All language subtitles for A.Little.White.Lie.2023.1080P.Webrip.X264.Aac5.1-[Yts.Mx]-ENG

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..."