got your number, buddy.

Why?

Something about you just doesn't smell right.

Well, you conned your way through day one.

But it's gonna get more difficult after this.

I don't know what to do.

I'd keep an eye on that cake lady. She could be trouble.

And her girlfriend poet.

Well, she hates my book, that's for sure.

Your book? Listen to you, starting to believe your own bullshit.

You can lie to them, but not me.

Open up. Police.

What?

What's the problem?

There's no sleeping, Shriver.

- Okay. - Let's have one of those cups, thank you.

Are you avoiding me?

Yes.

Can't say I blame you.

Where's Layla?

In our room, sulking as per usual. You spilled a lot of it.

Cheers.

How dare you?

Have a party and not even invite me, Shriver.

Come on!

You're rude.

Ah, hey, now. Have a look at that.

Whoo! Party! Whoo.

Come down!

I believe that we would be fools to pass up such an invitation.

I'm kind of tired.

Shriver.

Where's that bon vivant esprit

that I would expect from the man that wrote Goat Time?

T., it's disgusting.

You're too old and decrepit

to be talking about that. Bite thy tongue, lass.

I may be old, but I have poetry on my side.

I'm in.

I'm gonna call it a night.

I'm very disappointed in you, Shriver.

Come on, Teresa. O-- Okay.

I guess my work here is done.

I'll see you in the morning.

Where is everyone going?

Well, that broke up fast. Yeah?

So, you know what? All good.

You know where to find me.

All night long I lay there, wide awake,

wondering what the watermark would look like

when daylight started creeping in the next morning.

Good night, Mr. Bojangles.

As dawn broke, I saw the spot had grown even more...

Good night, Mr. Bojangles.

...now to the general size and shape of an adult person.

Good night, Mr. Bojangles.

A woman with long flowing hair.

Good night, Mr. Bojangles.

Wha--

Hello.

Hi. It's Teresa. I'm in the lobby.

Who? What?

You're talking to my creative writing workshop this morning.

Mmm. No, that's a mistake.

No, it's not a mistake. It's in the program.

Didn't you get a program?

Uh, no, I never got a program.

Okay. Well, um, class starts in 20 minutes.

You guys grab breakfast? Oh, crap.

Never stop planning.

You're overthinking it.

She was at the bar, and then she would've come back upstairs.

So, if you were here last night, I'm asking if you saw anything?

I don't know. Excuse me.

Shriver! Oh, Shriver, we gotta go.

Good morning, Shriver. Uh, I locked my key in my room.

Blythe never came back last night.

You know that? She's gone. She just vanished.

We have to go. The class is waiting. That's unfortunate.

Maybe she just went for a walk. Just a walk?

Where would she have walked to? Well, a walk doesn't imply some specific destination.

"I am he that walks with the tender and growing night."

Whitman.

Okay. We have to go. Oh, my God.

Wasn't she in your room last night?

Yeah, but she left.

What time was that?

I have no idea. How do you not know?

The man doesn't know. He has more important things to think about.

You don't know? I'm gonna call the police!

We have to go. That's not good.

What do they expect from me? Your students.

Um, like, nothing. I told them you're a genius.

Whatever you say, they're gonna eat it up.

I had them read the book. I think some of them actually did read it.

Also, they all want to be writers and none of them like to read.

Why is your book so misogynistic?

I think it's erotic.

It's just dirty.

So? Life is dirty.

And I wanna ask, why did you choose

to name your main character after yourself?

Uh, I couldn't think of another name and mine was handy.

Well, what happened to the wife?

How can she disappear like that?

Well, he killed her, right?

Nah, he didn't kill her.

What's true?

What do you use from your imagination and what comes from your life?

Well, to be honest, uh,

I have trouble telling the difference between reality and imagination.

But how do you understand your experience without imagination?

Fiction or stories,

it's a tool that humans have that no other creatures has

to make sense of our existence.

We create a fictional world...

as a laboratory to make sense of the actual world.

Thanks.

I'm excited for the students to meet, like, a real writer.

Well, aren't there plenty of real writers here?

T., Simone.

It's like the only place you can find their books

is in the college bookstore in the local author section.

I didn't know Simone had published a book.

She actually published two.

And the thing is, she's not a bad writer.

She's actually pretty good.

She's just kind of like a cautionary tale.

What? How's that?

Because, like, when I'm her age, I want to be in Brooklyn

with a writing career and an editor and an agent.

I don't want to be in fucking Acheron.

Oh, there you are. Come on, we gotta go.

What? We're really late. We gotta go.

Can I-- Can I take these?

What? Uh, yeah. Would you put these on my account?

Thank you so much.

I got it.

Oh, you missed one hell of a party last night, Shriver.

Beyond the beyond.

But what happens at Hotel 99 stays in Hotel 99.

But I'm gonna write a best-selling book about that place one of these days.

I was hoping to have you in one of the chapters.

Didn't you just say what happens there stays there?

Well... Hi, guys.

Hey, Victor.

I see our, uh, favorite sapphic poet is MIA.

I heard the authorities have been alerted.

Authorities? What authorities?

You seem a little worried, Shriver.

Something you need to tell me?

You read those?

Oh, yeah. Mm-hmm. Sure. Very nice. They're, um...

...domestic dramas.

You know, women struggling to find their place.

You seem dismissive.

Oh, no. No, no, no, no.

It's just that-- Well, I mean,

writers like you and me,

I mean,

we're going for the big fish, aren't we?

Dredging the truths from the murky depths.

Well...

Hello. Welcome.

I know that, uh, we're all happy to be here.

I certainly am.

I'm going to start by introducing the gentleman on my right,

who would need no introduction if his face was a little more familiar.

He's the author of but one novel--

one great novel.

Ladies and gentlemen, Shriver.

And next, I'd like to introduce our playwright, Victor Bennet,

who comes to us from somewhere across the ocean.

We all had the pleasure of enjoying his hysterically funny

and yet deeply emotional two-hander last night, right here.

Victor Bennet.

The theme for our panel discussion today is,

are the words on the page reality

or illusion?

Gentlemen?

Is not reality an illusion anyway?

Here comes the bullshit. Reality/illusion.

That slash implies something synonymic, does it not?

If I wrote fiction like my colleagues, I would be a playwright/novelist.

Nobody would argue with that. Obstetrician/gynecologist.

AC/DC.

Yeah!

I see you've been jotting down

some of your thoughts there on your pad, Shriver.

Would you care to enlighten us?

So, last night, from my hotel room,

I saw this, um, group of cheerleaders,

young women dancing and frolicking

like children by a pool.

And then one of these young women floated up through the air,

gently, like a feather blown by the breeze.

She had long blond hair and blue eyes.

And from my window, I could have reached out

and touched her face.

And beyond this lovely young woman,

I would not have been able to make out where the high desert met the night sky,

but for an invisible line...

that stated where the earth ended

and millions of stars began.

And as all of this was happening

this long, slow freight train rolled by...

its wheels making that clacking noise that's so reassuring.

Right in time as it is with our own heartbeat.

Or maybe I made it all up.

Well done. Well done. Brilliant.

Hey! Just the man I was looking for.

Check this out.

Over 100,000 hits, 600 comments and counting.

I need to go to the bathroom. This lady from Toledo...

Mr. Shriver,

I'm Detective Karpas.

Are you in some kind of trouble, Shriver?

I don't know.

Please.

I'm reading your book, Mr. Shriver.

You have an interesting perspective on life.

Do I? Yeah.

I'd describe it as nihilistic. Wouldn't you?

Yeah, I'm not fond of labels. Mm-hmm.

Is that a Cuban?

Oh. Sure is.

You know, your characters, they have no morals, right?

There's no goods, no evils. There's no God.

Just debauchery and filth

and-- and rampant infidelity.

And, uh, well, murder, of course.

Yeah. Yeah.

I hear you're the last person to see Ms. Brown alive.

Wait, she's dead?

Oh, no, I didn't say she was dead.

Why? Is there something you wanna tell me?

Is she dead? No. No, she's missing.

But, uh, you know, after 24 hours, these things rarely turn out well.

The night girl at the hotel says

Ms. Brown left you a little note earlier in the evening.

Yeah, she wanted to meet me for a drink at the bar.

That is interesting.

Just 'cause I have, uh,

yeah, 400 people who witnessed you guys arguing that night.

So, did you join her at the bar?

No, I was tired.

Mm-hmm. Not too tired to throw a shindig in your room, right?

Shriver, do you need a lawyer? I don't think so.

Okay. Okay.

See you at the soiree. What soiree?

Oh...

He's fun.

Listen, I-- I've been digging up your past,

and it's just some stuff doesn't exactly add up.

Wouldn't happen to know where your ex-wife is, would you?

No. Okay.

Hey, I'll let you know if I find anything, huh?

Fuck.

Oh, boy.

Fuck.

He thinks you killed her.

Killed who?

The poet, of course.

Maybe your wife too.

I-- I didn't.

You know, it's, uh, interesting,

the parallels between your life

and the protagonist in Shriver's book.

Don't you think?

Yeah, all right.

Just leave me alone so I can think, all right?

Shriver.

Oh, sorry. Come on.

So, I'm gonna run some errands, and then we'll stop by my house and change.

How about me? I look like a bum.

Oh, you're the writer. You're allowed to be who you are.

And what about you? You're a writer too.

People don't see me that way around here.

I hate this party.

I wish we could just skip it.

Let's skip it. No, we can't.

Why not? Because.

Dr. Bedrosian's the key benefactor for the festival.

This is the night that we go to her house,

we make her feel very important.

More precisely,

you are going to make her feel really important.

It's called singing for your supper.

I see.

I mean, to be clear, you don't have to sing

every tune Dr. Bedrosian asks you to sing.

You know what I mean.

What does Dr. Bedrosian teach?

Oh, she's not at the university.

She's a local gynecologist.

Huh.

You did not buy those.

I wanna get you to sign 'em for me.

I could have given you a copy. I have boxes of them.

Really? Yeah.

Your books, they should be out in the world,

because what I've read so far is, uh--

it's truly extraordinary.

I had lots of dreams.

But then I, you know,

had to deal with reality.

People try to give me advice:

get online, get a website,

build a platform.

They say it's more important than the actual writing.

How cynical is that?

You know, then there's... you.

You're nowhere to be found.

You practically deny that you're the author of your own book.

You play little mind games every time someone asks you a straight question.

And you, more than anyone, have let your work speak for itself.

I let my work speak for itself and no one listens.

I, uh, should finish. We're gonna be late.

I'll make you a deal.

You read me some of Goat Time -- my own private reading,

and I'll sign your books.

Hmm.

Well, what do you want me to read?

Just any of the pages that I dog-eared.

Out loud?

No, silently.

Yes, out loud.

"In the days, then weeks,

then months following my wife's departure,

I kept expecting to feel something.

Yet I felt nothing.

No grief, no loss, no sadness.

I experienced only weariness

as if I were hoisting a heavy bucket from a well of infinite depth.

Then one day, as I was taking the bus,

heading downtown to meet Franz for lunch, I saw a man.

He was about my age, my height, wearing a long tweed overcoat

exactly like the one

I had left behind at a rail station many years ago.

That long-ago day had begun with a wintry chill

that blossomed into warmth as the noon hour approached.

I removed the coat and folded it on the bench beside me.

Then I dozed, dreaming, I think,

and woke to the final call for my train.

I stood and ran, leaving the coat behind.

It was over a year, the following winter, before I realized it was missing.

The more I examined the man's coat,

the more convinced I became that it had been mine.

Why was he wearing it? It was April.

I, myself, was wearing only a light jacket.

When the bus came to my stop, he got off.

I decided to follow him.

He crossed Seventh Avenue and began walking on 21st Street.

He stopped for a moment at a newsstand

and read the headlines on some of the tabloids.

He checked his watch.

I checked mine.

I followed the man for a few hundred feet

and saw him enter the very same café

where I had arranged to meet Franz.

I watched him through the window as he squeezed between several tables

and then, to my shock and amazement,

stopped and greeted Franz.

The two men hugged,

and then he sat across from Franz

as if he had been the one with the lunch date.

I stood watching them consume their meal.

The man had an omelet while Franz chose the salad Niçoise,

along with a bottle of my favorite Sancerre.

I hated this stranger out in the world,

living my life,

eating my lunch, breathing my oxygen.

A time would come when circumstances would force me to confront him.

I walked all the way home."

Mmm.

Sorry. I just...

You look nice.

Nice? That-- That's all you-- you got?

Oh, no, no. I meant, uh, great.

Thank you. And, you know, spectacular. Uh, stellar.

Yeah?

Do we really have to go to this party?

Yes. Okay.

Oh, my purse.

Oh, hey. Yeah, you promised.

You gotta sign the book.

Um, why don't we do that after the party?

Yeah, that's good. Yeah. Yeah.

Okay.

Bourbon, if you don't mind.

Can we go now?

Okay, here she comes. Just humor her.

Hello, Simone. Hi.

Ah. Mr. Shriver.

It's quite an honor to have you here

in my not-so-humble abode.

Thank you.

I do hope you'll be comfortable here.

You know, I try to maintain a level of urban sophistication

in this cultural wasteland.

Yeah, I can see that.

You know, I just think it's important to-- to set an example.

And having you here is a big part of that.

It's worth every penny of my donation.

Now, you see, I'm...

...I don't know, kind of a nut for literature.

Who's that guy?

I have no idea. Come and see my library.

This does not appear to be a library.

Yes, but this is where I do my best work.

Here it is.

First edition, mint condition.

I don't have to tell you, I paid a fortune for this.

Is there anything that I could do to get you to sign it for me?

Are you a writer?

I know who you are.

Anything at all?

A pen.

Pen.

I think I need to go to the bathroom.

Jesus.

Hey, hey.

Shriver residence. Jeeves here.

Lenny, it's me.

What's the prize?

I think I'm Shriver. Yeah, you're Shriver. What? So?

No, the Shriver. It's nuts, but it all fits.

I'm remembering his life. My life.

I-- What have you been smoking out there? I mean, that is crazy.

Is everything okay in there?

Yeah, I'm fine.

What? It all makes sense now.

I'm not an impostor. I wrote Goat Time.

It's all inside me.

Forgetting that you wrote a book and being a famous person?

I don't know. Really?

Writing that book cost me everything.

And I-- If I could forget that,

do you think it's possible I could forget committing a murder?

Uh, you're just talking hypothetical, right?

I-- I don't know. All I know is I'm Shriver.

And I might be in trouble.

Okay. Sure.

No, I'm Shriver.

I am the Shriver.

All right, all right. Take a pill, man.

I'm Shriver!

Hello?

Oh, I was beginning to worry about you.

Sorry.

So, uh, what about dinner?

Dinner can wait. But I'm famished now.

Oh, please, talk to me about literature.

I had this bed shipped from Positano.

Oh, she weighs so much, we had to reinforce the floor underneath her.

I want you to read my novel. It's a guaranteed bestseller.

Oh, it's got everything. Violence and sex.

Yeah.

It's about a beautiful gynecologist

who has a deep, dark secret.

Yeah, I know. It's about me.

You know what they say, "Write what you know."

I want you to be hard on me, okay?

Yes, yes, come on, you literary lion! You!

What?

Trust me doctor,

this is one face not worthy of your wall of fame.

Simone.

I gotta go.

Geez! But--

You forgot my novel.

Simone. Simone!

There has to be something.

Just like, any room.

Simone?

Oh. That's me.

Who the fuck are you?

I'm Shriver. You know, I've been wondering

why you've been acting so evasive since you arrived,

and someone just showed up and gave me the answer.

So, you're not mad about the gynecologist?

Oh, please.

That's a relief. But, Simone--

No, no, no, no. Don't "Simone" me, whoever you are.

I mean, can you honestly tell me that you haven't been lying to me since you got here?

Well, that's a complicated question.

Well, technically, I've been lying.

But it turns out the lies are true.

Oh, my God.

This place is disgusting, Simone.

There's not even paper towels in there.

Who is this guy?

I'm Shriver.

Oh! There he is.

The man of the hour. My doppelgänger.

You, sir, have caused me quite a headache.

I was at a beautiful ashram,

and I was about this close to achieving pure bliss and happiness

when I got a phone call. Look, buddy,

I don't know who you think you are,

but Mr. Shriver is over here.

No, he definitely isn't.

And I think you need to crawl back to wherever you came from

because you're upsetting this particularly beautiful lady right here.

You stay away from her, you impostor.

Impostor? You, my friend, are the impostor.

Yeah, how can you prove that you're the real Shriver?

Why don't you look at my driver's license or any of my credit cards?

Here is my National Book Award.

This is, uh, an invitation from the Clintons

to get the National Prize for Humanitarianism.

Bill's a personal friend.

Okay. Yeah, it's pretty convincing.

You just carry this around with you? Yes, I do.

To think I was actually beginning...

Simone.

Thank you.

Hmm.

You're welcome to come hear me read

if you can stomach the humiliation.

Excuse me. Where are you going?

Shriver, who is that guy?

He's me, I guess.

It's okay.

That other Shriver is probably with her right now.

She's kissing him, saying, "Oh, Shriver."

Shut up. She's not.

I think she has a weakness for writers.

Yeah.

I mean, who wouldn't? Of course.

You forget, Mr. Shriver, that I knew Ms. Cleary

way back when she was Simone Wasserman.

Oh, wow.

You didn't know.

So, he's the one who broke her heart.

No. She chucked him like a stinky old shoe years ago.

Ah...

He wasn't always the pickled poet you see today.

He was her teacher. Well, her mentor.

That was until she clearly surpassed him in every way.

People started paying attention, and he couldn't deal.

He undermined her confidence

and dragged her down every chance he got.

It's crazy because I recognized her

in this article that I was reading about impostor syndrome in high-achieving women.

Now, you wouldn't get this 'cause you're a man,

but, basically, she believed his bullshit,

and she lost her confidence.

But eventually, she got the courage to give him the old heave-ho.

And he has been spending the last five years

desperately trying to make amends.

And that and drinking.

There you are. Oh, Jesus.

What?

I have been looking all over for you, Shriver.

What's new, Detective?

Well, I had a nice chat with, uh, one of the cheerleaders

in town for the competition earlier tonight.

Uh, Sophie something. She's a lovely girl.

Beautiful young lady. Yeah.

You know, if I ever have a daughter,

she's exactly what I imagined she'd be like at that age.

Anyway, she said she saw Ms. Brown in your room late that night.

She said she saw Ms. Brown?

She was, uh--

Yeah, she was-- she was performing an aerial flip.

Pretty much as you described it earlier today.

She said Ms. Brown was passed out on your bed.

I have no recollection of that.

You're the last known sighting of our poet.

Excuse me. I'm sorry,

are you trying to insinuate that Mr. Shriver had any--

Everyone's a suspect.

Everyone.

Okay.

Well, then are you investigating the impostor

that is running around here pretending to be our Shriver?

Impostor? Okay. Yeah.

And while you're in your little notebook... Uh-huh.

...also take note that Ms. Brown had left the room while I was in there.

Sophie didn't mention seeing you there.

Yeah, well, I must have been in the can.

I see.

Hmm. Hey, Detective.

Didn't you say you were trying to track down my ex-wife?

Yeah. Yeah, that is an interesting case.

But I believe the answers are out there.

Hey, some might be in here.

Wow.

This is probably the best festival I've ever been to.

This shit is wild!

Hi.

Hi.

Uh, I locked my key in my room, so...

Oh.

Sorry.

You look stressed.

Things are going poorly for me.

They say you're a famous writer named Shriver.

There seems to be some disagreement about that.

I'm gonna cheer for you.

Does that help people?

Seems to.

Finals are today. Good luck.

Don't need it.

Hey, excuse me. I, uh--

I need a key for my room. I got locked out of my room yesterday.

Um...

I don't seem to have one.

What about the maid? Does the maid have one?

Why don't you go grab some breakfast while I go find her?

Hmm.

Oh, wait. She's out sick today.

She-- You--

What do you mean? What kind of hotel is this?

You got one maid for the whole place?

Yeah. She's really fast.

Who is this guy?

He's me, apparently.

What? Okay,

I heard that you explored Dr. Bedrosian's library.

I swear to God, I didn't do anything.

Really? You'd be the first. Yeah.

Uh-oh.

Oh, don't-- don't say I'm here.

Teresa. Have you seen him?

Seen who? You know who.

I'll bet you that's his porridge.

Well, is-- is it his?

He left.

The lady from the college says you have to be out of your room by checkout time.

When's checkout time?

Half an hour ago.

We're gonna have to charge you for an extra day.

May I have a credit card?

All right,

you can stay at my place just until we find the key.

Oh, damn. It's not that bad.

Not that.

You made my month, friend.

You have given me the literary story of the year.

An impostor shows up pretending to be the reclusive author.

My story forces the real author out of hiding.

I mean, this is just unbelievably ironic.

I'm gonna sell it to The New Yorker.

All right, let's go.

Sorry.

Are you good in there?

I'm fine.

All right, where is he?

Shriver!

Shriver!

Shriver.

Shriver!

Shriver! What are you gonna do about this?

I need a towel.

This is one of the great literary hoaxes of all time.

We have a brazen impostor in our midst.

Well, are you talking about me or him?

When I first heard about the charlatan, I so wanted to believe him.

Okay, I-- I doubted you for a moment.

I was jealous.

I could see my ex-wife was falling in love with you.

Love? Never in my days

have I seen a writer, a real writer,

who didn't walk around thinking his shit didn't smell like eau de cologne.

But you, Shriver...

...you walk around like an insecure grad student,

waiting for someone to come up and say,

"Okay, time to hang up the pen. Start mongering fish for a living."

What happened to you?

I have theories.

Me too.

You're crazy.

You know how I know that? 'Cause I'm crazy too.

I'm just not crazy enough to believe for a moment

that you aren't the author of Goat Time.

Now, get your ass out of there. Come on.

In 15 minutes, that fraud is gonna be feted by the university president.

Then he's going to be escorted over to the auditorium,

where he's gonna read from your book and claim your prize.

And, no, it's not a car.

It's a crappy plaque.

We're off.

Where's Teresa? Oh.

She went over to straighten out your situation at the hotel.

How we gonna get to the university?

Here you go, my good man.

Ah, if it isn't Victor Lustig here to sell us the Eiffel Tower.

Ladies and gentlemen,

I give you Shriver. What's going on here?

Okay, you got a lot of balls. The both of you.

No, I-- I just wanna apologize. That's all.

What the hell for?

Because I came here under false pretenses.

Apology not accepted.

That man is a fraud. Oh, come on.

A fake. An impostor. Would you shut up, you smelly old drunk?

Say what you need to say and you go.

Go get her, Shriver.

Look, first of all, I, uh-- I really just wanted to say

what a privilege it has been for me to be here,

to be amongst all of you.

Mr. Bennet, I am so looking forward to finally attending one of your performances.

I wish that Ms. Brown was here,

but I'm going to read every single one of her poems.

And, uh, to Ms. Layla,

I hope one day that you'll do me the privilege

of allowing me to eat one of your sculptures.

T., Ms. Teresa, all of you, just such extraordinary people.

You've treated me with respect and courtesy,

and I will always remember you.

Very fondly.

But most of all, I wanted to thank Professor Cleary

for allowing me the opportunity to find myself.

It's a--

This is wonderful.

This is the most wonderful thing I've read in ages.

She was hiding in your room the whole time.

I fell asleep under your bed and woke up yesterday afternoon.

I didn't wanna deal with Layla, so I started writing some new poetry,

and when you didn't come back to your hotel room last night, I figured I'd stay another day.

And that's--

That's when I found this.

This masterpiece.

What did you eat?

Just sort of curious, I guess.

His granola bars.

In your tote bag.

Okay, okay, okay. Can we please put an end to this buffoonery?

I'm sorry. This is ridiculous. I--

Come on, Simone.

Uh, who's this?

Well, I think Shriver--

Yes, I'm Shriver.

That's-- That's cuckoo.

You're cuckoo.

May I present Mr. Cheadum.

Shriver's agent.

Good to see you again, Shriver.

Good to see you. Looking good. Yes.

Thank you. Well, this settles that. So why don't you two--

Settles what?

This is the real Shriver.

Oh.

I'm sorry. No, it's--

Sorry. No. What are you sorry about?

You don't know your own clients?

Oh, well, we've only met once,

and I was 15.

Uh, my father was Mr. Shriver's original agent,

and I inherited him with the agency.

Okay, nobody move.

Jesus fucking Christ, Simone. What have you brought down on us?

Would the, uh, real Shriver please step forward?

Come on, is nobody here the author of this book?

This kaleidoscopic dissection of the human condition?

This phantasmagorical allegory?

This is Shriver.

And I just wanna say I'm so sorry.

Not so fast, Professor.

That's not Shriver.

Ms. Brown. I will note that you are alive.

So, you say you're Shriver?

Absolutely.

What is going on? Simone. Wait. Stop it.

What are you doing with Mr. Shriver? Would you please tell him--

This is crazy. That's not Mr. Shriver.

Why are you doing that? I'm-- This is ridiculous.

Simone, will you please tell them-- Shut up, please.

This man is a professional impostor. What?

Yeah. His real name: Herbert Davies.

He's from Baltimore. Never been there.

This guy has claimed to be a number of important people,

including the Chairman of the Federal Reserve...

I don't even know what that is. ...and the Archbishop of Canterbury.

- Yeah, just-- just do it. Do it. - Stop running!

- Oh, my God. - Get him!

- Someone do something. - There he goes.

Apparently, it's gotten him into bed with a lot of women.

Several men. They got him. They got him.

Stop resisting.

Byron, I think this puts us back on the literary map.

I'm so embarrassed.

I was so ready to doubt you. I--

No.

I doubted myself. I just--

When you said you would show up,

I thought it was too good to be true.

I wasn't listening to the part of myself

that absolutely knew that only you could write that book.

Well, how could you have known when I didn't?

You knew you wrote it.

You didn't think you wrote it.

That's why you came here.

Can we start over?

What?

You know,

like, from the beginning.

Just start over. None of that happened.

Hi.

I'm Simone Cleary.

Are you ready?

Mmm.

I'm nervous.

I'll never forget the first time I met Mr. Shriver.

My father, he said to me, he said, "Donny, meet Mr. Shriver,

the best writer you'll ever know."

Some years later, my father...

You'll be fine.

...how over drinks one night, he told me...

Thank you.

And I am...

Shriver.

"The watermark appeared on my ceiling

on the rainy day my wife walked out on me.

At first, it was just a small spot,

approximately the size of a quarter..."