Original subtitles

Okay, is everyone done?

Okay, the question was, who is the poorest in our group?

One vote for Thom.

- Sorry, bud. - Clearly Robert.

Two votes for Thom.

Aw. Three votes for Thom.

- Thom is officially the poorest. - No, my dad abandoned us, okay?

He didn't give a grace period for financial planning.

He just fucking left with no warning. Glad you're getting a good laugh out of it.

Thom, this is what we do.

It's just us. It's always been us.

It's purposefully silly and stupid. It's just a game.

Yeah, a game that you always seem to win.

Who's the prettiest? Who's the smartest?

Most likely to succeed, most likely to win homecoming?

Susan, Susan, Susan, Susan.

Meanwhile, this guy right here sweeps who's the poorest,

and Debbie routinely gets most who needs to drop ten.

Excuse me, I won that one time after eating a bag of Doritos.

Oh, my God, Bret, where have you been?

I've been calling you all day. You didn't pick up.

Yes, where have you been, Bret?

You look tired and paler than usual, which is saying something.

Leave him alone. He's here now.

Bret, we're playing secret ballot. You do the question.

Who is The Trawler?

No, not sexy enough.

I prefer something like, best tits, which I would sweep.

But as gatekeeper and vote counter, I'll accept.

Bret, it's vote time. Vote.

I win too. Best-looking, most likely to have the biggest dick,

best breath, sexiest treasure trail.

Hey, that one was mine. I loved that one.

Best ass, best smile.

- Okay. - I could go on and on.

Oh, one vote for Bret.

Debbie, that's clearly your handwriting.

What can I say? You've been obsessed with death lately.

One for Riders of the Afterlife. Oh. Is that that cult?

Yawn.

One for Really Rhonda.

My vote, obviously.

I used to like her, as you all know, but now I know she's deranged.

Saying I was a kidnapper and a perpetrator of violence

in front of everyone when I graciously gave up my crown.

Hon, you're a legend now.

You spent 45 minutes in jail and were then released.

Still, my parents had to come.

My mom lost her mind.

So much crying, it was mortifying. You weren't there.

Who cares? Little Miss March of the Dimes recanted it instantly,

said she was confused.

Her parents took her to some loony bin in Tennessee,

where she always should have been.

Your rep's at an all-time high, Su Su. Why so bitter?

You're right.

Rhonda's disturbed. She's been through so much.

I would like to publicly recant my secret ballot vote and then abstain.

I'm sorry, I'm still a bit shaky.

Okay, one vote for Robert.

Hey, two votes for Bret, the winner.

- Looks like you're The Trawler, Bret. - Whoo!

Looks like.

Hey, do you guys want to know

why you couldn't get ahold of me for the last 18 hours?

Obviously.

I was at the police station all night giving testimony.

What? Why?

Matt Kellner is dead.

Holy shit.

I found his severed head.

Somebody wanted me to find it.

Matt Kellner's death changed everything.

I was no longer the only concerned party.

Every single person who had accused me of paranoia

could no longer deny that there was a killer in our midst.

School was closed for one week, and when it reopened,

there was a sudden police presence that would last through the entire year.

The interrogations began.

Everyone was suddenly a suspect.

If you're wondering how The Trawler got away

with infiltrating a high school campus on the night of homecoming,

you must remember, this was 1981.

There were no cell phones, no surveillance cameras,

no digital records, no metal detectors.

That was all post 9/11.

It was just people then. People fumbling and failing.

We returned to normal life as best we could,

with the hope that feelings of normalcy would follow.

- Nice of you to join us, Mr. Ellis. - I'm sorry.

Why are you in my seat?

I don't know. I just sat here.

Why is everybody in different seats?

Mystery for another day, Mr. Ellis.

Just sit anywhere.

A kidnapping, a murder and an active police investigation,

and it's not even Halloween yet.

A lot of people in my position would probably switch up the curriculum,

coddle you,

but I am not going to do that here in senior class, Shakespeare 101.

Romeo and Juliet is a play about

death, obsession, angst and love.

It's about what it feels like to be a teenager.

Act 1, scene 3, Juliet is not yet 14,

and Romeo's probably a little bit older.

A 13-year-old and a 15-year-old,

an eighth grader and a sophomore.

Miss Reynolds, you're making a face.

Eighth graders don't understand love.

They're not even mature enough for off-campus lunch.

Fair point. What about sophomores?

Romeo's just about your age.

Yeah, teenagers think they're in love, but it goes away.

In the beginning, it's so intense,

and then it fades or it disappears overnight.

And then all that's left is habit.

That's bullshit.

What difference does it make how old they are?

Their brains are underdeveloped and flooded with hormones.

- Thom did the reading? Is he okay? - That means they can't love?

Real love shouldn't make you want to kill yourself.

The only thing Romeo and Juliet killed was themselves.

That makes sense to me.

Speak on that.

If you're in love and you kill yourself, that's dying once.

If you're in love and you can't be with the person you love,

that's like dying every day.

Dying once, dying every day.

Is it? Is it actually like dying every day?

Or would they both have gotten over it as soon as they met someone new?

How many people do you know who break up, act like it's the end of the world,

and then by seventh period have a new life-defining crush?

Romeo and Juliet should have moved on.

It's not the most romantic take, Miss Reynolds, but I like it.

There's an open space in our divorced educator's book club,

- if you're in. - You're wrong. They're soulmates.

Juliet's special. She's not some eighth-grade slut.

She's an angel.

Angels aren't sluts.

Angels aren't sluts.

That sounds like a very good area to explore in your paper, Mr. Wright.

- What? - Nothing.

You're staring at me.

I'm not allowed to look at my girlfriend while we do our homework?

You can look anywhere you want. I don't care.

I just think it's really sad.

What's really sad, Thom?

You don't think Romeo and Juliet are meant to be together.

The play is called Romeo and Juliet.

So what? There's a cartoon called Tom and Jerry.

Do you think they're meant to be together too?

Fine, Thom.

They are perfect for each other, and we'll just have to take your word for it

because we'll never know, because Romeo and Juliet killed themselves.

Exactly. That proves how much they loved each other.

Maybe they weren't supposed to be together forever.

Maybe it was only supposed to be a Verona thing.

A Verona thing?

Yeah. And then once they leave Verona…

Why would they leave Verona?

- To see other places. - Like what?

Because even now, like in modern times, there's only so many places in the world,

if you think about it, maybe a hundred.

What are you talking about?

Like, sure, Toledo is a place, but you're not gonna, like, go there.

So for all intents and purposes, it doesn't exist.

Do you have any curiosity in the outside world, Thom?

Do you care about anything besides the things

that you personally experience every day?

No. Do you?

Yes.

So, what, you care about Toledo?

Sure, yeah, and I care about Rome and Paris...

You care about Toledo more than you care about me?

Susan, do you care about Toledo more than you care about me?

This is deranged. I'm not doing this.

And I'm not correcting your paper or writing it for you like I always do.

Finish this assignment yourself.

I love you, Susan. I would die without you.

Thom, that's too much pressure.

I don't want to be with someone who needs me to survive.

You are the center of my universe. You're my Earth.

That's the sun. The sun is the center of the universe.

"Juliet is the sun."

Arise, fair sun,

and kill the envious moon,

who is already sick and pale with grief

"that thou, her maid, are far more fair than she."

"Oh, swear not by the moon,

the inconstant moon that monthly changes in her circle orb,

"lest that thy love prove likewise variable."

Thom,

I need some space.

What does that mean?

I think we should break up.

Did Robert put you up to this?

Robert?

He's manipulating you. Bret's right.

Ever since he got here, you've been a completely different person.

- This has nothing to do with Robert. - Yes, of course it does.

Oh, my God, Thom, this right here, this is exactly the problem.

I am the one breaking up with you. It's me doing this, and I'm sorry, but...

You don't think that this is real because we're teenagers.

No, no, no.

I don't think that this is real because it's not.

I'm not in love with you anymore.

Hey.

Ex... Can you bring me a steak knife?

Yes, sir.

- No, hey, hey, hey, no, no. Sit down. - No. No.

- Sit down. - No. You let go of me.

Sit down!

Here you go, sir.

It's this one right here.

We can go in the bathroom and do it.

No one will notice. It won't hurt.

It'll be like drifting off to sleep in a warm bath.

This one?

Right here?

We can hold each other as we go.

And once we're gone, we can meet in the ether as one.

Give me the knife.

Fuck you, Thom.

Fuck you, Thom.

Fuck you.

What is wrong with you?

You think that I would end my life

on some shit-stained linoleum bathroom floor

at the fucking Hamburger Hamlet for a guy who peaks his senior year?

Don't… Don't say… Don't you ever say that to me.

You don't mean that. This is not… This is Robert in your head.

I don't need Robert. I don't need him. Don't you get it? I don't need anyone.

I have potential.

I have a big life to live.

I have dreams.

We're done, Thom.

We're done.

- I'm leaving. - No. We're not…

- We're not done talking. - Yeah, I'm leaving. I'm leaving.

- You're sick. - I know.

I can change. I'll be different. I'll be whoever you want me to be.

Just tell me how you want me to be. I can be that. I'll be different. Tell me.

I… I don't want you to be different.

I want you to be you.

- I hate myself. - No, you are perfect, okay?

Then why doesn't anyone stay?

You know, if I'm so perfect, why does everyone abandon me?

I'm not abandoning you, Thom.

I'm gonna be in your life for a very long time.

No.

You won't be.

The lovers die.

Are you threatening me?

I'm just reminding you how the story ends.

Macbeth, Act 4, Scene 3.

"Let's make us medicines of our great revenge

to cure this deadly grief."

Makes sense to me.

As long as you're feeling potent,

you're feeling something other than sad.

Revenge as a cure for depression.

But if revenge is a medicine, there are definitely some side effects.

Who can tell me the potential side effects?

Chaos.

Chaos, sure.

Seriously though, think about it.

What would happen if you hurt the people who hurt you?

They'd hurt him back.

"Blood will have blood."

Act 3, scene 4.

Bingo. Revenge unleashes an endless cycle of counterstrikes

and counter-counterstrikes, as Macbeth more than proves.

Blood will have blood until everyone's bled out.

So it's like a tie?

No. Everyone loses in the end.

Everyone loses.

Lady Macbeth is one of the great villains of literature.

But does she even understand the domino effects of her plotting?

"By the pricking of thumbs, something wicked this way comes."

You are so gorgeous. Oh, my God.

Hi.

Thank God my pharmacist is here.

Mama is running low.

I've just been a nervous wreck with this whole Trawler thing.

Oh.

Terry says we're installing some new security system,

and I have to come up with a four-digit password.

But how the hell am I ever going to remember that?

I'm losing sleep just knowing

that there's this horrible monster out there targeting kids.

Well, you know,

every monster has their reason they became one.

So, down to business.

I've gone ahead and replenished your supply of Valium

and Halcion.

I don't like the pill bottles pharmacies use. Plastic and ugly.

You are a woman of value.

You really do think of everything.

I have news.

I have been watching the staff at the house lately,

and in my opinion,

you are not being treated with the respect that you deserve.

So, I took it upon myself to distribute a memo to the help.

From now on, you will be addressed as Ms. Schaffer,

not Mrs. Schaffer.

People should see that Terry does not define you.

This town runs on the backs of women like you.

It's true.

I crawled through glass, Steven,

with a smile on my face

and a Miss Indiana sash choking me out along the way.

I find it calming to be placed on a pedestal.

Even if it's yours.

So thank you for that.

Well,

say goodbye to that momentary peace, Ms. Schaffer,

because I'm about to say something that may destabilize you.

Don't scream.

Don't make a scene.

Just listen.

I know about the porno film.

What porno?

Oh, honey, I've seen you do things the human body has no business attempting.

How did you see it?

They promised me it would only be an overseas release.

If Echo Park Lake can be considered a sea,

then they have indeed.

What?

It's playing in town here?

You and little baby Ryan on a silver screen

that grows more tarnished with each showing.

Oh, my God, what have I done?

Terry will leave me.

I'll have no money. Oh, my God, I'll have no money.

Take a Halcion, honey. It'll help.

If you even think about telling anyone about this,

so help me God,

you don't know what I'm capable of.

Stop.

Just stop it right now.

Of course your secret is safe with me.

I just want to know why you did it.

I don't know.

I don't even know who I am anymore.

Or why I do what I do.

I'm just an object now.

It was the vengeful impulse of a rusty trophy, the dirty movie.

- That's all. - Are you sure about that?

Maybe I wanted to be touched again

even if it was only in a scene we were playing.

Spare me The Day of The Locust act, Liz. I ain't buying it.

One final round, please. Thank you.

I think there's something bubbling beneath the constantly turbulent surface here.

I can see your daydreams.

I know you want to act,

and I think this was just a perverse attempt

at moving towards that dream.

"Out, damned spot. Out, I say."

One, two.

Why, then 'tis time to do it.

"Hell is murky."

"False face must hide what the false heart doth know."

I want you to know that I purchased every negative,

so you don't have to worry about it ever seeing the light of day.

And to protect you from your husband.

Oh, Steven.

Oh, my God, thank you.

But I'm gonna hold on to them, though, sweetie.

'Cause I got to look out for myself.

- What do you want? - What I deserve.

Terry doesn't see me as a contender in this industry,

so I'm gonna need your help in bringing to life a grand vision.

A film called Less Than Zero, and I'm going to produce with him.

Debbie's boyfriend Bret wrote a treatment based on a novel he's writing.

It's brilliant.

I wrote glowing coverage, and Terry wouldn't even read it.

Liz, he doesn't fucking read.

He just took a bullshit meeting with Mr. Ellis,

but he's not gonna close the rights.

You are gonna help me get them.

There's a role for you in the project. You are perfect for it.

Become, at long last, a star.

- What do you need me to do? - Every night while Terry sleeps,

I need you to whisper a single sentence into his ear

no fewer than 100 times,

just like Nancy does with Ronnie Reagan to get her little plans in his head.

What is the sentence?

"Less Than Zero will make you $100 million."

Our next lesson was on Hamlet,

and the parallels to my increasingly unrecognizable life

were so blinding that I couldn't help but feel mocked.

We were both princes.

We were both secretive,

and we both knew that something very rotten

was afoot within our own kingdoms.

All right, I need Acts 1 through 3 read before next class.

And I want 500 words on how Shakespeare is commenting

on the connection between mortality and madness.

Thank you.

Bret, you have a second?

- We should talk. In private. - Would it be all right

if we asked you for this classroom for just a few minutes?

All right. Though I do have another class in here shortly.

Shouldn't be long.

Sure.

We got some more questions for you about Matt Kellner.

What kind of questions?

Questions about your personal relationship with Matt.

My personal relationship with Matt?

We were just acquaintances.

Not even close, really.

If you want to speak with someone who was close with Matt,

I suggest talking to Robert Mallory about him.

We already have talked to Robert Mallory about him, extensively.

Let me ask you a question, Bret. Did you go to the Kellner house

on the day that Matt disappeared?

You didn't tell us that before.

I didn't think it was significant.

We were discussing a class assignment. He needed help with it.

There was another thing you didn't tell us.

You visited Matt's father after his disappearance.

I-I just didn't think it was relevant.

Why did you?

- Out of concern for my friend. - I thought you weren't friends.

Which is it? Were you or were you not friends?

Or…

Were you something else altogether?

Inconsistencies are not always meaningful,

but when they're attributed to the person who found the victim's body…

Yeah, then we feel obligated to maybe dig a little deeper.

Of course.

Is that all, officers?

There is one more.

You were overheard on the sound stage of Dance Off!

Whispering to Debbie Schaffer that she deserved to win.

How badly did you want your girlfriend to win, Bret?

Are you implying that I killed Cha Cha?

Where is this coming from? Am I under arrest?

Should you be?

Officers, I need my classroom back now.

No worries, ma'am. We were just finishing up here.

Thank you, ma'am.

My secrets were catching up to me.

My anxiety from concealing my sexuality

had inadvertently led to becoming a suspect.

I didn't have an alibi.

I was fucked.

Someone was coloring their perception of me,

and I knew exactly who that was.

Robert, I know it's you.

I thought that nothing could terrify me more

than being framed for Matt Kellner's murder.

You did great, the project…

But I was wrong. This was somehow worse.

I wasn't wrong. I wasn't right.

Come on in, kid.

Yeah.

Bob…

Bob…

Yeah.

It's ridiculous. No, Bob.

I-I gotta let you go.

Yeah. I'm meeting with a piece of talent.

Yeah.

Yeah, you're sick. You know that, Bob?

I'll talk to you later. Bye.

You want a drink?

No, thank you.

Straight to business.

Now listen, I took a look at your treatments,

and, I'm inclined to option it.

Wow.

Certain people whose opinions I occasionally consider

have been whispering in my ear how brilliant it is.

I listen to whispers.

I'm happy to hear that.

Your writing is so… adult.

So many times, stories about juveniles can be so juvenile, untrue.

Yes, yes, exactly.

But you, your writing, I can tell you understand adult things.

Don't you, Bret?

I mean, I believe that you know how things work.

I believe you understand…

Risk.

I believe that you understand how much of a flyer

I would be taking on a first-time screenwriter.

But you also know how good things can be.

Things that we can…

Do for each other.

Right?

Yeah.

Terrific.

You sure you don't want that drink?

Yeah.

Okay.

I'm gonna go freshen up.

Terry was wrong.

I didn't understand adult things.

I just thought I did.

I've learned through time that many young people make the same mistake.

I thought I was in control that afternoon at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

I thought it was my choice to leave the bathroom,

my choice to stay in that room.

Here's what I remember:

the sight of Terry's naked body.

He looked younger than he was.

Objectively attractive,

but too old for me to even contemplate as a realistic sex partner.

And yet there I was, doing just that.

Terry pulled me up against him and roughly kissed my mouth.

He tasted like champagne and weed.

He playfully shoved me onto the bed and pulled off my pants.

I accommodated him,

lifting my feet off the floor so he could remove all of my clothes.

Though I was fully hard,

I didn't feel any excitement when Terry sucked and stroked my cock.

I felt nothing as he slapped it against his face,

deep throating and inhaling it.

This continued for a number of minutes, at which point Terry grabbed my hips,

rolled me onto my stomach and lifted up my ass.

I wondered whether this was just how older guys did it.

At that point, I'd only been with Matt and Ryan.

I remember how much it hurt

and the relief I felt when I rolled onto my back.

I remember it was completely silent except for the breeze outside

teasing the palm trees.

And then it was over.

I returned to the bathroom and examined myself in the mirror.

I thought I looked composed.

And not just composed,

but like I had actually accomplished something.

I chose this, didn't I?

I understood adult things.

I understood the way the world worked.

This wasn't what I wanted, but it wasn't so bad.

Or maybe it was.

What did I know anyway?

I was just a kid.

It was my darkest secret.

And now it wasn't even that.

The information was out there.

I couldn't control that either.

Someone had taped us, but who and why?

All I knew was that it was 1981

and I was 18 and closeted.

I would have rather been outed as a psychotic serial killer

than a homosexual.

Hamlet is plagued with paranoia and self-doubt,

caught between action and inaction,

caught between the desire to avenge his father's death

and the desire to be absolutely, totally 100% certain

of his uncle's guilt.

But does this kind of certainty exist?

Of course.

How can you be sure?

Well, if you've seen someone do something,

that's objective reality.

Truth.

Hamlet saw a ghost. Does that sound like truth?

No, that's a sort of grief-induced hallucination.

You disagree, Mr. Mallory?

Disagree that Hamlet's a nutjob? Certainly not.

I disagree that there's something known as the truth.

"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." Act 2, Scene 2.

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks." Act 3, Scene 2.

Let Mr. Mallory continue.

Apologies, ma'am.

Officers, this is my classroom, not the police academy.

We just need a word with…

One of your students.

Mr. Mallory.

"Good night, sweet prince."

After you.

I raced to the phone on that hot October afternoon…

…expecting another round of obscene wet-sounding breathing from The Trawler.

Hello, who is this?

It wasn't him.

Instead, somewhat shockingly,

the caller was Robert Mallory's Aunt Abigail.

She insisted she needed to speak with me in person

and that Robert must never know.

I didn't know if you were coming or not.

Do you want a drink?

No, thank you.

I'm sorry if I seem a little off.

I just got out of a meeting with my attorney.

Me and my husband are in the middle of a rather protracted divorce,

and he is acting fairly difficult.

Though I think he says the same thing about me.

I probably should have rescheduled this. I'm sorry.

Yes, another.

Robert says you don't like him much.

Let's just say we're always joking around.

Robert doesn't think you're joking around.

He doesn't believe that.

Why are we here?

Robert has mentioned you a lot. In fact, since the first day of school.

He said you unsettled him when you were positive

that you saw him at a movie theater over a year ago.

I know I saw him there.

I don't understand why he's lying about it.

Well, we can sit here all day and evade whatever your situation is.

Why was he in the facility?

- How did you find out about that? - What did he do?

What did Robert do that warranted him being put in a mental institution?

His mom's death seems to be the catalyst for Robert going off the rails a bit,

which is to be expected, but…

His father put him there.

What happened to his mother?

Supposedly it was an accident.

She had fallen from the upstairs landing in her home,

tripped over the banister

and landed in such a way that she was killed instantly.

But…

You know, there were always questions, you know.

- Questions? - Discrepancies.

There were always questions on Robert's father's part.

It didn't quite add up.

She had to be in a certain position by the banister,

the railing on the second floor, he said.

Robert wasn't home.

But he was the one who found her.

Does he have an alibi?

Never mind about his mother.

Just listen to me.

Robert came to LA and stayed with me.

The summer of 1980.

And that's when you said you saw him, right?

Yes, in May at The Shining.

Well, you were right.

You did see him.

Robert was at the theater.

And he was there with a girl.

Katherine Latchford.

That's The Trawler's first victim.

Yes, the first girl. And that is why he said he hadn't been at the movie

because he didn't want anyone to make the connection.

No, I-I love my nephew very much, but…

But what?

But I'm not blind.

And I don't think you should be blinded by him either.

I couldn't believe how fast the nausea overwhelmed me.

I wanted to go home and smoke weed and take another Quaalude

until I was stoned enough to annihilate myself

and crawl under the blankets on my bed and fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.

I knew with certainty now who The Trawler was.

Now I had proof.

Had the police figured out his lie?

Is that why they took him in for a last and final questioning?

Looking back, at that point,

all I knew for sure was that something was rotten in the state of California.

Robert.

What do you want from me, Bret?

I'm sorry.

How did you get in here?

They took me in a second time, threatened to book me.

They asked me about horrific things, terrible things,

things that I'm incapable of doing.

But they think that I'm doing them because of you.

My mother died, Bret.

Haven't I been through enough?

I've never hurt anybody.

It's not who I am. Why do you want it to be?

Why do you hate me so much?

I don't hate you.

Then why are you doing all this?

Why do people always turn against me?

Friends and family members.

Is it because I look this way?

Too perfect?

It kills me that they don't see the real me. This me.

The boy with the broken heart.

There are just some things about you that I can't ignore.

We're all really scared right now.

You have to admit that you have a history.

It's true. I have a history of mental instability.

I have depression, I have anxiety. But that doesn't make me a bad person.

Am I a bad person?

Tell me I'm not, Bret.

"To be, or not to be: That is the question."