All language subtitles for The.Man.Who.Invented.Christmas.2017.720p.WEBRip.x264-[YTS.AM]

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Oh, hurry up, Mr. Dickens!

Hey, I paid 50 cents for this!

- Come on, Dickens!
- Come on, Charley!

We want Charles!

I want to see Charles!

Where is Dickens?

My dear Forster,

how can I give you
the faintest notion

of my reception
here in America?

Five minutes. Five minutes.

Of the crowds that pour
in and out the whole day,

of the people that line the
streets when I go out.

Places, please. Places!

Hello, Charley.

Of the balls, dinners,

speeches, parties,
assemblies without end.

There never was a king or emperor
upon the earth so cheered.

Tonight, live on stage...

Ready?

- the great magician of our time...
- Ready.

whose wand is a book!

The Shakespeare
of the novel.

The people's author.

The great and marvelous Boz!

Ladies and gentlemen,

Mr. Charles Dickens!

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!

Thank you! Thank you!

Look, it's him!
It's really him!

- Hey there, Boz!
- Whoo!

Dear friends! Dear friends!

You have welcomed me to your country
with such open arms that I fear I...

Ohh!

Americans are friendly,

earnest, hospitable,

kind, frank, accomplished,

warm-hearted, fervent,

and... enthusiastic.

I can't wait to get home.

Mrs. Fisk,
I have told you repeatedly

not to disturb me
when I am working.

Oh, I beg your pardon, sir.
Only, Mr. Forster is here.

Forster.
Yes, of course.

As you can see,
Mr. Forster,

we're having all-new
wallpaper put in, French,

new doors,
new door knocker,

new roller blinds
for the windows,

new bookcases in the
library, a new chandelier,

all chosen by Charles,
of course.

And the staircase is
to be painted green.

- Though not too dull a green, Signor Mazzini.
- Ma certo. Sì, capisce.

You know how Charles is.

- Only the best for Mr. Dickens.
- Yes.

Mr. Forster,
if you'll allow me,

how do things stand between
you and Miss Wigmore?

Oh, splendid,
Mrs. Dickens.

In fact, I intend
to ask her to bestow upon me

the greatest happiness
a man can ever know.

Well, to marry me.

Oh!

Oh, I'm very glad
to hear that.

Forster! Forster, Forster, Forster.
So sorry!

I completely lost track
of the time.

- Shall we?
- Charles.

- You need to pay Signor Mazzini.
- Hmm?

For the parlor mantle.

- How much?
- Seventy-five pounds.

Seventy-five?
What's it made of, gold?

Carrara marble, Signor.
Finest quality.

No gentleman
would accept less.

No? Well, quite.

Well, I will have the money for you
when I return, Signor Mazzini.

Good day, Mrs. Dickens.

Good day, Mr. Forster.

Ah! Come in!

Good-bye,
little strangers!

Bye!

- Say good-bye to Mr. Forster, children!
- Bye!

- I'll hail us a cab.
- What? No, it's a waste of money. We'll walk.

It's damned expensive
being a gentleman.

Forster,
this meeting...

- Aye! I know my job.
- Good.

- And the money?
- Leave the publishers to me.

Good.

Slow down!
What's the hurry?

Charles
Bloody Dickens, huh?

The best-selling bloody author in the
history of English bloody literature.

Three of his books you have published
in the last year and a half. Three!

So where's the money?

Mr. Forster, like you, we are as
puzzled as the Egyptians in their fog.

- How's that?
- Martin Chuzzlewit.

A masterpiece of the
picaresque genre, and yet...

Barnaby Rudge. A fine book.
An important subject.

But, alas...

And the travel book,
American Notes.

Perhaps a little too candid
for our American cousins.

No joke. I heard they were burning
copies of it in the streets.

Well, they're mad as snakes,
the Yanks.

But what about this 50 pound a month
you're withholding from his royalties?

What is the explanation
for that?

You may remember that when Mr. Dickens
approached us about the tour to America,

we were pleased to provide him
with an interest-free loan.

With the provision that, in
the unlikely case of profits

being inadequate
to certain repayments...

What? So he's had a couple of flops?
Well, who hasn't? Huh?

Your publishing house
wouldn't exist without this man.

What about an advance?

- On?
- A new book.

You have a new book
in mind?

Yes.
Of course he does.

Well, in that case, I mean we'd
obviously love to consider it.

- Consider?
- That is to say, if we like it.

- If?
- I'm sure that we will.

Gentlemen,
I bid you good day.

Mr. Forster, please, we had no
intention of causing offense.

Well,
he's in a fettle now.

I'll give him a day
to calm down.

And then...
It's most awkward.

He was in last week,

in some difficulty.

Again.

No, that's not possible.
He's in the countryside.

He's under strict
instructions to remain there.

What is it this time?

"I need money immediately or
productive of fatal consequences,

I beseech you
to do the needful..."

He's been offering Mr. Dickens's
autographs for sale in the newspapers.

- How much did you give him?
- Forty-five, all told.

Forty-five?

Well,
I'll pay it all back.

But not a word of this
to Charles, do you hear?

"What's the secret?"
they say.

There is no secret.
I sit down...

- Charles. What are you doing here?
- I'm hiding from Thackeray.

They absolutely
come pouring out of me.

He'll no doubt want to commiserate
me on my Chuzzlewit reviews,

which he will quote
by heart.

Come on.

I am clammin' for some scran.
Where's Robertson?

Why do we come here,
hmm?

The service is terrible. The food is
inedible. The fees keep going up.

It's full of...

Gentlemen.

You're not Robertson.

The name is Marley, sir.

- Marley? Marley with an "E"?
- Yes, sir.

Hmm.

Uh, oh, don't worry.
He collects names.

We'll have some oysters
and a bottle of champagne.

Very good, sir.

- Champagne?
- We're celebrating.

- Celebrating?
- Hello, Thackeray.

- How are you?
- Tolerable.

I thank ye.

Charles, I must say I am relieved
to see you out and about.

Relieved?

You know, after those vile things
they wrote about Chuzzlewit.

I won't even
call them reviews.

- No matter. I never read them.
- Quite right.

Scandalous what one is
allowed to print nowadays.

Go on.
What did they say?

"Dull, vapid, and vulgar.

Not a single character capable of
exciting the reader's sympathies."

I certainly didn't think
it was vulgar.

Oh, look.
There's Macready.

Poor thing. His Macbeth was
absolutely shredded in the Times.

I must go and give him
my condolences.

I'm sick of London.

It's overcrowded,
overpriced...

- You love this town.
- No place for a man without money.

Not to mention
the bloody fog.

But it's your inspiration, your
what-do-you-call-it... your magic lamp.

I tell you, Forster,
my lamp's gone out.

I've run out of ideas.

I feel old.

Old?
You're a puppy.

You're exhausted, that's all.
Too many speeches.

I've got another one tomorrow
for the Children's Refuge.

Well, you have to learn
to say no.

How can I say no if I can be useful, if
I can lighten the burden of another?

Well, you have to, what with your
new commission to think about.

Forster, I just told you that...
Sorry. New commission?

It's from Chapman and Hall,
for your new book.

I've told them you'll have the first
chapter done by the end of the year.

You like a deadline.

- Do you mind telling me what it's about?
- I'll leave that up to you.

And on Christmas
Eve, they say,

the fairy mounds open wide

and the fire spirits
pour into the night.

And then
the Lord of the Dead

leads all of the spirits
into a wild hunt.

And he calls to them...

- Do we have a new housemaid?
- What?

Uh, yes. Tara.

She's Irish.
Charley adores her.

What are you doing?

- It was only a stub.
- Another hour in that.

- Oh, really, Charles.
- If you carry on like this, we'll end up in the poor house.

- You're funny.
- I'm not joking.

Charles!

You give money to every and
any beggar in the street.

You insist we move to a bigger house
and order in all new fixtures,

and then you complain
about a new candle.

Debt is an ogre, Kate. If you're
not careful, it can eat you up.

Are we in trouble?

No, of course not.

Then what?

Nothing.

I'm just sick of writing tooth
and nail for bread, that's all.

Hmm.

- Should've become a journalist.
- You hate the press.

- Or a lawyer.
- "The law is an ass."

I believe you wrote that.

A hairdresser, then,
in the Burlington Arcade.

Do you know what
I should have liked to be?

An explorer,

paddling a canoe somewhere
in the wilds of Canada

in a pair
of buckskin breeches,

all on my own.

No nappies to change.

By the way, dear,

I-I saw the doctor today.

Not another...
little stranger.

Are you pleased?

Well, of course.

- Well, that's splendid.
- Yes.

I am a necromancer.

Behold.

And now...

Charley.

Charley,
it's all right.

I'm here.

Mistress Chickenstalker!

Mistress Chickenstalker, what
has happened to your pinnie?

You look as if you've
been caught in a cyclone.

That's much better.

Master Corporal Skittles, sir.
On your feet, sir!

Ah, Lucifer Box.

Would you do me the honor?

Good.

Ah, the Snodgering Blee.
We meet at last.

What's this?

You have forgotten
to wash behind your ear.

Cor!

Now you must be...
Don't... Don't tell me.

- Who is that?
- Tara.

Tara. Of course.

I see you've made a conquest.

What was that wonderful story
I overheard you telling

about fairy mounds
and the fire spirits?

Only a story my gran used to tell
us, sir, back home in Ireland.

She used to say
that on Christmas Eve

the veils between this world
and the next thin out,

and that's when the spirits
cross over and walk among us.

Do they indeed?

Well, well, well.

Christmas Eve.

Thank you so much
for coming.

- It was such an interesting speech.
- Thank you very much.

- Your hat, sir.
- Thank you.

Oh, Mr. Dickens, it's such
an honor to meet you.

- We just adore your books.
- No, we don't.

- Well, I love them.
- Nonsense. You just like a good cry.

What is it you particularly
object to in my books?

Pickpockets, streetwalkers,
charity boys.

Those people
don't belong in books.

"Those people"?
You mean, the poor?

Look here, Mr. Dickens.
I'm a self-made man.

Pulled myself up
by my own bootstraps.

Never asked for anything from anyone
that I wasn't willing to pay for.

- Really? No help from anyone?
- None.

Well, Papa did give us a very small
cotton mill when we were married.

What do you suggest we do
with "those people"? Hmm?

Are there no workhouses?

Do you know how many people
would rather die than go there?

Then they'd
better do it

and reduce
the surplus population.

Can you spare
a bob, please?

Care to buy, sir?
Hard workers.

Fit any chimney.

You f...

Quick!
Come on! In here!

Down here now!

- Come on!
- No!

I lift mine eyes
unto the hills

from whence cometh
my help.

My help cometh
even from the Lord,

who hath made
heaven and earth...

All right, all right. I'm not paying
you by the hour. Skip to the end.

Rest eternal, grant to him, O
Lord. Let light perpetual shine upon him.

- Amen. Amen.
- Amen.

Shame, innit?

All that money and no one here to
mourn him except Old Scratch there.

- Who's that?
- His business partner.

The meanest cur on two legs,
so they say.

Aye, right.
Come on.

Ah... humbug.

"Humbug."

"Are there no workhouses?

Well, then they'd
better do it

and decrease
the surplus population."

"Old Scratch.
All that money. Shame."

Good evening, sir.

Yes, it is,
Mrs. Fisk.

- Charles?
- Humbug! Humbug!

Humbug! Ha-ha!

It's about a businessman.
Or a factory owner. A miser.

His partner dies. He doesn't shed a tear.
Thinks only of the money.

And on
Christmas Eve...

On Christmas Eve,
he meets some kind of... of...

of supernatural guides,
or spirits, possibly,

who in the course
of one night

teach him what a miserable,
loathsome, selfish toad he is.

It's a short book.
Short and sharp.

A hammer blow
to the heart

of this smug,
self-satisfied age.

It's a comedy.

Brilliant.

- Does it have a title?
- Yes.

Humbug: A Miser's Lament.

A Christmas Ghost Story...
Christmas Song...

Christmas Ballad.
Something like that.

Intriguing, really.
Ah, just one question.

Why Christmas?

- Well, why not?
- Does anybody really celebrate it anymore?

Apart from our clerk, who
never misses an opportunity

to take a day off...
with pay.

More or less an opportunity for picking
a man's pocket every 25th of December.

What we mean to say, Mr. Dickens, is,

not much of a market
for Christmas books, what?

It is a Christmas book because Christmas
is, or ought to be, the one time of year

when men and women
open their shut-up hearts

and think of people below them as if they
really were fellow passengers to the grave

and not another race
of creatures altogether.

We are already
halfway through October.

Even if you had already written it, we
couldn't possibly get it illustrated,

typeset, printed and bound,
advertised and distributed to shops

in only six weeks.

Well...

thank you
for your opinion.

Mr. Dickens!

Tie it off now.
That's it.

Scaly-headed vultures.
Money-grubbing, scum-sucking...

- But, Charles...
- I'll do it myself.

- What?
- I'll pay for it myself... all of it.

Illustrations, everything.
I'll distribute it myself.

But, Charles, this is madness.
Think of your finances, huh?

Come on. We'll go back.
We'll renegotiate.

No shame in it.
It's just business.

Why throw everything away
for a minor holiday?

No, I've never felt so strongly
about anything in my life, John.

You can help me or not,
as you wish.

- Where are you off to?
- Going to raise some capital.

One thing I've learned
from my father...

people will believe anything
if you're properly dressed.

Mr. Trabb!
Your finest cravats!

Ah.

Nothing like the air
of the metropolis

to put color in your cheeks,
eh, Mother?

There you are, sir. Best quality.
A-1 condition.

And look inside.

Autographed
by the author.

"To Papa. Love, Charles."

Five bob.

Hello, old dog.

Perhaps we could,
um, strike a bargain.

- Hello.
- Good with children, is it?

Too much?

Aha! Mr. Dickens
and Mr. Forster.

How do you?

Very well, thank you,
Mr. Haddock.

Mittens.

You are a bad boy.

Now, how may I be
of service to you?

Well, sir,
it's about the loan.

There was something I wanted to tell you.
What was it?

It was some rather good news,
if I recall correctly.

What, uh...

Ah.

Biscuit?

Well... thank you.

Mmm.

Ah! Uh, yes.

Now, what was I, uh...
What...

Uh, you said something
about good news?

Possibly
about the lawsuit?

Ah, the lawsuit.

Yes, the copyright
infringement.

Oliver Twisted. "As re-originated
from the original."

Yes! Ha!
I have it here.

Uh... Ah, yes.

Good news indeed.
We won.

The fine was set
at £2,200.

2,200!

The bad news is,
the defendants have no money.

- Ah.
- Bankrupt.

Disappointing, I know.

But we'll have them arrested,
throw them into debtor's prison.

No. No, no.

No?

As you wish.

In the meantime,

if you would be
so good...

here's my bill.

No rush.
Next week will be fine.

Hmm.

Tell you what. Why don't we
defer this until... January?

And while we're at it, perhaps
you might add a little bit more.

I'll make it
worth your while.

More?

You wish to borrow more?

Not very much.
Just...

£300...
till January.

I think we can
increase your loan

at, shall we say,
25 percent?

God's teeth!

Thank you.

Charles.
Charles.

- Are you all right?
- Yeah.

Never better.

Now find me
an illustrator.

He was a tight-fisted,
hand to the grindstone

old... Scratch.

Scrounger.

He was a...

covetous old sinner.

Name!

Shh.

Screwpull! Scrabbly.

Name! Ah!

Well, go on.
He won't bite.

Screwpull.

Aah!

Scrimple!

Aah!

You're... What are you
doing in here?

I've just come to see
to the fire, sir.

I'm not to be interrupted under
any circumstances! Do you hear?

I beg your pardon, sir.
It won't happen again.

Wait. What's that
in your pocket?

Varney the Vampire,
or The Feast of Blood.

You won't tell Mrs. Fisk, will ya?
She'll think I was shirkin'.

- Where did you learn to read?
- My mum taught me.

But then she died

and I had to go
to the Grubber.

The workhouse?

- Is it any good?
- Well, yes, sir. Thrilling.

Tell you what.
I'll make you a trade.

Varney the Vampire
for...

Uh, where is it?

Ah!

Aladdin
and His Magic Lamp.

Oh, my.

Read it.
Let me know what you think.

Thank you, sir.

Hmm.

Who is Scrimple?

Hmm? Scrimple?

- When I come in, you were saying...
- Oh!

It's just a name
for a story I'm concocting.

Get the name right and then, if you're
lucky, the character will appear.

Hmm.

He's not here yet.

Scrantish?

Scrarmer.

Come on.

Scrunge.

Aw, come on!

Come on,
you old sinner!

Scrooge!

Shut the window! Do you
think I'm made of money?

Mr. Scrooge.

- How delightful to meet you, sir.
- Sorry I can't say the same.

Come now. Don't be standoffish.
We ought to be friends.

- Don't have friends. Don't need 'em.
- Ah.

Naturally.

- I know. Let's play a game.
- Don't like games.

Well, humor me.

What do you think of when I
say the word... "darkness"?

Cheap.

- Love.
- Swindle.

- Money.
- Security.

- Children.
- Useless.

- Workhouse.
- Useful.

Christmas.

Christmas?

That's right.

Help! Help! Get it away!

Away!

What is going on?

Get it away,
the filthy thing.

Come on, Grip, old chap.
Back in the cage.

- Father?
- Ah. Charles.

- Good day.
- What are you doing here?

Well, we were
in the neighborhood

and we thought we'd drop by with
a present for the children.

His name is Grip.
He talks!

- Can we keep him?
- Hello, old girl.

It's bad luck, a bird in the house.
It means death.

- Hello!
- Father, in here.

Of course.

Charles? Charles?

What are you doing
back in London?

My dear Charles.

I will not disguise from you
that this is not the ardor

with which a loving father
might be expected...

You are supposed to be in Devon.

Banishment!

Be merciful
and say "death,"

for exile has more
terror in its look.

Father,
we had an agreement.

Hmm?

I bought you a house.

I gave you an allowance.

For which
I am very grateful.

As for me, I'm happy
wherever the weather.

But your mother is of
a more delicate sensibility.

Charles,
the mere sight of cows

causes her
actual physical pain.

Father.

And I have research to do
in the London Library.

- Research?
- Oh, yes.

Yeah.

I have a commission
from The Spectator

to write a feature
on the Bank Charter Act.

The editor
was very impressed

with my series
on marine insurance.

Good for you, Father. I do hope that
you and Mother will stay here with us.

The children and I will so enjoy
having some company in the evenings.

The Spectator.
Well, that's, um...

That's most impressive.

Thank you, dear boy.

Oh, by the way,

you couldn't lend me
a tenner, could you?

That blighter took my last
farthing for the cage.

It was the bird, sir. It flew upstairs.

Oh, um, I'll see
that it's all cleared up.

Please, can we keep him?

Well, I, um...

Come on, Walter.

"This is not the ardor
with which a loving father..."

Humbug!

- What is?
- Christmas.

What about it?

Well, what is it
but an excuse

for picking a man's pocket
every 25th of December?

Yes. Keep going.

A time for paying bills
without money.

A time for finding yourself a year
older and not an hour richer.

If I could work my will,

every idiot who goes about with
"Merry Christmas" on his lips

should be boiled
in his own plum pudding

and buried with a stake of holly
through his heart, he should.

Oh, Mr. Scrooge, you and I are
going to do wonderful things together.

Oh, but he was a tight-fisted
hand at the grindstone, Scrooge.

A squeezing, wrenching,

grasping, scraping,

clutching,
covetous old sinner.

Charles?

Hard at work?

What can I help
you with, Father?

Well, I was wondering if we might have
an extra candlestick for our room.

- Of course.
- Oh!

Cigars. Oh, yes.

I must confess,

I have acquired an irrepressible
habit of smoking whilst I write.

Dreadful habit, I know,
but...

Oh, yes.

Thank you.

Hmm. Going well?

Oh.

I won't detain you.

Don't do that.
D-Don't.

Why not?

Too late.

Who is it?

Who is it?

Bunsby?

Clennam?

Heep? Hexam?

- Oh, stop, stop!
- Magwitch?

No.

Marley.

Is that you, Jacob?

- You know him?
- My business partner.

Last time I saw him
he was dead as a doornail.

How do you, Jacob?

Business, business.

Mankind was my business.

The common welfare
was my business.

Charity...

mercy...

forbearance,
and benevolence

were all my business.

He was never one
for a straight answer.

And yet I practiced
none of them!

Come in.

Come in, please.

You are fettered.
Why?

I wear the chain
I forged in life.

I made it...

link by link,

yard by yard.

And of my own free will,
I girded it about me.

Of my own free will,

I wore it.

Do you know the weight and length
of the chain you bear yourself?

You mean him,
surely.

Mm-mmm.

You, Charley.

Your chains,
all around you.

Past and present...

and what is to come.

Hail to thee,
blithe turkey,

whose exquisite odors

now perfume
the circumambient air.

And let this day
be fragrant

with the love
we bear one another.

And may God bless us,
every one.

Every one.

Mr. John Dickens.

You're under arrest
for a debt of 42 pounds.

- Father!
- Charley.

Father,
tell them to stop!

Take everything
that shines, boys.

It's all right, Charley.

- Tell them to stop, Father!
- It's all right.

Please, Charley,
don't worry.

What about Leech
for the illustrations?

Leech?
He's so prickly.

- And he's by no means the cheapest.
- I don't want the cheapest.

Oh, Charles, for God's sake, slow down.
You move at railway speed.

I don't want the cheapest.
I want the best.

- It's going well then?
- What?

- The book.
- It's brilliant. Best thing I've ever written.

- What, so you...
- I've got 11 pages.

- Eleven?
- Well, if it weren't for constant interruptions.

We've got my father staying with us. He
could not have come at a worse time.

Oh.

Miss Wigmore.

Ah.

Come.

Come along.

Who was that?

- Charlotte.
- Who?

My fiancée.
I told you.

Fiancée?

- She's a canny lass, is she not?
- Indeed. Most amiable.

Amiable?

Why, man, she's an
angel, a sylph.

She's a goddess on a...

Whatever is the matter?

Charlotte and I have come
to a parting of the ways.

- I thought you said you were engaged.
- We were.

But then her father had no intention
for her to marry the son of a butcher.

Here.

Perhaps
it's for the best, eh?

The life matrimonial, it's
not for everyone, old stick.

Aye. Aye, no doubt.

So... Leech.

That's the ticket.

Four wood cuts,
four etchings.

The cover in red.
Hand-colored.

The title in rustic,
spectral writing.

The end papers to be green and
all three edges to be gilded.

Gilded?
It'll cost you.

Well, it must be exquisite.
That's why we came to you.

You'll have to sell every
copy to make your money back.

That is my intention.

You brought
the manuscript?

I'll have
something for you in a week.

- A week?
- Mmm.

That leaves only four weeks
to do all the illustrations

and get it to the printer
in time for Christmas.

- Can you do it?
- Mr. Dickens, I'm not a hired hand.

I am an artist.

What you are asking
is impossible.

Impossible
for an ordinary man.

But you are no ordinary man,
Mr. Leech.

You are a genius.

Fifty pounds.

Paid in advance.

Plus more
for the plates.

Done.
Thank you, Mr. Leech.

Look, Charles, I don't want
to be the voice of doom,

but before we lay out
money for illustrations,

we should consider what happens
if you don't finish on time.

I will finish on time.

Quite.

Mr. Dickens. I fix the chandelier.
See?

Yes. Good.
Grazie, Signor Mazzini.

Is no problem.

Only 12 guineas extra.

Wh... Tw...

I thought my father was off
to the British Library.

Your sister's here, sir. Come from
Manchester with her little boy.

Ah.

- My dear sister! Ha-ha!
- Charley.

Henry, how are you?

Very well,
grace be to God.

This cannot be young Master Henry.
I barely recognize you.

- How old are you now?
- Nine, if you please, sir.

Nine? I shall soon
run out of fingers.

Excuse me, sir.

The children are having their
tea in the dining room.

Come on then, young 'un.
Up!

Mind your head.

There goes my heart.

What did
the doctor say?

He says we have to
wait and see.

Won't you
let us help?

- We'll manage.
- At least until Henry finds a new position.

Something will come up.
I'm sure of it.

You sound
just like Father.

How is the old reprobate?

"This morning I had 25 shillings in my
hand. And now, observe the vacancy."

He means no harm.

It's not enough. He bobs around
like a cork on the surface of life.

- Not a thought for the future.
- Oh, Charley.

Let it go, can't you?

Come on, me army!
Me landlubbers, me lovelies!

Oh! Up we go.
Ha-ha! Me landlubbers!

Come aboard my ship!
Here we go! Let's set sail!

Brail your capstan bar!
Come here, Walter.

- Brail your capstan bar!
- No one is useless in this world...

Who lightens the burden
of another. I know.

For all his faults,
you won't find a kinder man.

How long he is
growing up to be one.

Here we go!
Full sail ahead!

Why are you here?

You'd better come and see
who's just turned up.

Charles?

Just a bit of indigestion.
Go back to sleep.

Mmm.

Tell him who you are.

I am the Ghost
of Christmas Past.

Follow.

Not bloody likely.

- Why not?
- Mucking around in the past? What's the point?

You might learn something.

Well, I already know
everything I need to know.

- Uh, take him, why don't you?
- Me?

- Yes, if you're so keen.
- It's not about me!

Well, you're the author,
aren't you?

Follow.

Don't cry. We'll be back
when the debt's paid.

- Why can't I stay with you?
- You're a big boy, Charley.

You're the breadwinner now.

You'll see.
It'll be an adventure.

You'll hardly think of us at all.

Time to go!

Now, sir,
enough of that.

Stand up tall.

Blood of iron,
heart of ice.

Huh?

And remember!

You're the son
of John Dickens!

A gentleman!

You be sure
and tell them that!

Well, come on then!

Blood of iron,

heart of ice.

- Good morning.
- What? Oh.

You were tossing and turning
all night, you know.

Yes. Bad dreams.

What about?

I don't know. Shadows.

Well...

a little daylight
will cure you.

Now, Constable,

shall we ask Mr. Punch where
the baby's daddy's gone?

I bet he knows.

- Oh! Where's the baby's daddy gone?
- Where's he gone, Mr. Punch?

Daddy's off to prison!

Off to prison? Oh-ho!

Come on. We're wasting time.
Let's get to work.

I am working.

- Here?
- Yes. Gathering inspiration.

Gathering what?

- What do you see when you look around?
- Well, it's a market, you idiot.

What else?

Hot pies!
Eel, beef or mutton pies!

- Buyers and sellers.
- What else?

Never say die.
Have a look, sir.

Thieves and ruffians.

Highly interesting murder,
gentlemen!

Hold! Hold!

Clear the way!
Clear the way, lads!

Mr. Fezziwig!

Life, Mr. Scrooge.

It's London. The great
theater of the world.

- It's all here.
- Bah. Humbug!

I'm a man of facts,
of calculations.

Realities, not fancy.

What the devil is that?

Here you go, sir.

- Must go.
- Where to?

It's time to write.

- Come along.
- Good night, children!

Bye! Shoo!

Well, looks as though Charles
won't be joining us. Again.

- We may as well start.
- Oh.

Ah, the parties.

We used to keep such hours.

Balls, dinners, champagne.

First-rate capon,
Mrs. Fisk.

Oh, thank you, sir.
I'll let the cook know.

And the chairs
had turned legs,

with green squabs
to match the curtains.

What was that story,
Mother?

Oh, I was just telling Kate about the
dining room set we used to have.

Rosewood.
In the most approved taste.

You mean the one
we pawned?

Oh!

Charles!
You are a satirical monster.

- Is that a joke, Charles?
- Not a very amusing one.

Is that a new waistcoat,
Father?

What? Oh, yes. It's Persian crimson.
A little more expensive.

But as I always say, people
will believe anything

if you are properly dressed.

Kate, will you ask Tara to bring
a tray up with something on it?

- I'll bring it up.
- No. I need Tara to do it.

I'll get her, sir.
Tara!

That's the
spirit, my boy. Hmm?

Procrastination is the thief of
time, eh, Charles?

Collar him!

We must not
disturb the poet

when the divine frenzy
is upon him.

Hmm.

Know the place?

Was I apprenticed here?

Clear the way, lads! Clear the way.
It's Friday night.

Why, it's old Fezziwig.

Who is it?

It's Tara, sir,
with your dinner.

Tara.
Come in. Come in.

Close the door.

Sit. I want to
read you something.

Oh... Oh, I... I don't think Mrs.
Fisk would...

Ah! Skittleshins
to Mrs. Fisk.

Come. Sit.

Now, since you
like ghost stories,

see if this can rival
Varney the Vampire.

"With cherry-cheeked apples,

juicy oranges,
luscious pears,

immense Twelfth cakes
and seething bowls of punch

that made the chamber dim
with their delicious steam.

In easy state, upon this couch,
there sat a jolly giant..."

- The second ghost.
- The second ghost.

I am the Ghost
of Christmas Present.

These are the gifts
of abundance, goodwill,

and of generosity.

Uh-huh.

Of course, you wouldn't understand
much about that, would you?

Unlike these good people.

My dear Mrs. Cratchit, you have
outdone yourself this year.

Oh, everyone pitched in.
Even Tim.

- I set the table.
- Yes, you did.

I didn't know Cratchit
had a crippled son.

Didn't you ever think
to ask?

A merry Christmas
to us all, my dears.

- And may God bless us.
- God bless us, every one.

He's my clerk. I don't pay him to
tell me about his personal life.

- You hardly pay him at all.
- Fifteen shillings a week.

For a man with a family,
not to mention a sick child?

That's the market rate.

Do you really believe
that every inch of existence

is a bargain
across the counter?

Observe this family.

They don't have much, but they're happy,
grateful, contented with their lot.

Whereas you are miserable
and content with nothing.

Never heard such folly.

Heed well what I've said.

Farewell.

And... intermission!

- Thrilling performance.
- That's very kind. Thank you.

And that is as far
as I've got.

- Tara.
- Hmm?

- How do you do that, sir?
- Do what?

Make a world come alive.

I could almost see
and hear them people.

Especially that Tiny Tim.

Poor mite.

Um...
A word in your ear.

- About what?
- The scene.

- It's very one-sided.
- What? One-sided?

Well, my character doesn't get
to explain his side of things.

- So I've taken the liberty of writing a short speech.
- No.

Something about the
rational self-interest...

and the natural tendencies
of free markets...

No. No. And no.

Well, what sort of book
is this anyway?

No! It's too... Ew.
It's too gloomy.

The Ghost of Christmas
Present should be wonderful.

Warm, jolly!

- Jolly?
- Yes!

A jolly ghost?

That's it.

- What's this?
- Find another artist.

We don't want
another artist.

A jolly Christmas ghost?
What's that mean?

I can't draw
what I don't understand.

Well, it is everything
that's best about Christmas.

He's the soul of kindness
and generosity. He's...

Well, he's Forster.

Eh?

With a beard.

Come on. Jolly.

In shops by Christmas?

That'll be a miracle.

Go away.

Three flops in a row.
Up to your eyeballs in debt.

I'd think you'd be glad
of some advice.

So, you've had a few flops.
What of it?

You're still young. It's not
as if you're an old man.

You've still got lots of time to be...

Are we in the presence of the
Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?

- Why doesn't he speak?
- Shh!

You are here to show us the shadows
of the things that have not been,

but will happen,
in the time before us.

Is that so?

Where does
it want us to go?

I think I know.

I have a bad feeling
about this. I...

And then they entered
poor Bob Cratchit's house

and found the mother and the
children round the fire.

It's okay.
It's okay.

Then Bob came in the door.

You went today then,
Robert?

To the cemetery?

Yes, my dear.

I wish you could have gone
to see how green a place it is.

But you'll see it often.

I promised him that I would
take a walk there on a Sunday.

My little child.

- My little, little child.
- "...little child."

- No!
- Uh, rude!

- Is Tiny Tim dead?
- Well, of course he is. Imbecile.

He was very ill.

You can't save
every child in London.

And the family
has no money for a doctor.

Then Scrooge must save him!

Me?

- But he wouldn't...
- Why?

- Well, he's too selfish.
- He can change.

There's good in him somewhere,
I know it!

People don't change.

He's been this way
for a long time.

I'm not sure
he can change.

Of course he can.
He's not a monster.

I thought this was a ghost
story, not a fairy tale.

He wouldn't let Tiny Tim die,
Mr. Dickens.

He has a heart,
doesn't he?

It would be
too wicked...

even for him.

'Tis now the
very witching time of night...

Hush!

when graveyards
yawn and hell...

Aha, Shakespeare.

There's a man
who could write.

I doubt he ever
had a blockage.

Self-preservation...
first law of nature.

And that's
just a fact.

Oh, hush.

Oh, Charles! Good evening.

We'll get him straight
into bed, Charles.

We were up the river to Kew, and I
think perhaps it was too long a day.

- Kew.
- Kew?

- What about your newspaper article?
- Article?

Yes, the one you're writing.
It's been over a month.

Oh!

Oh, ho! Oh!

No, the, um...

The editor felt that due
to pecuniary complications

of a most complicated
nature,

he felt he could not proceed
with the commission.

So, no newspaper article.

No. However,
I rejoice in saying

I have every hope
something will turn up.

I think it's time you went
back to Devon, Father.

- Indeed.
- As soon as possible.

Of course, dear boy.

We shall catch the
afternoon train tomorrow.

No, sweet.

I can manage
from here.

Thank you.

Good night, Charles.

Ride on, ride on,

over all obstacles

and win the race.

Don't be unkind,
Charley.

You don't know
what he's been through.

He feels it all,
you know.

He would never tell you,
but he feels it all.

That's it. Blood of
iron, heart of ice.

Now perhaps we can finish
this little book.

"Are these the shadows
of the things that will be,

or are they shadows of the
things that may be only?"

That is as far
as I've got.

It's brilliant.

- Are you pulling my leg?
- No. No, of course not.

Well, now...
that's encouraging.

My... My one criticism...

Yes?

- Tiny Tim.
- Go on.

- Are you really going to let him die?
- Aw, not you as well.

It's a Christmas book.
Shouldn't it be hopeful?

I mean, isn't that what... what...
what Christmas is all about?

The hope that in the end, our
better natures will prevail?

You were the one who persuaded
me to kill off Little Nell.

Yeah. Well, I stand by
that decision.

John, my readers
implored me...

But this is different. If Tiny
Tim dies, then what's the point?

- Thank you, John.
- You're welcome.

For reminding me why I never
ask your opinion on my work.

Your services
are no longer required.

- You cannot sack me.
- Why not?

Because I don't work for you.
I do what I do as a friend.

John, please leave.

See you on Friday.

Last chapter's due
at the printers.

Right. Let's run it again from the
scene with Scrooge's debtors.

- Oh, what's the point?
- The point?

We keep stopping
at the same place.

Yes, because
I'm working out the ending.

- Admit it, you're blocked!
- I'm not blocked.

Now, if you take
my advice...

- I'm the author here.
- Allegedly.

I'm going out.

- Alone!
- Aw.

Forster.
I need your help.

- What is it? The children?
- No. The children are fine.

What's this?

"Candle-scandal, flirt-hurt,
Charlotte-poor heart."

Is that a poem? That's atrocious.
What has got into you?

You look terrible.
What's the matter?

It's the book. I'm struggling
with one of the characters.

Whoo-hoo! Ah!

- Quite a few of them, actually.
- What exactly is the problem?

The problem is, could a man as mean-spirited
as Scrooge, as evil as Scrooge...

Could he become a different
person overnight?

What is so evil about him?

- Well, he's a miser.
- Well, that doesn't make him evil.

- It just makes him cheap.
- He worships money.

- It's the only thing that matters to him.
- Why?

He has nothing else.

No friends? No family?

No one he trusts.

Why?

Because he's afraid.

Of?

Being found out.

- Hello, chaps.
- Thackeray.

Charles, I haven't seen anything
of yours in print for ages.

Don't tell me
you've had a blockage.

Not in the least. I'm neck and
heels into a Christmas book.

- What the deuce is that?
- A story about Christmas.

For Christmas.

A story... about...?

How amusing.

Well, best of luck with it.

Oh, dear, my last book has
come out in a Railway edition.

Sold 10,000 copies,
in a week.

"There's gold
in them thar hills,"

as your American friends
would say.

Come on. Let's go somewhere
else, get a real drink.

She's a big lass, and a bonny
lass, and she likes her beer.

And I call her Cushie Butterfield,
and I wish she was here.

What language is that?

That's Geordie, man.
We're gods.

- Where are we?
- Oh, it's Hungerford Stairs.

Oi, I smell the river.

What's that?

It's a graveyard.

Ah, it's the old Warren's Factory.
They moved from there years ago.

I wonder they've not
pulled it down yet.

Yeah.
Or burnt it down.

Might do it myself
one day.

Why? What have you got
against boot blacking?

Charles.

What is it?

I just have
this recurring nightmare.

Oh, nightmares, aye.

I've got one where I'm being
chased by a giant badger.

What's yours?

Never mind.

Well, come on.
It's time to go home.

I'll see you at the printers.
Friday morning, nine o'clock.

- I can't.
- Well, why not?

It's the book.

I can't... The characters
won't do what I want.

And I'm afraid.

Of what?

If I can't finish it,
I'll never write again.

Oh, come on, man, come on.
Have some sleep, hear?

I can't.

The wrong fire
is burning in my head.

Oh, don't be daft. Now, come on,
your wife will be worried sick.

Who? Kate?
She doesn't understand me.

I've got news for you, Charles.
None of us understand you.

You're...
You're a freak of nature.

I'm exhausted spending
two hours in your company.

Come on, go home.
It's cold tonight, yeah?

I'll see you Friday.

♪ Oh, she's a big lass And a bonny
lass And she likes her beer ♪

Here. Bye.

Put that one over there!

Boys!

This here
is Charley Dickens.

And what was you just telling me, lad?
About your dad?

My father
is a gentleman.

Where is he then?

- Dining with the queen?
- I heard he's been sent to prison.

Hush, you lot.
Get back to work!

Master Dickens.

No shirkin' here.

You're no better than us, cocker,
and you'd best learn that.

You.
What are you doing?

Hello, Charley, old boy.

Father?
What are you doing here?

Oh, I had some business that I had
to attend to, so I thought...

You just left town. What business
could you possibly have?

- Oh, I...
- What's that?

You're going
to sell this?

Well, it's no good to you,
is it?

Is that what
you've been doing?

Going through the rubbish like a
tramp, selling bits and pieces of me.

Is this your business?

- Aren't you ashamed?
- What?

I bought you a house.
I gave you an allowance.

What more can you
possibly need?

Need?
Oh, reason not the need.

- You see me here, you gods?
- No. No. Shh. No.

- A poor old man!
- No! Shh! Stop it.

Charley, you don't know what it's
like to be poor, to be nothing.

At 11 years old
I was made to know.

Working 12 hours a day,

going hungry,
alone and afraid

because your father, who is
supposed to care for you,

is so utterly
thriftless!

No, please.
I beg you.

No, you are not
the victim here.

This is about me and your
family and all of us

who've lived our whole lives in
the shadow of your recklessness.

Charley...

Go away. I am sickened
at the sight of you.

You are nothing but a drag
and chain upon my life.

I owe you nothing. Go!

Ah, Charley.

- Who's that then?
- Nobody.

- The author.
- Huh.

No wonder he looks
so depressed.

Right. That's enough.
Back to work.

God bless us,
every one.

Why are you so miserable?

What else can I be, when I live
in such a world of fools as this?

- You mean-spirited, cynical...
- Oh, yes?

Well, you look
in the mirror sometime.

"Is that a new candle, Kate?"

"Your services
are no longer required."

Ah, a hypocrite.

- What?
- Pardon me, sir.

- Mrs. Dickens just wanted me to ask...
- This is intolerable.

- Mrs. Fisk! Mrs. Fisk!
- Yes, sir?

Take this child away from here and see that she
never disturbs me ever again. Do you hear?

Yes, sir.
Come with me, girl.

Oh, yes. Banish her.
Banish them all.

- Quiet!
- Humanity's great benefactor.

- Humbug!
- Shut it.

Or I'll make you bald,
with bad teeth.

Oh, yeah, go ahead.
It won't change a thing.

You still won't have an ending.

This is ridiculous.

You're all being ridiculous.

If you be a man!

Come on then, coward!

Fight me!

You miserable old fool!

Fight me! Come on!

Tara.

Tara!

Has anybody seen Tara?

- She's gone.
- You asked Mrs. Fisk to send her away.

Well, go and search for her.
Find her.

Rehire her at once.

An Irish orphan in London? That would be
like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Come on, out. Come on,
children, off you go.

Quick sticks.
That's it.

Why didn't you
stop her?

How was I to know you didn't mean it?
You said...

I say a lot of things that are
nonsense when I'm working.

- Charles...
- You know how ideas take possession of me.

- You knew what I was like when you married me.
- Yes. I did.

But you have no idea
what it's like to live with you.

Always walking
on eggshells,

trying to guess your mood,

to know which of your commands are
a whim and which are in earnest.

You know, sometimes I...

I feel your characters
matter more to you

than your own flesh and blood.

I am who I am.

And who is that?

It's as if
there are two of you.

One who's kind and gentle,

and a secret self

that no one is allowed
to know or question.

This here
is Charley Dickens.

What was it you was telling me,
lad, about your dad?

My father is a gentleman.

Where is he then?
Dining with the queen?

I heard he's
been sent to prison!

Hush, you lot! Where's your manners?
Get back to work.

Master Dickens.

Got a present
for the young gentleman,

seeing as it's Christmas.

Blood of iron,
heart of ice.

You're no better
than us, cocker!

Hello, Charley.

So, this is
your miserable secret.

The famous author,
the inimitable Charles Dickens,

was once a scabby
little factory boy.

Leave me be.

A common bit of riffraff,
a squalid wretch.

No use to anyone!

Look for yourself.
What do you see, huh?

A nothing. A nobody.
A debtor's son.

Who could ever care
for you?

Certainly not your father.
He abandoned you.

Enough of that.
Stand up tall.

Blood of iron,
heart of ice.

He failed you again and again.

Oh!

You said so yourself.

Nothing but a drag and chain
upon your life.

Who are you? Huh?

You know me, Charley.

I'm hunger. I'm cold.

I'm darkness.

I'm the shadow on your thoughts,
the crack in your heart,

and the stain upon your soul.

And I will never,
ever leave you.

Go away.

Why? We're having such fun.

People don't change, Charley.

Look around you. You're
still the same scabby boy.

Useless,
just like your father.

No.

"No one is useless in this world who
lightens the burden of another."

My father
taught me that.

Which grave is that?

- There's no name on it.
- Well, why should there be?

The man to whom
this grave belongs

never made himself useful
to anyone but himself.

No friends.

No family.

Never felt love or joy.

Never took any kind
of pleasure in life.

And now it's too late.

It's time, Mr. Scrooge.

We've come to the end.

I don't want to die.

Not like this...

alone,

unloved, forgotten.

It's too late.

No, it's never too late.

It's never...
It's never too late.

I will honor Christmas
in my heart

and try to keep it
all the year.

I will live in the past,
the present, and the future.

The spirits of all three
will strive within me.

I will not shut out
the lessons that they teach.

Oh, please. I beg you.

Let me do some good...

before I die.

So we come
to the final chapter.

Oh, I told you we'd do great
things together, Mr. Scrooge.

Stave five.

"The End of It."

Yes. And the bedpost
was his own,

the bed was his own,
the room was his own.

Best and happiest of all, the time before
him was his own to make amends in.

Scrooge was better
than his word.

He did it all
and infinitely more.

And to Tiny Tim,
who did not die,

he was a second father.

And so,
as Tiny Tim observed,

"God bless us, every one."

The end.

The end.

- Charles?
- What?

- There is someone here to see you.
- Not now, Kate, please.

I have to get this to the
printer by nine o'clock.

Tara.

Thank you for the loan.

Well, thank you.

It's good, isn't it?

Oh, yes, sir.
It was fizzing.

Fizzing?
That's delightful.

Tara.

I am very sorry that I sent you away.
That was a mistake.

And I was...

And you were right
about Tiny Tim.

He doesn't die.

Scrooge helps him
to get better.

And does he help Scrooge
get better too?

Yes.

Yes, he does.

- Where did that come from?
- A gift.

For the children.
From your father.

My father was here?

You can still catch him, if...

Oh!

Kate.

I know.
You don't deserve me.

Go. Go.

- Cab!
- Whoa!

- Paddington Station!
- Right-o, governor.

- As fast as you can!
- Oi! Oi!

Whoa!

Turn it around.
And wait for me here!

Oi! Stop!

- Hey!
- Stop! Police!

Wait!

Wait, wait, please! Where
do you think you're going?

- What?
- Oh, please, dear.

- Don't make a scene. We're going away.
- No, you're not. Please.

Police! Get out of my way! Clear the way!
Let me through!

Oh.
What have I done now?

No, it's...
it's what you haven't done.

- What do you mean?
- Well, who's going to carve the turkey?

And who's going to make
the Christmas pudding?

It won't be the same
without you.

The pudding! The secret is
to warm the treacle first.

There, you...
You see, my dear?

I told you something
would turn up.

Oh, my son. Oh.

Gotcha!

You're that Charles
Dickens, aren't you?

Uh, guilty.

That last one.
Chuzzlewit.

Wept like a baby, I did.

Well, that's... That's very kind.
What's your name, Constable?

My name?
Copperfield, sir.

Copperfield.

Any chance
of a new book soon?

New book. New book!

Wait. New book.

Merry Christmas!

I'm his father.

Santa bells for sale!

Shoe Lane!
As fast as you can go.

- Charles, where have you been?
- It's all right. I've got it!

Mr. Grub!
Mr. Grub. We're here.

I have it. I have the ending.
You can finish it now.

- It's too late.
- What?

Oh, come on. You've already printed the other
four chapters, and it's just one more.

Get the whole book
finished today.

- I can't guarantee anything.
- Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Grub!

Thank you.

I didn't say
I could do it.

Well, I'll see
what I can do.

Oh, come on, man.
Don't prolong the agony.

It's exactly
as I'd imagined it.

Hello, gents. Extraordinary
weather, isn't it?

Looks like snow.

- Hello, Thackeray.
- Oh, what's this I have?

Yes. It's a proof copy
of your new book.

I'm going to review it
for The Spectator.

I'm told you wrote it
in only six weeks, Charles.

What a prodigy you are.

Did you bring that
all the way from Italy?

Sì. Venezia.

And now...

And now the beautiful mermaid
floats through the sea.

Wooo!

Hello, old girl!

Oh, my goodness.
That is beautiful.

Isn't it? The Germans
call it a Tannenbaum.

It's a tree for Christmas.
A Christmas tree, I suppose.

Now the royal family have got
one, it'll be all the rage.

- Hello.
- Miss Wigmore!

Papa had
a change of heart.

So he did. Oh, I'm so pleased!
Congratulations.

Charles, uh, I think you're
going to want to hear this.

- It's by Thackeray.
- Not now.

No, please.
Everyone, gather round.

"It was a blessed inspiration

that put such a book into
the head of Charles Dickens.

A happy inspiration
of the heart

that warms every page.

It is impossible to read without a
glowing bosom and burning cheeks,

between love and shame
of our kind."

- Aw.
- Bravo, Charles.

Well, uh...

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls.

And those on the way.

A toast.

I wish you all many,
many happy Christmases

and friendships, and great
accumulation of cheerful recollections

and heaven at last
for all of us.

In the season of hope, we will shut
out nothing from our firesides

and everyone
will be welcome.

Welcome what has been
and what is

and what we hope may be,

to this shelter
underneath the holly.

Merry, merry Christmas
to one and all.

Merry Christmas!

Thank you.

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