All language subtitles for The.Hippopotamus.2017

'T. S. Eliot said that

'the purpose of literature
was to turn blood into ink.

'Well, I tried that.

'I published five collections
of poetry in eight years

'and I bled like a hemophiliac.

'Then, somewhere along the way,
the blood finally clotted.

'Over time,
the scab became a scar

'and now I can scarcely
feel the wound.

'All the arteries and veins
are dried out.

'I no longer turn blood
into ink.

'These days, I turn whiskey
into journalism.

'I haven't written a poem
since 1987.'

Ah-ah-ah! Ah! Ah!

Ah-ah-ah!

Ah! Ah!

Ah-ah-ah! Ah! Ah!

Ah-ah-ah! Ah! Ah!

Aaah!

Aaah!

Aaah!

Yaaah!

Aaah!

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!

Aaah!

Noble patricians,
patrons of my right,

defend the justice
of my cause with arms...

And, countrymen,
my loving followers...

If ever Bassianus, Caesar's son,

were gracious
in the eyes of royal Rome,

take then this passage
to the Capitol...

Complete and utter crap.

Shh.

You're not defending
this fecal matter, are you?

- To justice! Continence.
- Huargh! Huargh!

- And nobility.
- Huargh!

Princes, that strive
by factions and by friends...

- ambitiously.
- Oh, fuck off.

Will you keep your opinions
to yourself?

Goes rather against the grain,
being a critic, doesn't it?

Know that the people of Rome,
for whom we stand

a special party,

- have for... for...
- By common voice.

Have, by common voice, in
election for the Roman empery...

- Chosen Andronicus.
- Chosen Andronicus...

- Right, that's it.
- Surnamed Pius for many...

Get off the stage
and find new representation!

Is this part of the performance?

On the contrary, madam,
this is an intervention.

Where is the man responsible
for this theatrical audia?

Where is Matthew Lake?

- Throw him out!
- Not me, madam.

It is the director
who should be ejected,

then tarred and feathered,

for inflicting such
loose-stooled effluent

upon the paying public.

Say that again.

Loose... stooled...

effluent.

Oh, do you need the line again?

Sun got it.

'Oh, come on!

'Get your fucking hands off me!

'I haven't seen such a load
of shit on the stage

'since "Copraphilia",
the musical!

'Get off me! Get off.

'You should be ashamed
of yourselves.'

We need to put up
a strong front,

but first we have to
check you in for some rehab.

I can hold my drink.

Ted, I'm trying to help you.

This... this all...
all just needs management.

Needs management!

The war cry
of the brown-trousered.

You know I venerate your work.

I know no such thing.

I know you've been told by
people cleverer than you

that I'm a feather
in your greasy cap.

I know my writing for you
makes you feel successful.

I know you know
I could walk into any job

and spark grateful tears

from the illiterate
pricks in charge.

I also know you took culture

because you couldn't
get the news desk.

You would censure me?

You're the one
bringing down the tone

with your mealy-mouthed mummery

and your prostration before
the gods of public approval.

I bet you never had a wank
that wasn't focus-grouped,

you sexually craven
provincial nerd.

Why don't you take your
freckled ass on a sabbatical

and let a real man
edit the paper?

You may have been the great
hope for British poetry

once upon a forever ago,

but when did you
last write anything?

Huh?

When... when did you last
do anything at all?

I have about as much need of you

as I do a fucking fountain pen.

Is that all?

No.

Get out. You're fired.

Fine.

'No use denying the fact
we all feel undervalued.

'To be told officially
that we are off the case

'confirms our sense of being
not fully appreciated

'by an insensitive world.

'Paradoxically,
this increases our self-esteem

'because it proves that
we were right all along,

'even when what
we're proved right about

'is that everyone considers us
a waste of skin.

'Finding myself at leisure,

'perhaps I shall have some time

'to craft the burning gems
of literature

'that I was once famous for.

'It was unlikely
a poem would come

'in such peaceful circumstances,

'but you won't get
if you don't ask.

'So, I listed, as is my custom,

'such few words
as my mood suggested.

'Egregious.

'Salsify.

'Monstration.

'The rare words
annoy the punter,

'but they never think
about a poet's lot.

'A painter has oils,
acrylics and pastels.

'Turpentine, linseed,
canvas, sable and hog's hair.

'A musician has entire machines

'of wood, brass,
gut and carbon fiber.

'The poet, though...
Oh, yes, the poor poet.

'Pity the poor bloody poet.'

Roddy?

I'm afraid I can't extend
your credit, Mr. Wallace.

Hell.

It's on me.

One of the finest phrases
in our language.

Your very good health, madam.

And yours.

You are Ted Wallace, aren't you?

You may not remember me.

We haven't done the deed,
have we?

I'm Jane Swann.

Jane Swann. One
of the Berkshire Swanns?

Cast your mind back to a small
font, a baby and a rising poet.

I'm Jane Burrell,
Rebecca's daughter.

Fuck my best boots!

I haven't seen you since
your mother threw me out.

I know.

And I was always
very proud of you.

Two of your poems
were set text at school.

Oh, you should have written.

I would have come and
gabbled at the sixth form.

Well, I hoped I'd find you here.

Where the last of
the semi-famous get assholed.

More than semi-famous.

My friends adore your reviews.

That train has just
pulled out, I'm afraid.

Really?

Sooth. You see before you
a recently fired man.

That is simply the best news.

Is it?

Will you come home with me?

With pleasure.

'Jane's home lived up
to my ripest expectations.

'As degrading a cocktail
of over-priced cliches

'can be found
outside Beverly Hills.

'Any given surface

'crammed with some mad
medley of crystal flacons,

'miscellaneous fertility dildos,

'and a veritable "who's who"
of international deities.'

You like?

Like isn't the word.

Some of the pieces
are really special.

That thing on the sofa's
a Kazakh placenta sheet.

'In the taxi over, Jane had
mentioned she had a job for me.

'I demurred, of course,

'and asked to be let out
somewhere in St. John's Wood.

'But she told the driver
to keep driving

'and assured me I was going
to simply love her terrific

'new idea, which she troubling
referred to as "the project".'

So.

Why are we here?

I have a proposition.

That's practically incest.

My doctor tells me I have
three months to live.

Leukemia.

Oh.

That's a smeller.

Scared?

Not anymore.

That's ballsy.

But it's a grotty age
and a grotty world

and we'll all be joining you
soon enough.

Do you believe in miracles?

As in calming the storms
and feeding the multitudes?

Give us a fag.

A marvelous and mysterious
thing has happened to me,

and I want you
to investigate it.

I don't know
what you have in mind,

but I'm not exactly
an investigative journalist.

You sure? No interest?

Well, it might be
ungodfatherly of me to suggest,

but it's a racing certainty
you're not in your right mind.

Well, you're forgiven.

But it's a pity, because
you know the people involved.

My Uncle Michael.

Michael Logan?

And I'd pay you handsomely.

25,000 now and the rest
either later or left in my will.

I... I thought you said...

The doctors say I'm going to
die. I don't believe I will.

Something happened to me
at Swafford Hall.

I want you to go there
and find the truth.

And if the truth is
you're not cured?

Then I'm dying of leukemia.

$25,000?

A hundred, all told.

Jane, there must be
1,000 journalists

who would do it
for a tenth of that sum.

But you're the only one
who'd get

through Swaffords front door.

- But Michael...
- You're godfather to his son.

Use him as your cover.

Delicious girl, since your
mother and I parted ways,

I've been as welcome
at Swafford as a...

A godson is still a godson.

Write to David.
Wangle an invitation.

And stay in touch.

I could be out of the house

'and filling in a deposit slip
in ten minutes.

'Jane was mad, certainly,

'but her check was crossed
and endearingly sane.

'I was perfectly happy to labor

'in the service
of Jane's delusions,

'but what were those delusions?

'I envied
those careless peasants

'tasked to find a needle
in a haystack.

'Mine was a more elusive quarry,

'an unholy mating of wild goose
and shaggy dog.

'My last visit to Swafford
had been amusing enough,

'but hardly revealing
of miracles.'

♪ Now the pale moon shining

♪ On the fields below

♪ The folks are crooning

♪ Soft and low

♪ You needn't tell me, boy,

I Because I know

I When it's sleepy time
down south...

Thanks for picking me up, Simon.

Davey wanted to come,

but I thought you'd enjoy
the two-seater more.

Built it myself.

Davey says you're a poet.

That's the rumor.

Do one.

Do one?

A poem.

There was a young man
called Simon,

who hated the art of rhyming.

He thought it a shame
that his very own name

could only be mated
with "hymen."

Ha-ha-ha! Genius.

A limerick's the best I can do
at 60 miles an hour.

♪ Hold your hats

♪ The roof is 'bout to tumble in

♪ Holy cats

♪ The walls and floors
are crumblin'

♪ Hellzapoppin'

♪ Hellzapoppin'

♪ Hellzapoppin'

♪ The whole gang's whoopin' up
the whoop-de-doo ♪

'Swafford Hall.

'The home of the Logan family
since 1984

'when globetrotting tycoon
Michael Logan

'debased himself for love

'by marrying into
the cash-strapped

British aristocracy.

'After doing something sinister
for Margaret Thatcher

'in the late 1980s,

'Michael was rebranded
"Lord Logan of Swafford"

'and has since successfully
managed the great house

'as a personal fiefdom,

'without compromising himself

'by running a wedding venue
or boutique hotel

'or, god forbid, a safari park.'

Uncle Edward!

Uncle Edward!

- Ah. Davey.
- Uncle Edward!

- Uncle Edward! Uncle Edward!
- Davey.

- Uncle Edward!
- Well met.

Hello, Uncle Edward.
Hello, Uncle Edward!

- Oh! Oh! Ha-ha!
- Just... just plain Ted.

Well, come on, Uncle Ted!
We've got so much to talk about!

Uh! Ooh!

Oh. Uh!

Ah! Podmore, is it not?

Welcome back to Swafford,
Mr. Wallace.

Hm.

Oh, er... don't worry.
I'll show Uncle Ted the house.

Oh, very well, Master David.

And then after dinner, I can
take you round the east wing.

Oh. Whiskey's right, isn't it?

Indeed.

But first perhaps a bath.

Er... followed by,
conceivably...

a nap.

Well, um... when you've...

I'll be on the south lawn...

in case you wanted a chat.

Bye.

'Since becoming his godfather,

'I had exchanged a series
of letters with young David.

'Mine, brief and infrequent

'and only occasionally
freighted with

a crumpled fiver.

'His, almost monthly,
impossibly tedious

'and often in iambic pentameter.

'He looked up
to his father, Michael,

'like a tiny daisy
looks to the sky,

'wishing he'll grow up to be
the blazing ball of the sun.

'The truth is,

'that men like Michael were
never willowy teenage poets.

'They were
the prep-school bullies

'punching the tuck money out of
cretinous boys like David

'and blowing it
on fags and jazz mags.

'Well, I'm here at least.

'How long I'll stay
depends, I suppose,

'on the kind of reception
Michael gives me.

'Michael and I were once
the best of friends,

'but a lot of water has passed
under that particular bridge.

'Then the bridge has been
dynamited by a core of engineers

'and washed down river

'into a vast ocean
of frosty indifference.

'It's a long story.'

Ted.

My love.

- Mwah! Mwah!
- Mm.

You're looking younger.
Lost some of that fat.

And you're looking...

wetter.

Tea?

Cake?

- It is so good to see you.
- HM!

Where's Michael?

He wants to have
a date with you.

- Mm.
- Before dinner.

Ah, best get it over with.

Hm. The stock platitude
of the untroubled mind.

I wish.

Oh, my love, what is it?

- It's david.
- Tell his godfather.

He... he's doing very well at
school, and he is a lovely boy.

It's just that he's a bit...

odd with people.

Well, Roman's a goth.

He's a bit odd with
people all the time.

Well, if only it was
a matter of...

of black eyeliner and clothes.

Give me a "for instance".

Well, at a dinner party last
weekend, he asked the local MP,

"Which animal do you think
has the longest penis?"

She laughed and snapped
the stem of her wine glass.

He persisted.

She said the sperm whale.

He said, "No,

"the male rabbit flea's
erect penis is two thirds

the length of his body.
Isn't that wonderful?"

Only if the female
has a sufficiently

elastic accommodation.

He's 16. He ought to know
how to avoid flustering people.

Ah, teenagers
are obsessed with sex.

He's pushing the boundaries,
finding his space.

It's normal.

Would you just keep an eye?

Both eyes.
That's why I'm here.

'You're late.
I had to start my practice.'

I was sleuthing.

Jesus suffering fuck!

'Well, I expect you to be
on time. What have you seen?'

Simon is the boring teen
all-England trophy holder.

David is, well...
I don't know what David is yet.

But I've seen no sign
of anything even

faintly miraculous.

'I'm not sure
I'm getting value for money.'

Honey-munch, just tell me.

Don't tantalize. Tell me.

'If you're not objective,
there's no point.'

You need to keep your eyes open
and see what needs to be seen.

'Christ, she's absolutely
fucking bat-infested.

'Right now, though,
I have a pressing engagement

'to be the recipient

'of some of Michael's
old-fashioned

mafia boss disapproval.'

Humiliating her on television!

Late-night television.

'I told you it's a long story,

'a long
and complicated story.'

Look, I cared about her too much

to make her a future ex-wife.

- So...
- So?

So, tell me your tale.

Your... your life is a mess,
you've lost your job,

and you've come
to Swafford to...

To...

Hang out with David.

You took your time,
getting in touch.

Well, it's... it's been
a few years, I... I admit,

but, er... I bumped into Jane
and... And that got me thinking.

Thinking? What?

Tell me why you're really here.

I... you know,

er... after the job,

I'd been looking for,
er... something to do

and I think you'd make an
amazing subject for a biography.

You fucking journalist!

A... a tame one
at... at the very worst.

No biography.
No snooping. Nothing.

I promise you,
it'd be no hatchet job.

Get out of my house.

Michael, I'm... I'm sorry.

For... forget I mentioned it.

I do not trust you.

No, I see that.

Look, Anne is worried
about David.

There's no point denying
I made an almighty mess

with your sister,

but to put courage into a clicé,

all is fair in love and war.

But not when it's
played out in public.

Yes, I understand.

And on that understanding,
I'm supposed to... What?

Give you a second chance?

As a godfather.

I promise, I won't put so much
as a look out of place.

I'll be watching.

Understood.

Well, welcome back to Swafford.

'It's been more than a decade

'since Michael and I
last crossed paths,

'although he crops up in
the papers fairly frequently

'as the highly
celebrated C.E.O.

'of this or that vast company.

'That stands for
Chief Executive Officer

'and is, I believe,
a sort of cross

'between a managing
director and a cunt.

'When a man like Michael
says he's watching you,

'you may as well
be getting that news

'from a great white shark.'

Fuck!

Oh! Fuck.

David?

'Assuming that whatever
enticed David from the house

'at just shy of 5 A.M.

'was either fun or trouble,

'I followed his tracks
in the dew,

'but discovered them
to be a line of footprints

'leading nowhere.'

Ow! Oh!

'Feeling like 12 types of dick,

'I was suddenly struck
by an image of David

'sprouting wings
and flying away.

'Certainly, that would be
a miracle worth investigating.'

Ow! Ow!

Fuck off! Shite!

Oh. Oh.

Mm.

Oh!

The things I do for money.

Oh.

'How is a person
supposed to investigate

'nothing in particular?

'It's like hiring
Sherlock Holmes

'when no crime
has been committed.

'I'm beginning to see why

'he spent so much time
playing the fiddle

'and getting smashed
out of his head on cocaine.'

on the guest list.

Wants to check
if we have a defibrillator.

There's quite a few
dietary requirements.

Oh.

Oh, may I help,
Mr. Wallace?

Ah.

Yes. Podmore.

Could someone fix
the curtain rail in my room?

It seems to have
come down in the night.

Of course, sir.

Much obliged. Oh, what's this?
The weekend guest list?

This should be interesting.

May I?

Oliver Mills.

He's probably claiming
a trendy intolerance.

Angina?

'With its promise
of aristocratic splendor,

'and a degree of luxury
that approaches debauchery

'Swafford attracts
a motley caravan

'of tight-assed bourgeois
and nervous bohemians,

'who roll up the driveway,

'misusing the word
"weekend" as a verb,

'and wondering how soon
they might send an underling

'down into Swafford's
world-class wine cellar.'

Madame Valerie Richmonde
and Mademoiselle Clara.

'Well, who is this
charmingly high-breasted

'and fiercely fuckable creature

'with an air of contemptuous
indifference?'

- Come along.
- 'Bonjour, Madame.'

Merci. My bags.

Ted Wallace.

Oh, I thought
you were a servant.

No. A poet.

Oh.

And Michael's oldest friend.

Of course.

Also David's godfather.

I'm responsible for
his spiritual development.

You are?

This is my daughter Clara.

Maybe you and her
can be friends.

Ah. And you must,
of course, be David.

Jane has told me
everything about you.

I have been looking forward
to meeting you.

'From the presumably fragrant
loin of Madame Valerie

'had sprung a daughter
most woundingly plain.

'I had no sure knowledge
of her paternal lineage,

'but I would hazard a guess

'that this snaggletoothed
myopic hobbit

'may have been conceived
on a visit to middle earth.

'Nature can be unbearably cruel.

'Regrettably,
I was about to be thrust

into my worst nightmare.'

'Having to spend
an entire weekend

'with one of my oldest friends,

'the celebrated theater director

and prolific buggerist
Oliver Mills.'

- I seldom find that...
- Oh!

- Violence is the answer.
- Jesus! Jesus, Oliver!

Did Michael not attach
a security memo

to your invitation?

No. In fact,
I'm probably on it.

Would you?

Oh, poor, pompous Hippopotamus.

Ha-ha! Ha.

Has His Lordship not made you
the most welcome of guests?

Actually, I'm here to see David.

Oh. You know? Oh, dear,
what is it? What ills you?

You can tell me.

Ills? He's my godson.
What do you mean?

Ah. Oh, is that
the clitter-clatter

of cutlery on china?
Let's not be late for lunch.

'Hopefully, it was the sound
of the plot thickening.

'I was going to have to start
making some meaningful

'progress or risk spending
the entire summer

'in the company
of these "camarades".'

Ahem! I hear you've had
a particularly successful

year with the stud?

Well, yes, finally, we had
some good results at Hickstead.

- Ah.
- Thanks to him.

I'm particularly proud
of... of our woodlands.

All native species.

Well, it's the kind of green
that only the British can bear.

Oh, if you don't like
the countryside,

what brings you to Swafford?

I am purchasing Li-lac
for my daughter.

- Li-lac?
- Lilac, our gray mare.

I've been taking riding lessons.

Yes, and we can go down
and see her

- in the stables after lunch.
- Yes.

You could help me muck out,
if you like.

Oh, I would like that very much.

Cool.

A hunchback who now also
shovels shit. Quelle fortune!

- Don't slouch.
- Je m'excuse, Mére.

I'm dying for some of that.

Ha-ha, not just figuratively.

You know?

Pod more see-eth,
Pod more heareth,

Podmore telleth Ted Wallace.

Ah.

Is that why you're here?

Ha-ha-ha-ha! No, no.

No, I've got
a delicious new play

which Michael is going to fund.

Am I?

Has anyone seen David?

'Child of trees and son of earth

'lies in wait for his rebirth

'beneath the trees
he hides alone

'beneath your feet
this boy unknown

'lies in his cradle
hidden from sight

'buried like seed

'his seed so white

'he gives himself
the kiss of peace

'his seed doth sprout
with sweet release.'

Well.

'Fuck me.'

Gosh.

I... I'd like you to keep it.

Lovely.

Has Mummy spoken to you
about me?

Why do you ask that?

I worry her.
I can see it in her eyes.

Mothers worry.
It's in their job description.

Well, I worry her
more than Simon.

Simon doesn't treat strangers
to nuggets of penile data.

- He's safe.
- Meaning I'm unsafe?

I should bloody well hope so.

I'm not having a godson of mine
running around the place,

being anything other
than wild and dangerous.

Why are people embarrassed
about sexual things?

I'm not.

In my opinion, people are more
embarrassed about love than sex.

What makes you think that?

They never talk about it.

It's all anyone
ever talks about.

Love, love, love.
Love is all you need.

Love makes the world go round.

90 per cent of the world's
poetry is about love.

With swift, slow;

sweet, sour;

adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty
is past change; Praise Him.

Oh, god. Of course.
You like Hopkins.

The greats know that
poetry is how we allow

nature to speak to us.

- Wordsworth?
- No, you chump.

My heart leaps up.

On my couch I lie.

I wandered lonely as a cloud.

He's an egomaniacal onanist.

Wordsworth did not masturbate.

He's a fucking
tea-towel writer!

Look, young pup,

my heart rejoices that
you want to be a poet,

but I bet you can't name
a profession with less use,

less chance, less point,

less status and fewer prospects.

Sewage engineer.

Ha! Alright.

Scenario one.

All the poets in England,
Scotland, Wales,

and Northern Ireland
go on strike.

Impact, nil.

Misery, nil. 14 years before
anyone even notices.

Scenario two.

All the sewage engineers
in London alone

go on strike.

Impact, turds and tampons
flopping out of your tap.

Scum and ooze
where e'er you walk.

Misery. Hardship.
Newsworthiness high.

You do still believe in poetry?

Its power to change the world.
You do still care?

Oh, Christ.
Not you as well.

Look, of course I do.

It... It's just...

Hard work.

You want gold, you break
your back down a mine.

It doesn't just float from
the sky in gleaming bars.

Alright?

Grand.

All this talk of poetry
has awoken my appetite.

Time for a second stanza
of your mother's cream cake.

I'll put the kettle on.

Oh...!

Phwah!

Fuck!

Another bath?

My center of gravity has shifted

since my last time
in a coxless pair.

- You found David, then?
- Yes.

And read some of his poetry.

I've got some of it here,
in fact.

He seems,
in his own graceful way,

to have been recording
a wank in the woods.

Well, any good?

What, the poetry or the wank?

Ted.

- You know if he does it much?
- Oh, please.

Look, my love,

you asked me to keep
an eye on him and I have.

And if Wanking's
what he's doing...

Certain things, a mother doesn't
need to know about in full.

I understand,

but I'm not being prurient
just for the pleasure of it.

I've spent most of my life
skipping after women,

like a puppy trying
to please his master.

And the rest, pleasing myself.

And that's fine.
I'm a heartier fellow for it.

But if your son is writing
metaphysical art spunk

and not simply filling
soft fabrics

with human hand cream,

then there is a problem.

Which is?

Mum, I think you should come to
the stables quickly.

Lilac's sick.

Oh, shit.

Well, if the horse is sick,
he must do something.

Yeah, well, I'm...
I'm sure he will.

But first we have to find
the little fellow.

Don't you have faith?

Faith's great, but it'd be nice
to have a soupcon of proof.

This is a rather drastic
course of action,

don't you think?

- She was fine yesterday.
- It's fast-acting.

She'll have
complete renal failure.

There's no ragwort in her field.

Then do you have
another explanation for

the blood in her stool?

No, but it's not an explanation
for the blood in her spittle.

I'm sorry, Clara.

I think we're going to
have to put Lilac down.

But I didn't even
get to ride her.

Come on. Let's go
back to the house.

I'm so sorry, Valerie.
This is just very bad timing.

But there is a chance
that she will recover?

It's a sadness, yes, but Anne
has a lot of experience.

We need time for a miracle.

'Hercule Poirot could
probably take a cursory

glance at this group

'and glean all sorts
of useful ammunition

'for his denouements.

'But if any of this amounts
to any sort of clue,

'it's absolutely wasted on me.'

I think you're being
very premature.

- Oh, mon Dieu!
- David.

Don't touch her. Don't.

A sick horse
can be very dangerous.

- Come on, come away.
- It's not right.

- What happened?
- I'll explain in a moment.

'What was happening was
the Logans discovering

'they had no stomach for
mercy-killing a sickly horse

'and yet were possessed of
a seemingly limitless capacity

'for procrastination
and indecisiveness.'

Maybe you should
come back tomorrow,

and we'll reassess it and see...

- Yes. Yes, my Lady.
- What she's like then.

Thank you.

Right. Perhaps some drinks
before dinner.

Yes, perhaps several.

I got the idea
from the playwright.

Met him in Venice
on my last trip.

Is there a point?

Or are you merely recounting
a selection of random events?

Ch, hush.

Now, where was I?
Oh, yes.

Gianni had the most enormous...

Oh, my God.

C-o-c-k.

And he was afraid
he might hurt me.

"Gianni darling", I said.
"Fear not.

"After what I've been through,

"you'll be lucky
if it touches the sides.

"It'll be like pushing a paper
boat up the Grand Canal."

This is not language
for when children are present.

Oh, prude la-la. They know.

There's two options.

One, we let Oliver
rattle on home

about his various exploits

and the occasional ear
gets singed.

Or, two,

we let the kids work it out
entirely for themselves.

I just don't understand every
person obsession with sex.

It's not an obsession.
It's the meaning of life.

Well, there is something that
children can learn with help,

and that is good manners.

- David, help with the plates.
- Yes, Mummy.

Clara.

Oh, mon Dieu.

Will you tell us
a story, Oliver?

Oh, I thought
you'd never ask, Michael.

Well, the story is about
a down-on-his-luck gigolo

who gets a job playing
alto sax on a cruise ship.

- But what he's really doing...
- Oliver, stop.

- Not a chance.
- Oh.

Not a penny.

Well, if we can't drink to my
play, let's drink to Lilac.

May she have her miracle.

- 'Yes, to Lilac.'
- To Lilac.

'The same toast they'll be
making tomorrow night

at the glue factory,

'as her bones render noxiously
in the background.'

To miracles.

Unlike you to forsake a drink.

You don't seriously
expect me to join you

in a wine-soaked prayer
for a miracle?

Is that so ridiculous?

It's fluff.

Miracles are phenomena

that we're too frightened
or, in my case,

too lazy to understand.

But nothing miraculous
ever actually happens,

and certainly no-one
is ever healed.

You don't believe in healing?

You can correct
a mechanical fault,

but nothing can be truly
cured or made whole.

Everything rots.

And that's the beastly
bloody end of it.

Would anyone like
a comforting chamomile?

I think Tedward and I
might have a chat

over something a bit stronger.

'So, I was sent here
to investigate miracles

'and have now been induced to
refute their very existence.

'More than a coincidence,
I fancy.

'I'm beginning to feel
like doubting Thomas

'on a certain easter morning.'

What follows, you will never
discuss with anyone.

My father came to this country
from Massachusetts in 1936.

When the war came, he enlisted

and trained as an engineering
officer in the R.A.F.

Later that year, a young man
came round the base.

His father had a metal splinter
in his foot. It was gangrenous.

The boy knew the doctor
would amputate

and he asked my father for help.

My father touched the foot,
the splinter came out,

and the wound healed.

- Instantly?
- Yes.

Well, I don't want
to spoil the story,

but that could have
happened by chance.

That was just the first time.

A few more miracles,
and people began to talk.

By the end of the war,

he was being hounded.
It was intolerable.

That was another time.

It was 70 years ago, Ted,
not the Middle Ages.

I never had a gift. I... I guess
it skipped a generation.

It's a childhood fairy tale.

Anne has asthma.

Do you remember that hot summer
four or five years ago?

'David and I
were out one afternoon

'and she suffered
a terrible attack.'

Mum?

'Simon was there,
doing C.P.R.

like he'd been taught,

'but it wasn't working.'

Five, six, seven, eight, nine...

We got back.
David heard the commotion...

rushed in,
pushed his brother aside,

and placed his hands
on his mother's chest,

and she began to breathe.

You're saying
David saved her life?

Healed.
Not another attack since.

'It's like Stephen Hawking

'announcing he still
believes in Santa Claus.

'I don't mind my old friends
turning into venal assholes,

'but it's rather unnerving
when they go crazy.'

Jane came to stay
with us at Easter.

The leukemia had taken hold

and the doctors had given her
three weeks to live.

She wanted to spend them
somewhere peaceful.

She took to her bed
the moment she arrived.

The end of the first week,
she began to look better.

'The second week,
she thought she'd get up.

'The third week, entirely cured.

'David had been with her
every day.'

There just must be
a rational explanation.

David's hands heal.
I've seen it with my own eyes.

But I'm at a loss.

We're private people.
We don't make a fuss.

But this feels big, important.

Do I hide it like a curse
or shout it from the rooftops?

Why, in the name of
dysfunction, are you asking me?

Yesterday, you made a big fuss
about being David's godfather.

Earn the title.

Hm.

'There was an old poet
called Ted

'who was in well over his head

'he struggled to think
why he shouldn't just drink

'and collapse assholed
into his bed.'

Hello, Lilac.
I've brought you an apple.

Oh...

Go away.

♪ Hallelujah!

♪ Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

- ♪ Hallelujah! ♪
- Oh, what's got into you?

Lilac is well.

There are more things
in heaven and earth, Tedatio.

You have heard?

♪ Ai bien entendu,
ma vieille orange.

Oh, by all means, come in.

Why don't you ask Podmore too?

If Lilac is cured, then maybe
Clara can be made beautiful.

- Where are you off to now?
- To find David.

Lilac didn't cure herself.

Christ. Wait!

'There is nothing to put me in
a foul mood more effectively

'than seeing Oliver happy.

'But the realization
that I had slept through

'some kind of
miraculous occurrence

'ran a close second.

'David was yet to claim Lilac's
recovery as his handiwork,

'but the notion hung in the air
above Swafford,

'like a piss-filled Hindenburg.'

I need to find your brother.

I haven't seen him.
Er... but hop in.

We'll cover more ground.

What do you think
happened with Lilac?

I always check her
field. There isn't any ragwort.

Yes, I heard you with the vet.

No ragwort, no cure,
no explanation.

Saint David of Swafford
and his magic hands.

Shit!

Stop this fucking
motorized hairdryer!

Mm.

Oh.

- Hi, David.
- Hello, Oliver.

What about
this laying on of hands?

Dunno.

You're not in the miracle camp?

Sorry.

Have you ever seen him do it?

Once on Mum.

What happened?

David put his hands on her
and she got better.

No flashing lights?
Angelic chorus?

She just came to.

I need to see for myself.

Fucking Jane and her "seeing
what needs to be seen".

There we go.

Where the hell have you been?

'Pull yourself together, Ted.

'Existential crises
are for wankers

'and characters
in Scandinavian films.'

I told you to look after David.

He's nowhere to be found.

That fucking horse has put the
cat among the fucking pigeons!

It's my father all over again.

It's in hand.
You have my word.

- Which is worth what, exactly?
- Well, it's all I

Oh, hello, boys.

You're looking well.

Mm... eugh! Eurgh!

Fucking magic.

Oh, forget him.

He's too jaded to feel wonder.

Whereas you... you have the
power to change the world.

Clara's up next.

I'll find him.

'Oliver was gloating
over his own cure.

'Now our fearless teenage leader

'was sneaking off
to find Clara.'

'If young saint David

'could transform Valerie's
unlovely offspring

'into some new-age Aphrodite,

'that was a miracle
I had to see.'

David? It's uncle Ted.

'The steam whistle replaced

by the turgid sound of diesel

'and now electric trains.'

- Mr. Wallace?
- I'm looking for David.

Oh, one of the great
undertakings of our age.

- What the hell was that?
- I hear nothing, sir.

Don't tell me the last bastion
of sanity of this house

is abandoning his faculties too?

The greater the discretion,
the larger the tip.

Do you know where David is?
Oh, come on, John.

I know you see everything
that goes on round here.

- He's a bugger for hiding.
- Go on.

Frequently doesn't
sleep in his bed.

Never leaves by the door when
there's the option of a window.

In fact, he must spend most
nights out in the grounds.

But where?

'I licked the grass,

'licked it clean.

'Clean grass is hay,

'gold hay for the flesh.

'I hugged the leaves,

'squeezed their green.

'Squeezed sap is blood

'and blood must be fresh.'

And sowed the seed,
seed of my own.

Oh! Hello, Valerie!

Oh.

Oh.

Come on, Clara.
Just up at the woods.

Oh, god.

Oh. Ooh!

Ow. Ah.

Eurgh.

If you let the spirit
in, it will heal you.

Feel the spirit surging through
you. You must embrace it.

Drain it, yes.

That's right, drain it.

- No! No, let her go!
- Yes. Fuck off!

Aaah! Aaah!

' Eurgh!
- Oh!

Come on. We can't have
you going into the house,

looking like this.

- Let's get you cleaned up.
- Oh, she bit me.

Simon, you can't leave me!

Physicist, heal thyself.

'So much for the modern miracle.

'I don't recall
Saint Francis of Assisi

'ejaculating into
anybody's mouth.'

Fuck!

'Maybe they just left
that part out.'

Uncle Ted, she... she bit me.

Are all your cures like that?

Don't talk. Don't say a word.

Can you stand?

Yeah, come on.

'It's easier for the old
to judge the young.'

She bit me.

'And I'll admit it's been
particularly hard

'to warm to David,

'with his cricket sweaters
and soggy sonnets,

'but the truth is that
this boy is my godson.

I may be unreliable when it
comes to fonts

and silver napkin rings,

'but when I saw him suffering
a catastrophic sex disaster,

'I did feel a twinge
of the old esprit de corps.

I never was a boy scout,

'and I certainly don't do
a good deed every day,

'but one whopper every 15 years

'surely must earn me
a badge of some kind.'

Mr. Lennox?

Mr. Lennox?

Oh. Yes.

Yes.

Can you tell me the nature

of your... relationship
with David?

Some days good, some days bad.

You are the boy's father?

For my sins.

Then perhaps you can explain
why David said to me,

"The pain got much worse
in the car,

"partly because

"Uncle Ted is
a terrible driver."

I'm glad to say it's rare
for a child to be admitted

with human bite marks
to the penis.

Even rarer for the
hysterical boy to be accompanied

by a famous public figure.

Well, if you knew who I was,
why didn't you say?

I think you'd better tell me
who David's parents are.

I'd like to talk to David.

I don't think the police will
allow you to do any such thing.

Police?

You're in a position
of authority, Mr. Wallace.

Let's be grown-ups, shall we?

This is just a pair of lovers

suffering an unfortunate mishap.

This may pass for acceptable
in your bohemian world, but...

I have a boy David's age.

If this happened to him, do you
think I'd kick up a stink?

It may interest you to know
that I'm a magistrate.

And a member of Calvinists
against cock-sucking

and housewives against
fellatio, no doubt?

The parents get involved,
the... The guilt, the shame...

If I do not have the number
of David's parents this minute,

I shall call the police.

One, two...

All right, all right.

I suppose you want the girl's
name too so two sets can be...

- Girl?
- The girl.

The girl. The girl.

Did you think he was being
sucked off by a giraffe?

I thought you were the...

other party.

You thought what?

If there's been a mistake,
I'm sorry.

It's my duty to...

establish the facts.

'Oh, fabulous.

'I have chanced upon one of the
very few people in the world

'to have my poetry
on their shelf,

'who have examined
the contents of my soul,

'and she thinks
I'm a fucking pedophile.'

Well, I went down
to the woods today,

and I sure as hell
had a big surprise.

I missed the sex offenders
register by a whisker.

Sometimes the gift
demands a sacrifice.

Perhaps it would help
if you told me

about the exact nature
of your powers.

Stop the car.

No, I've done quite enough
running around after you

for one weekend.

I'll tell you, but not here.

I call it the gift, not my gift.

I can feel the power of nature.

I put my hand
on a sick creature,

and it courses through me
like lightning.

But I also have human feelings.

Hunger.

And cold.

And all types of hunger.

The first time I had
a wet dream was last year.

I know, which is late.

I knew that... that
I couldn't allow

such a terrible thing
to happen, all that waste.

It's not just my hands, you see.

Every part of me can heal.

My blood and my seed.

Okay.

I knew that if I only
used it for good,

and not to give myself pleasure,

then that could be
a powerful tool as well.

Which is why with Clara, you...

It started with Jane.

Her sickness was
too powerful for my hand,

but I knew that

if I got my essence in,
deep inside her,

then it would work.

These powers.

Do you think they're inherited?

Anyone can have a pure spirit.

Even me?

Especially you.

When you were a poet,

you were inspired to see
the glory of the world.

Bollocks.

You want poetry, you fight
with paper and pencil.

You muck in with humanity.

You don't wait for inspiration
to vomit bliss over you.

The world is charged
with the grandeur of God.

It will flame out,
like shining from shook foil...

Gerard Manley Hopkins worked.

He studied anglo-saxon
rhythmic structure.

He learned Welsh.

But the genius was inside him.

Look at Simon.

We have the same genes,
but he has an ordinary soul.

And your soul?

It's different and special.

Different and special.

Yes, and you should
respect that.

Bollocks!

'See what needs to be seen,
my ass.

'Miracles, my cock
and baggy balls.

'Sorry to piss on the parade,

'but we all see what we want
to see and no-one is immune,

'be it the shabby chic of Zen

'or the wanton razzamatazz
of high Catholicism,

'or merely sucking off

'some teenage Christ-come-lately

'in a bucolic woodland glade.

'It's all just
a fun-house mirror,

'a means to see yourself
happier, healthier,

'prettier, or less...

'well, less dying of leukemia.

'Poor old Jane.
You senseless cow.

'Maybe I am just too jaded
to be filled with wonder.

'Maybe I should sacrifice

'my every standard
of wit and reason

'and throw my lot in
with this imbecile cult.

'If any of us
could use a miracle,

'it's Ted fucking Wallace.

'I wasn't always this bitter
bin bag of custard, you know.

'Tune me up, Jesus.

'Make me whole, God's son.'

Pour me a gin, would you?

Yes, of course.

My God,
look at the state of you.

If you're here, Rebecca,
who's ruling over Narnia?

Fancy you having the gall
to turn up here!

I bet Michael must have
loved it, when you rang.

I wrote to David, as it happens.

Oh, course you did.

Got some godfathering
to make up on.

'It appears we can evade
the truth no longer

'and must finally confront
the tangled story

'of my life with the Logans.

'Well, that story began

'with Michael's
younger sister, Rebecca,

'with whom I dared to dally
many moons ago.'

I'm joined this evening
by one of this country's

most celebrated poets,

and now in the running...

'our little folie a deux
came crashing to a conclusion

'after she invited me
to perform some

earnest chin-stroking

'on her tedious late-night
poetry stroke-fest, "Stanza".'

Let us return to the reaction
to comments that you made...

- Women hate me...
- In a newspaper interview.

Because I'm brave enough
to say what we both

know to be true,

that women don't enjoy sex.

Oh, maybe the women that
you've had experience with, Ted.

They put up with it
as the price they have to pay

for having a man,
for having a relationship.

I mean, if we're being
absolutely frank,

the only reason
I come on this show

is because I get to fuck you
from time to time

and indulging
those kind of absurd whims

is the highest compliment
our sex can pay yours.

Thank you, Mr. Wallace.

Is... ls that it?

'This was just me
spitting on my hands

'and getting down to work.'

'for the next five years,

'I made a pile of all
my treasures and talents,

'clambered up on top

'and cheerfully
self-immolated

'like a Laotian monk.

'Since then, Rebecca
has performed

diligently as my nemesis.

'We are the jangling skeletons
in each other's closets.'

Jane told me
you'd come down here,

but I didn't actually believe
that you would have the...

She asked me to investigate
her recovery.

She has proved
the doctors wrong,

and that's good enough for me.

You're not interested
in the how and the why?

Ignoring your goddaughter
during her youth is one thing,

but taking advantage
of her is repugnant.

I am not exploiting
your daughter.

Oh, of course not.
You're just taking her money.

Of which she's got loads.

But what she needs is

someone willing to get to
the bottom of this cure.

And you're the man for that job?

Yes.

And how's it going,
this noble quest?

Come on, Ted Wallace.

The only thing you've
ever got to the

bottom of is a whiskey bottle.

Are you happy?

'Yes.

'Yes! Thank you.

'Isn't it wonderful?'

It's an impenetrable
load of bollocks

and I've got no way into it
or through it or anything else.

Keep your money, Jane.
I have done bugger all.

Be happy-

I can't discredit David's gift.

'Your cure is yours to have.'

Ted, you can have it too.

'Just open your heart.'

What if I don't want to?

You must.

'No, I mustn't.

'I don't have to do anything,

'or desperately cling
to any of your

ridiculous superstitions,

'because I'm not about
to kick the bucket.'

Aah! Bugger!

'I'm not about
to kick the bucket.

'Kick the bucket.'

Oh, Christ.

It's, "physician, heal thyself."

I need the vet's number.

Um... zero, double one,

four, nine, six,

zero, treble nine.

Is, um... is David
very angry with me?

He'll be fine. You've done
more for him than you realize.

'Mr. Ogden?'

about the horse this morning,
Lilac Logan.

Yeah, I know
that's not her real name.

Late for dinner, Ted?

Er... I'll be dressed
in a minute.

Go through without me.

I... I've just seen David.
What is wrong with him?

Bit knocked about,
but he'll be fine.

- Oh.
- Annie?

Do you think
he's a miracle worker?

Well, I, um...

You're his mother. If he is,
you must sense something.

I... I think he's a magical boy.

But sometimes...

I still wheeze.

I've always known
you are a wonder.

I think it's time for us
to go public.

That's for me and Anne
to decide.

Oh, for God's sake!
It's not a guilty secret.

It's a wonderful,
wonderful miracle

that makes everyone happy!

I'm sorry to piss
on your chips, Oliver,

but I'm not happy.

Of course not. Sweet Jesus,
you're a piece of work.

Sorry, Michael.

- What's going on?
- Michael.

I've listened to the stories,

but I don't believe
in David's powers.

One chance to raise his eyes
to heaven and what does he say?

It's a bit odd, isn't it,

that a poet, of all people,
should be the

only one not convinced?

Not at all.

I'm a poet because
I'm very mundane.

I'm only good with
what I can taste and see

and hear and smell and touch.

Oh, so you come to sneer at us
up your snotty sleeve?

Jane asked me.

She told me there were
miracles at Swafford

which she wanted me
to investigate.

And?

And I think David is
proud and sensitive.

Oh.

Is that it?

Oliver, be quiet.

I... I would like to hear
what Ted has to say.

No teenager is as clever
as they'd like to be.

David is at the point
where he has glimpsed ideas,

but their true meaning
lies beyond his reach.

Our culture rewards
different and special.

The stories we tell our
children are of superheroes

and foundlings
with undiscovered talents

that soar to towering heights.

Michael told his son a story

that any child would like
to be the center of,

and David decided it was true.

It's no story.
I know what I've seen and felt.

You've seen and fed the
delusions of an ordinary child.

- Ted, what...
- Darling.

My father's gift.
I've seen it work.

Alright. Yes.

Your father did have a gift
and it was passed on.

Oh, he's off his head!
He doesn't know what

he's talking about!

Oliver, you will
not interrupt again!

I'm sorry, Ted. Please continue.

Michael's father's gift
was passed on

- to Simon.
- Simon?

A few summers ago,

Anne suffered
a terrible asthma attack.

- 'Simon kept his head...
- Mum? Mum.

And tried to
get her breathing.'

'David broke past and put
his hands on Anne's chest

'just as Simon's first aid
started to work.

Oh, thank you, darling.

Michael.

You saw your wife recover and
you thought of your father,

and then you told David
that he had inherited a gift.

He told Jane

and when she, too, got better,

he let the bush telegraph
do the rest.

So, you're claiming that
Simon has been healing people?

Your father didn't
have healing powers.

He had kindness,
courage and sense,

and that is what
Simon has inherited.

David envisaged something
far more grandiose.

He told himself that
as long as he stayed pure,

his semen would be
a channel for healing.

And a far more powerful one
than his hands could ever be.

Jane, beautiful, wonderful,
desperate Jane,

presented him
with the ideal test case.

'I'm afraid it's probable

'he tried the same trick
on Lilac.'

Oh, my God.

Only Oliver can say
what technique was used.

How dare you?

You seduced my son?

It was a cure.

He cured me.

- Go and get David.
- Yes, Mum.

But people are better,
and none of this explains Lilac.

Lilac was my fault.

On my first morning here,

I dropped a bottle of whiskey
into this bucket.

And Lilac must have
lapped and lapped.

She was drunk
and then she was hung over.

Je was vomin.

God knows what you
thought you were doing.

And what do you say to this?

Did you really throw away
all your pills?

I don't need them.

I've never felt better.

Then why were you shouting
in agony in your bedroom?

I don't know what's the matter
with you all.

Jane.

Jane, Jane, Jane, Jane.

Yes.

Remissions occur.

- Davey's not in his room.
- What?

- But I found this.
- Darling.

The noise at the door.

If he overheard me... Christ.

Oh, wait till I find
that little shit!

Five minutes ago, you thought
he was the second coming.

' ' Davey!

Come on, Soda. Where's Davey?

Davey!

Davey!

Where are you?!

David!

David!

David!

Davey!

David!

- Darling!
- Davey!

Simon, bring Soda here!

- What have you got, Ted?
- His pajamas.

Okay. Hey. Hey.

Huh? Go on, find Davey.

I think he's got something.

- David!
- Find Davey, Soda.

- David! David!
- Find Davey, Soda.

What the hell is he playing at?

We've got him! We've got him!

- He's not breathing.
- Ted, let me.

- Davey! Oh, God!
- Five, six, seven, eight, nine,

ten, 11, 12, 13...

ls he alright?

- Help him!
- I'll call an ambulance.

Righto. Thank you, darling.
Look, I'll go with him.

- You follow with Simon.
- Okay, yes.

I love you.

Thank you, Ted.

You... you did very well.

It was nothing.

I've been a terrible father.

You got carried away
with your own story.

Something we're all
occasionally guilty of.

Would you look after
things here?

Swafford Hall.

Yes, I'm her godfather.

Yes.

Yes, I'll tell her.

Was that the hospital?

Yes.

He could well have died
out there.

Yes.

But you couldn't help yourself.

Your pompous speech,
tearing his ego to shreds.

And you do realize,
if you're right,

then my daughter is dying?

I know.

Can't resist grandstanding,
can you?

Have to be the smartest person
in the room.

I know.

No matter what damage
it does to those around you.

I know.

I know.

I know.

My darling, I'm... I'm so sorry.

I... I have some terrible news.

It...
It

It's Jane. The... The phone call.

I am right.

She is...

You bastard.
You fucking bastard.

You fucking bastard!

Oh!

I We've no less days
to sing God's praise

♪ Than when we'd first begun ♪

From the wreck of the past
which hath perish'd,

This much I at least may recall,

It hath taught me that
what I most cherish'd

Deserved to be dearest of all:

In the desert
a fountain is springing,

In the wide waste
there still is a tree...

It's alright, Dad.

And a bird
in his solitude singing...

It's a fucking awful poem.

Which speaks
to my spirit of thee.

Well read, young pup.

Thanks, Uncle Ted.

We'll make a poet of you yet.

How's the magic-free life going?

Normal life.
It's a bit like hard work.

You'll get used to it.

So, you're the guy who hung out
in an open grave?

- This is my son Roman.
- Er... Yeah.

Huh. Cool.

'Where is Jane now?

'In heaven?

'Hell?

'Well, neither, obviously.

'She's just been chucked
into the ground

'with all the many million
Janes who have gone before.

'All the Toms and
all the Dicks and Harrys, too.

'All the priests and poets
and rock stars.

'All the fish and all
the badgers and the beagles.

'Cucumbers and camels.

'Hello. Goodbye.

'Destination fucking nowhere.'

Hm.

Ah, sod it.

'But if you're looking for
a miracle, try this on for size.

'Last night I wrote five poems.

'That's five more
than I've managed

'in the larger part
of three decades.

'This morning, another two
came tumbling out

'and I barely broke a sweat.

'How? Why?

'Inspiration
from a clear blue sky.

'I may be jaded, I may be old,

'but, fuck my best boots,
I'm filled with wonder.'

To miracles.

'Now will you all
kindly fuck off?

'I have some writing to do.'