All language subtitles for Feud.S02E05.WEB

-I told Martha to throw
these goddamn things away.
-Happy Rockefeller.

Couldn't just be a girl from
the secretarial pool with you.

It always has to be
a monument to your fucking ego.

Oh, so it's my fault? I'm not
the one who told him everything.

Of course I told him!

He was there for me.
Where were you?

Have you ever wanted to
have a conversation with me?

No. Your bloated
lack of discretion--

What the fuck
did we do to him?

Other than roll
out the red carpet

so he could prance on
twinkle toes into our world.

He was a fucking guest!

Carol Matthau,
Gloria Vanderbilt, and Lee.

He leaves them
practically alone.

It's hatred. Pure hatred.

I feel like I'm going insane.

He comes off far worse
than any of you do.

I need something.
I need a pill. Where--

Martha,
would you make Mrs. Paley

-a cup of tea, please?
-Yes. You have
a phone call, sir.

Thank you.
I'll bring you a Valium.

I don't want
your fucking help!

You miserable little fuck.
Don't call here again. Ever.

You might as
well move to Patagonia.

That is how isolated
you will be, starved of oxygen.

And I will watch.
I will watch as you die alone.

So go and die.

It's Truman.
You know what to do.

So do it after the beep.
Here it comes.

The beep.

Mr. Capote,
it's Jimmy Baldwin.

If you are there,
hiding behind some hideous
piece of ormolu furniture,

please pick up.

I'm counting. One, two...

-Hello, Mr. Baldwin.
-Mr. Mailer tells me

- you're despondent.
- Is this true?

I mean, stunned, shocked.

I am speechless.
This is the worst time
in my life, I think.

I may have tried
to kill myself last night.

Let me turn this thing off.

It's taping us.
I don't need that.

So the ladies who lunch
are taking their pounds
of flesh, are they?

Oh, no. Not pounds.

All of it.

Flaying me alive.

A concentrated effort
to effectively ensure
I am a social pariah.

What are you doing right now?

Well, I was standing
at the window,

thinking about throwing myself
into the East River, frankly.

Then you called.

Let's meet for lunch.

The scene of the crime, today,
1:00 sharp. I'll reserve.

I don't wanna go there.
It's full of enemies.

They might not even let me in.

What a story
that would be.

They can't refuse entry
with this Black man, can they?

They're all glowering.

What if somebody comes over
and starts a ghastly scene?

Well, I'll just beat
the living shit out of them.

Besides, you've had
ghastly scenes here
before, haven't you?

Didn't that murderess
spritz you with
Chablis once?

Sancerre, actually.

Mr. Capote.

Gonna tell you
some hard truths today.

You're going to spend
the day listening and
learning from me.

Class begins
henceforth, baby.

I'm not a very
quick study, Jimmy.

Then let's order
some oysters.

Ah, this is faux Basque shit.

I've been to the Basque coast,
darling. This is not Basque.

This is New York
continental froufrou.

Why are you being nice
to me?

We're friends, I mean,
but we're not close friends.

Mr. Baldwin, I'm told
you have a special request?

Oh, yes. The best thing--
The best thing I ever ate was
in a place outside of Biarritz.

Something called
Kokotxas. Do you know it?

Kokotxas was cod
cheeks in a salsa verde.

There's olive oil,
there's fish stock, garlic,
finely chopped parsley,

and it comes on this
perfect crusty bread.
Can you do something like that?

We need to do something
to bolster this man's
flagging spirits.

Of course, sir.

I've noticed
that most minorities--

Blacks, thank God,
Asians, women, Jewish folk--

they all have
a community to turn to
in their time of need.

The homosexual,
not so much. Not yet.

I mean, what?
You, me, Gore, Tenn?

We're the only gay American
men of letters, pretty much.

I'm not counting
Frank O'Hara and Ginsberg
because they are just poets.

Gore hasn't reached
out to you, I'm guessing.

Gore?

Are you kidding?

He's dancing in joy
at my misfortune.

Voodoo doll in hand.

Well, because
he's jealous of you.

I'm not jealous of you.
Today, Truman,

I am going
to be your community.
Because you need one.

You are important
to this country.
Your words and ideas.

As-- As are yours.

Well, we know that.
We're not talking
about me today.

Your story is being
dismissed as a-- as a small
salacious roman à clef.

It is much more than that.

It is?

I mean, it is.

I wanna know
what you left out.

All the awful things you could
have said about the Swans.

Why do you wanna know that?

Tell you at the end
of the day.

Start with Babe.
I know she's your favorite.

Can we talk
about this in the bedroom?

What is there to talk about?

Everyone overheard

because you happen
to slip in that in between

buying a Max Beckmann painting
and a Max Ernst painting
in Berlin

that you just fucked
somebody! Listen to me!

It's the sex
stuff that I revealed

in my sneak peek magazine
article that's made them mad.

It's not the bang-bang cruelty
or even their funny names.

It's the rough truth of it.
It's Bill's affairs.

I don't know
what matters more to him.

The fuck
or me knowing about it.

You think it's harmless,
flirting with the help?

Oh,
it was hardly flirting, dear.

Well, I was mortified.
She had legs like a tree trunk.

Why don't you cut one off
and count the rings?

If I wrote a book, it would
be called Thieves I've Known.

Starting with Betty Bacall,
who stole my look.

The fabric I found,
gray flannel that I found.

And any man
I ever spent a night with,
she had to do the same thing.

Until, finally, I heard
from one of these guys that
he couldn't tell the difference

who he was fucking,
her or me.

And what's left of me
after everything's been stolen?

"Formidable excellence"
is how I'm described.

That's code for a dry hump.

I was trying to go
after the men. Not the women.

Thank you.

The truth, Jimmy.
The thing that I could have written but didn't

is that they all fuck everybody
and get away with it.

The affairs of the rich
are different.

But these women
pillory anyone else

who does so,
as if they were above it all.

Babe had many affairs
in their apartment

when Bill would go to LA
for his programming trips.

I even helped her
pick out the outfits.

One time she wanted to dress up
as an Hermès pirate for a lover.

- The men
were always unsuitable.

Lee. Lee plays the part
of America's original Pilgrim,

but she's a true slattern,
voracious and predatory.

But the worst is Slim.

In the final years
of her marriage,

she relegated Kenneth
to the guest room

and brazenly paraded in
a series of lovers.

And even CZ, who is
the human chastity belt,

she had her time
as a party girl.

Does she not remember
posing nude for Diego Rivera?

Mostly her lovers are the tiny
vegetables she tends to.

Because vegetables
can't talk or talk back.

And there's
a double standard.

When the men get caught,
oh, brother, hell to pay.

But what did the men
ever get for their women's
indiscretions? Nothing.

And in many ways,
the women are far, far worse.

- Darling.
- They make the men pay

because the ultimate
threat to the Swans
are younger women.

God, do they hate them.

Please excuse me
while I throw up.

Babe?

I hope you get this message.
I hope Bill...

doesn't erase it.

I'm at Côte.

And without you...

it's nothing.

Nothing even tastes good.

I never meant to hurt you.

And why did
you leave all that out?

You know,
fascinating fact.

Swans are actually
terribly aggressive
with one another.

One race of swan
hates the other.

I read a bit about them
before our lunch, dear man.

The Beswick swan,
for example,

hates the whooper with
a kind of rabid passion.

A mute swan will do anything
to eviscerate a trumpeter swan
and take its home

even if the trumpeter
lived there first.

A swan...
...it will kill if it can.

Yes, as they are
trying to kill me.

My Swans, yes.

And I think they might
actually succeed.

No, fuck them. No.

Oh, thank you.

My Swans would
never do this.

Have lunch alone
with a Black man.

I am aware.
This is not news.

Maybe they just never
thought they had to,

but they are constitutionally,
by nature,

not curious enough to cross
the imaginary barriers.

Come out and say it.
You can say it.

Well, there is a...

subtle racism below the surface
of the water they swim in.

Exactly. Your next chapter.

Well, it's never overt,
the racism. Or the classism.

It's subtle, but it's
meant to convey one thing:

"I am a privileged,
wealthy white woman,
and I am better than you."

And the pecking
order speaks volumes.

Blacks for labor.

Gays for entertainment.

Women for the men to look at.

And all of us
there to serve them.

And the people
next to her and Bill?

White, money, power.

Even Jack
usually wasn't invited.

Too overtly homosexual.

Us together might
upset the other guests.

Oh, it stung me,
those parties. It really did.

Okay, let's talk Bianca Jagger.
Or rather, let's not.

I say we all get
on the same page. Oh,
she's fine for a dinner party.

But you don't want her
purring on your sofa.

Does this
have anything to do

with Bianca's skin
not being alabaster white?

Of course,
they would argue no.

They don't include Bianca
because she's too loud
or some such other reason,

but I think it does.

They didn't want to
corrupt the pool.

Whites only, WASPs only.

They're not even
aware they're doing it.

It's just that
this kind of bigotry

is so intrinsic to their world
and who they are

that they can't see it
even when it's right
in front of them.

Let me tell you something.
It's impossible for
a white person--

or an American white person--
to not be, in some fundamental
sense, a racist.

Mmm.

Well, I worry about
what I'm not seeing.
I spend so much time with them.

How can I not be guilty as well?

Well, you are, of course,
but the question is
how you address it.

I've always
wondered at the great effort

it seems to take
a certain segment
of society to work so hard

to ignore what was happening.

Their good work,
never meant for us.

Well, it's all for
their world, no one else's.

The Met, the Botanical Gardens,
the New York Public Library,
the Frick.

It's for preservation
of their monuments.

Come on. Let's go somewhere
to brighten up the day a bit,
my dear.

So tell me something.

Are you in love
or dating anyone?

Me?
My love life has been
a series of arias, fumbles,

half-finished sentences
and a quick amour, and
fleeing into the night.

Living in Paris
helps.

Exile makes sex
more felt.

Mmm.
I remember that.

You sleep
with a sailor in Marseilles,

and you really get to know
what a Frenchman is like,

what he smells of,
what he dreams of.

Maybe I could just--

No, don't go.
Stay. Stay here.

It'll feel like surrender
to your adversaries.
They want you gone.

Why did we never date?

We were in Italy
at the same time.

We've circled each other.

We would have
murdered each other.

Two flowers, no gardener.
That's--

We are here to
talk about the Swans.

Brought you here
for a reason.

From the collection
of William S. Paley.

Now, you tell me why.
Why do they care so
much about art?

Well, they're allowed
to put their names
on things,

but they don't know
how to love them,
these things.

They collect and
collect and collect.

The appetites
are insatiable,
but the Swans are never full.

They're like
a starving person
who keeps buying food

only to tuck it away
in their pantry.

And then the person says,
"Why am I so hungry?

My shelves are positively
overflowing with food."

Everything the Swans do
is skin-deep.

That's why they're not
truly interesting people.

The-Their situations
are interesting, sure.

Their lives are fascinating, but
they themselves are truly dull.

They don't know
what's going on
in the world.

They don't read anything
except the Ladies'
Home Journal

or McCall's.

It's funny, because Lee
really wanted to be an artist.

She tried her hand
at interior design.

She has a great high style
and she loved designing
her own homes,

ordering people about.
It never occurred to her

that designing for other people
would involve taking orders.

I don't know, Lee.

It's just not what we discussed.

Well, what would
you like me to do?

Would you like me to go
back to the garment district

and ask them to cut and
hem a whole new set of drapes?

It's not
what we discussed.

You know what it is?
There's not one ounce

of humility or empathy
or compassion.

They don't care
about any of that.

They only care that they appear
to care about it.

Tell me. In nature, the one
thing swans are good at
is parenting.

Let me
tell you this.

I said one time to CZ,
"Doesn't it bother you

that the governess
sees your children
more than you do?"

And she replied,
without batting an eyelash,

"Of course I see my children.
I go fox hunting with them."

All my Swans are horrible
mothers, all of them.

Babe is an interior woman,
sensitive and deep

but also deeply self-absorbed,

ruled by a need
for order and perfection that
no mortal can ever attain.

I said chrysanthemums,
not carnations.

Chrysanthemums.

Amanda, sweetie.
Send everyone home now, okay?

I don't feel well.
I need some quiet.

Thank you, darling.

The woman is so preoccupied

with her own world,
she's not even aware

of the way she's ravaged
her children's lives.

And get that buffoon
out of my house.

Oh, my God.

But I always felt her pain.

Felt she knew she wasn't
cut out for motherhood.

It was too overwhelming,
loving messy, living things.

You know,
sometimes I'm jealous
of people making art like this.

You get to hide
in that abstraction.

I much prefer
figuration.

You know how
the goddamn artist
feels about his subject.

Like those wonderful
Dick Avedons he has
out right now.

He makes the
Duchess of Windsor
like a cadaver.

He even makes his
own father a gargoyle.

Maybe this lopsided
circle is filled
with rage too.

Maybe that's his mother's
smile when she's drunk.

Art. Most of the work in this
building is about anger, truth

and revenge for something.

Art is revenge, isn't it?

And so you're saying?

Stop apologizing to them,
to any of them.

Defy them.

Defy the foul fowls,

the trumpeter swans,
the tundra swans,
the black-necked swans.

Truman,
do you understand?

People think
I wanted to hurt them.

And admit you did.

Admit it and keep
going because you--

you are the toughest little
faggot in this town, baby.

But I don't like
what I'm seeing lately.

I don't like it
when I see you on television
showboating and incoherent.

You're better than that.

I drink, Jimmy,
because...

I've been wounded my
entire life over and over.

I'm in pain.

I know you are.

Truman, so am I.

So is she and him
and them over there.

But none of us end up
in a blackout on television,
so why are you?

Because I'm afraid.

Of what?

Everything.

Abandonment
or acceptance in their world.

Life with them,
life without them.

Both are unbearable.

- But, Truman,
they have abandoned you.

The worst has happened
and here you are.

The rest is up to you.

I really could use
a nice pick-me-up.

A little goddamn drinkie.

Come on.

Okay, I do know

a very unlikely place

where the bartender
is a shaman

with a maraschino
cherry and rye.
Mmm.

But, Truman,
two drinks only.

Come on,
who doesn't love a maraschino?

Mmm.

From Côte to cocksucker
bar in one lovely afternoon.

How I love New York.

This day is cheering me up.

Two drinks only, Truman.
Really. You've got to get a hold
of this booze thing, man.

It's your main problem.

Drags you all the way
down to hell.
Oh, God, you're right.

We would have killed
each other if we'd
been lovers.

Two drinks.
Then we're leaving, Truman.

- Jimmy, I have to say this,
because you're a gentleman,

and you haven't
brought it up.
I-- I am ashamed.

I have been unkind.

About whom?

You.
Not really.

A few picayune
criticisms of my work
here and there, mostly true.

I've criticized you, Truman,
but only with the intent
to educate and uplift.

Yes, and your words sting
because I admire you so.

Well, criticism only hurts
if you believe it.

My Swans would never do this,
what you're doing.

In a crisis,
in a time of treachery.

No, no, no.

Because they compete
and they are deeply disloyal.

They may pretend to hate
what I wrote about Ann,

but they loathed her
and they treated her savagely.

Hello, ladies.

You are exactly
who can answer this question.

I'm supposed to be meeting
Otto Preminger for lunch.

He's now 20 minutes late.

I mean, at what point
do you just give up
and order for yourself?

Mind if I sit down?

Oh, I wish
you could.

But we're being joined
in just a second.

What I would do
is not sit and wait,

because clearly you
can't dine alone.
I would go home.

Yes. What you do in that
situation is you send a note.

You write it while
you're sitting at home

with your soup
and sandwich by yourself.

Yes, that's exactly
what you should do.

So, I send a note

in which I tell him
to go fuck himself.

And then I heat up some sad soup
and eat a half a tuna sandwich.

In other words,

"Get the fuck out of here."

Well...
...I would never
have put it like that,

but I forget that
you're not afraid
to be vivid, are you?

The Swans, they despise
growing older.

Once the bloom of
youth began to fade,
every one of them

either underwent
a brutal regime of fetal
sheep cell injections

- or went under the knife.
- What about yourself?

You've succumbed to the same
pressures and vanities, no?

Well, it comes
from a very dark place.

Have you seen Bill Blass lately?

He looks like he's just come
back from the fountain of youth.

One person gets something
done, everyone else has
to follow suit.

Are you really relying
on your wit to keep you
in the game, Truman?

I saw you on Cavett
last weekend,

and, Lord knows, I'd want
somebody to tell me.

You're looking awfully
weathered, to put it
politely and--

and fat. I'm saying this
because I love you to death,

and you're so often
on television these days,
more visible than ever.

I think you might want
to do something, my dear.

Someone raises the stakes,
you ante up or you risk being
thrown from the table.

And they don't eat.
None of them eat.

They live on air
and water, tiny portions
of very rare meats.

A life without appetite
is a life without joy.

Cas--
- No.

Oh, come on.

No, it's time
to get you home.

Our two drinks are over.

Are you gonna tell
me what this day was all about?

All in good time.

Now, it's just grapefruit juice
for our little nightcap, right?

Because last call
was at the bar, Truman.

Yes, yes.

Shocking how little flavor
grapefruit has all by itself,
isn't it?

Tell me more swan facts.

I had so much fun
at the library.

Well, you-you must know
that a full one-fifth of
male swans are homosexual.

Mmm. Well, it makes sense.

Swans are so comme il faut.
Hmm.

Yes, and they couple,
even raise cygnets together

and are far more
successful than the straights.

Eighty percent of
the children of gay swans live

as opposed to something
like thirty percent of
the heterosexual ones.

A lady swan might join them,
I kid you not, for a ménage

and then go off and
the two gents raise the babies.

Why do they thrive so well,
their kids?

The gay swans
are stronger, you see.

They are more able to provide.

Hmm.

Can you imagine all
the successful gay New York
artists and writers as swans?

Tenn, Frank O'Hara,

Ginsberg, Albee,
even Gore, Andy and so on.

Perhaps your next ball?

- I'm gonna heat up
those crab cakes.

Do you need more juice?
I'm fine.

Just juice, Tru.

Mmm.

Truman.

Hey, man.

Yes, okay.

I need vodka.
I just do.

I know. I understand.

I do.

I understand.

Now sit down
and listen to me!

It's time for our eleven
o'clock number, Mr. Capote,
the reason I gave you this day,

one of my few days in New York
before I fuck off
back to France.

Close your eyes
just for a second,

until you see a glimmer

of your great, gargantuan,
enormous worth and gifts,

which you have criminally
lost sight of in your sickness,

in your disease,
which you reek of.

Yes, you threw away
the ten years since you
published In Cold Blood.

You jettisoned your
unparalleled ability
to paint hell.

I cannot blame you.
In Cold Blood would
have flattened anyone.

I don't know what you sold
to the devil to write it.

But let me tell you a secret.

You can steal whatever
the devil took right back.

The moment you are born,
Mr. Capote, the process
of our dying begins.

Ticktock, ticktock.

And as the years go on,
the dying accelerates until the
final breath and then silence.

That is the order
of the universe.

This life, Truman,
is vicious and dark.

And you and me,
we are angels sent here

to light it on fire
and illuminate.

Some of us--
Some of us real swans,

not this fake dime-store
porcelain trinkets
that you called Swans--

Some of us, like you and me,

we are given a torch,
and your job was to
keep it alight.

It was to endure it
and write the world.

Goddamn it, Mr. Capote.

Your work isn't
even half done.

You have miles to go.

Your fucking torch
is still lit.

Faint motherfucking glow,
but it is still lit.

Lunches and the trips
and the soufflés
and the yachts

and the nausea of
demented privilege with these
pathetic creatures are over.

Their world,
you captured it forever

and everybody
knows what you wrote.

It's a dictionary
of disgust, the thesaurus
of American nausea,

and I promise you
one day it will be seen.

But you gotta finish
what you began, baby.

That is your obligation.

Just as mine
is to do everything
I can do to change my world.

You gotta do that too.

What is your obligation?

It's not over?

It's not too late?
Too late?

Baby, you set the table.

Now have the meal.

"Côte Basque" is to be
a chapter in your story
of how the ruling class die.

So keep going until you've
killed all of them, Truman.

Truman,
don't you get it?

Your book.

It is your firing squad
that killed the Romanovs.

It's your...

guillotine that beheaded
Marie Antoinette.

This is your slave revolt.

It's your "Rite of Spring"
ushering in a new world.

Your Oppenheimer bomb,
your Shiva,
"I am destroyer of worlds."

Hmm. Now, go to bed.

You have more bends
in your river.

Wake up without
your hangover.

Shower, shave and put on
the most comfortable sweater.

Have someone go out and get
you some great bad bacon, egg
and cheese thing

from the nearest deli.

And you...

get back to work.

The light is dimming,

but you're still here.

Your light is still shining.

Vegas,
we're back with the
electrifying Ann-Marg--

Did I wake you?

I'm headed back to Paris.
I just decided to take
the night flight.

You're leaving now?

James, thank you.

I'm getting ready to sleep.

I'm okay, I think.
Thank you.

Hey, Truman. There's one
final bit of swan lore
I forgot to tell you.

Oh, okay.

You see, in England,
the Queen owns all the swans,

all of the unmarked mute
swans in the wild waters there.

And it's been that way
since the 12th century.

It's the rich and the royal,
they feasted on so many of them,

they were disappearing.

Served as centerpieces
in their skin and feathers,

and with a lump of blazing
incense in the beak
at Christmas.

With a lump
of blazing incense?

If she wanted to now,
the Queen is still
the only person

who could legally
eat a swan in England.

That's wonderful.

I thought
you'd appreciate it.

It's time for my flight,
Truman. I've gotta go.

But you take care now,
you hear?

Remember what I said.
Thank you.

Hmm.

What have I been eating?
An occasional egg sandwich and some spinach.

I don't know. I've been
in a trance for three days,
Jack, I tell you.

The words, the-the pain and the
rage is just pouring out of me.

About the Swans.

About who they are, who they
really are behind the plumage.

It's my best writing.

Jack, I've almost
finished the book.

They think
"La Côte Basque 1965" was bad?

Just wait for this.

I was reading some passages
this morning to Joanne Carson,
and she called Johnny,

and he wants me to give
an entire week performing
morsels every night.

And I said I'd do it.

This is my return.

Jack, I have to call
you back. Talk soon.

- Matty,
is everything okay in there?
- Yeah. All good. Sorry.

Uh, it's--
The thing fell.

Well, are we almost ready?
I'm famished.

Yes, I hope
it's good. Uh.

I've never made anything
like this before.

Uh, but I did my best.

Honey,
I'm sure it's divine.

You've been my favorite waiter
at Tavern On The Green
for years,

and you have aspirations
of being a chef, no?

Yes. Uh, I'm going
to culinary school.

Well, then this is an
opportunity of a lifetime.

Red or white?

Oh. No, thank you, dear.
I'm not drinking.

Not until I finish the book.

Tell me again
how you did it.

I want to remember
this forever.

Uh, okay.

I went to Central Park,
just like you said...

...in the dead of night.

Um.

And they were all
sleeping there together,

but then I saw this big one
kinda off to the side.

And I-I snuck up real slow
and grabbed it by the neck.

It-- It kept moving
even after I, uh,

-snapped it.
-Did it attack you?

Um...

I used ginger
because the other spice

in the recipe-- "galangala"--
doesn't exist anymore, I think.

Do you mean galangal?

You did well.

Very well.

I'm going to throw in
an extra hundred bucks
for those war wounds.

♪ Remember me ♪

♪ But ah-ah-ah! ♪

♪ Forget my fate ♪