All language subtitles for Feud.S02E08.WEB

Knock, knock. Everybody decent?

Oh, for fuck's sake. Carnations?

Who would dare?

"Brooke Astor."

Relentless.

There.

Hellebores, your favorite.

Better.

Oh.

I'm so tired.

No, it's not a
hangover.

In fact, you'll be proud to know
I haven't had a drink
in three months.

The first weeks were agony,

but now I swear
I really don't even crave it.

Just the thought of a drink
makes me squirm.

Serenity, courage and wisdom.

There are many wonderful things
about sobriety.

The little catchphrases
are not among them.

Scooch over,
dear. Let me lay down.

Oh.

You're
positively frigid, Babe.

Everything's frigid without you.

Is it better in there?

I may be joining
you before too long.

Knock, knock.

May I come in?

Let me in, please.

Let me in.

- Hello?
- Hey, Jack.

Let me in.

Let me in, Jack.
Please, let me in, Jack.

- Tru?
- Please, let me in.

- Are you okay?
- I just wa--

Wanted to come in.

I need to--

Something smells very good.

Is that garlic?
Do you like garlic now?

I like a lot of things now,
but I've always liked garlic.
Are you drunk?

I am as sober as
Pat Boone on a Sunday.

May I please come in?

I'm seeing someone, Truman,

and I would prefer not to
inflict you on him,

even sober.

Well, I certainly
can't blame you.

Mmm. It smells so good.

What is that?
Tomatoes? Rosemary?

It's a Bolognese
sauce, Mr. Capote.

- Oh.
- I made pasta too.

Please stay.
I've always wanted to meet you.

All right. Come in.

No, no, Nick. The drugs,
the drink, I can't anymore.

It led to real problems,

as I'm sure poor Jack has
no doubt told you.

He only says
glowing things about you.

Is that true, Jack?

In fact, it is.

Oh, and yet here we are,
trying to live
without each other.

Oh, hey, "I get along
without you very well."

I think Nick is too young
to know that tune.

Are you writing now, Truman?

I know everybody asks you that,
but I've read everything
you've ever--

I'm going to finish
Answered Prayers actually.

But, um-- and Jack
may like to hear this--

it's going to be, um,
my apology for "Côte Basque."

An apology? Really?
You, Truman? Hmm.

- Hmm, and a kind of masterpiece.
- Hmm.

An apology and an explanation
to all the people that I hurt.

The Swans and...

A confession of my misdeeds,
and the reasons,
and how I hurt them.

But fiction, you
know, as was "Côte."

Well, it's too late
for Babe to forgive you.

And Bill Paley won't.
Just forget that.

And what if, uh,
Lee and Slim say, "Too little,
too late. Fuck off"?

Hmm. Well, let me
ask you a question, Jack.

Why do you always forgive me?

Who says I do?

Well, I'll tell you why.

Because apologies,
when heartfelt, matter.

Because that is how
the heart is built.

It wants to forgive.

Hmm. Does it?

I think this may be
wishful thinking on your part.

No, I've seen it.

On death row with
those boys in Kansas.

I've seen, you know,

people want both to forgive
and to be forgiven.

Well, what do you think, Nick?

Uh, well, uh,
I'm a bishop's son.

"Do not judge and
you will not be judged.

Do not condemn
and you will not be condemned.

Forgive and you
will be forgiven."

Thank you for letting me in.

At the door, you looked
so stricken. Why?

Oh, just old ghosts,
you know.

No, I'm happy for you.

You deserve
someone good to love you.

And so do you.

Sober, writing, you're just,
uh-- You're very easy
to love like this.

No, but I don't want love.
I want forgiveness.

And not just for what I wrote,
but f-- for what I have done.

Whether these
people forgive you or not

may have more to do
with who they are
than anything else. It's--

When you're apologizing,

there is only one person
to be thinking of
and that is yourself.

Everybody else can figure it out
on their own.

It was
the end of the world, and
I couldn't decide what to eat.

Some version of life
would go on for some.

But for myself, P.B. Jones,

the closing
of La Côte Basque was an event
of cataclysmic proportions.

Usually, when an
institution is shuttered,

it takes years for the spirits
and poltergeists

to creep from
their hiding places.

But at La Côte,
they just couldn't wait.

All the ghosts
had come for lunch.

There was Sidney Dillon
with his wife, Cleo.

The murderess
herself Ann Hopkins

at a table with her
mother-in-law, Hilda Hopkins.

Lee and Jackie were there.

And in a far corner
was none other than
Lady Ina Coolbirth herself.

Ina was shunting my gaze.

She was still bitter over
how I'd bandied
about her story of Sidney

and the governor's wife.

In fact, everyone in the
dining room had been a victim

at one time or another of
the author's indiscretions.

I had come this very
afternoon to dine with
one such embittered soul.

Kiki Kasperzak.

Kiki entered with
the flushed look of one
just in from a polo match.

She wore a red number
she picked up in Palm Beach

that only a certain kind
of woman could get away with.

She was one of them.

Hello, P.B. Jones.

Kiki.

What does one
order for last supper?

The answer to your question,
P.B., is all of it.

-We'll take everything, Jules.
-Thank you.

We passed
the afternoon gossiping
and eavesdropping.

At the far table,
Lady Ina was being stood up,

though she tried
to play it off.

Would you care
to order, Ms. Coolbirth,

or prefer to wait
for your companion?

Companion?

I'm not waiting for anyone.
Of course, I'll order.

Companion. Please.

Though it was plain
to see she'd ordered her
champagne with two glasses.

Meanwhile...

I'll have a numbingly cold
glass of limoncello
with a sprig of mint.

Hmm. How refreshing.
I'll do the same thing.

In that case,
just bring me a Campari soda.

Poor Jackie.

She can't even help herself
stealing her sister's
drink order.

And at the best table,
Cleo Dillon was writing
something on a napkin.

A room number at
a hotel in Midtown.

Out with it.

Something on your mind, P.B.?

I'm sorry, Kiki.

You should be.

She had spent
the last five years waiting
to hear only those words.

What I wrote was cruel.

No, you've got it wrong.

It's not what you
should apologize for.

What really stung, P.B., was...

where you lied for profit.

On purpose.

You cheapened the
nuance of our lives.

You understood how imprisoned
I felt in my life.

Trapped.

And what you wrote didn't
acknowledge any of that.

It's a two-dimensional
cave scratching.

Saying we ate, we drank,
we fucked, and, God,
we hated each other.

I trusted you to show me
I was more than that.

You knew how I felt.

I wanted to go back.

Back to the person I was
before life happened to us all.

To me.

You're right.

And I will never do that again.

It may be too late...

but maybe not.

Well, I do have one other
small thing I could offer.

What I had was a plan.

A way to set free,
in some small way,

the spirit of that goddess
in the gilded cage.

To let her be the
girl she had once been.

Whoo!

To hide the
great symbol of her wildness

somewhere the judges and
whisperers could never see it.

But the dreamers and poets
and cowboys might.

The farther we drove,
the more she changed.

She was becoming herself.

Raw, uncut, pure,
concentrated, happy.

She was America.

Whoo-hoo.

The hotel it hung in
in Mexico City was shuttered.

A ruin.

But I figured this place
had some life in it.

I used to drink and fuck here.

It's another story.

And suddenly,
I understood what freedom was.

Real freedom.

It was something that could
only be experienced by
those who had suffered

and been stifled.

Silenced, forced to pretend.

Ached.

Hey, Diego Phan.

We'd like to sell
you this gorgeous nude.

Yeah? How much?

Two whiskeys.

I like it.

It'll look good over the juke
next to the armadillo.

The cowboys will love it.

Now, who's the girl?
She's a real killer.

Oh, beautiful women.

Women stay beautiful forever
unless they're evil.

So many evil beauties.

Well, I wasn't evil.

Well then, cheers.

To late freedom.

To late freedom.

It was the product
of years and years and years
of longing, hoping.

And when freedom came,

it washed over you
like a tidal wave all at once

when the universe decided
it was your time.

Maybe it wasn't
the end of the world after all.

Maybe for Kiki,
the world was just beginning.

What do you think?

I don't know.
It's out of character for you.

More like your
juvenilia, frilly.

The kind of stuff
you used to pound out
before you found your voice.

What a load of shit.

That's not very kind, Mother.

Here, take this.

I'm on the wagon.

Your writing is a little stiff.
It'll loosen you up, okay?

The warmth,
that's what you're looking for.

Now take it. Jesus.

Now, that's funny.

The drink, how it helps.

Now your criticisms,
which sting like a wasp,

I can barely feel them anymore.

I have to
criticize you, Tru.

You represent me,
you always have.

Come on.

If it weren't for me
reminding you,

would you ever strive
to do better?

No.

Let's get to work
on the next part,

and let's try to make it
a little less fruity.

Right.

- "Less fruity."
- Mm-hmm.

You really never change, Nina.

Well, I think the muse
has revealed herself.

Oh, you're gonna like
this next part, Mama.

Lady Ina's string
had run out in the late
middle part of her life

amongst the famous
and the rich and whatever
society was left at the apex.

She was now hungry, bitter,
and she sure was lonely.

It was young hustlers,
Navy boys and gigolos
in assignations

at the Wales
Hotel in Carnegie Hill.

But she wanted love again.

Or, if not love,
at least power.

And if not power, well,
security would do in a pinch.

No, no, no. Not you.

-Stop. Please, just stop.
-Fuck off. Leave me alone.

You know, my legs
are shorter than yours.
I can't keep this up.

- I saw you come out
of The Whitney.

Stop, please, would you?

What's on at The Whitney?
Is it the Claes Oldenburg
giant ice-pack sculpture?

I met a girlfriend
for soup in the cafeteria.

Who has time for art now?

-What is it you want?
-To be able to talk again.

Talk?

Are you insane?

Why didn't you think of that
before you turned me into--

Lady Coolbirth?
That person I am now.

Ow.

Ow.

And then the venom
from his deadly snake bite

finally just
drained out of her.

And what was left
was a lingering sorrowful anger

comingled with a yearning
and a bone-deep exhaustion.

Maybe she was just tired.

Maybe she realized
how much she regretted.

Maybe she suddenly felt
how much energy it had taken
to loathe him.

But for whatever the reasons,
she let him follow her home.

You're not packing
like Cleo taught us all.

These should all be
delicately wrapped.

Who has the fucking energy
for tissue paper?

Cleo's gone.

And where I'm going,
nobody's watching me unpack.

Are you really gonna stay mad
at me forever?

You know where I'm moving to?

To a little one-bedroom
"cottage" in Santa Barbara.

A place called Hope Ranch.

- Hopeless Ranch.
- Oh, fuck.

It's always foggy there.

Perfect.
Another old broad on the beach,

collecting sand dollars,
drinking cheap vodka.

Nobody around
because you made me unlovable.

-Un-fuckable.
-No, you're so fuckable, dear.

Nobody even liked
your goddamn story,

so it's not like
it could've been worth it.

It didn't even get you out
of financial trouble.

You gained nothing,
but you made me a joke.

You made my dreams
and ambitions seem so ugly
when it was all I had.

I consisted of my
ambitions, you fuck!

And why am I even taking these?

They're from Japan.

I got them,
then Betty Bacall did,

and everyone said
hers were prettier.

Your story cast its spell
and took away everything I had!

Throw it.

Throw the dish at me.

At me, at Cleo,
at Bacall, at everyone.

But for Christ's sake, you've
got to get rid of this anger.

Throw it!

It's worth a fortune.

And after I picked up

and flung the first
priceless piece of china
against the wall,

it was open season.

Lady Ina went berserk.

Enough
plates.

I've missed you.

And I you.

And I know
exactly what you need.

To be the special one for once.

My own Black and White Ball?

-But you'll wear red.
-Really?

Bill Blass is waiting
to design it for us.

The second Black and White Ball,

and it is to honor
Lady Ina Coolbirth!

Yay!

It surpassed the prior ball

in terms of splash,
publicity,

exclusivity and glamour.

The guest list
was even grander.

The champagne flowed freer.

This time, no soggy chicken
hash, but beluga caviar
from a Russian in Paris.

And Lady Ina Coolbirth was
a dazzling vision. A triumph.

It was rumored
that she was about to be named

Chief of Protocol
at the White House

or Ambassador to
the Court of Saint James.

Or at very least, Head of
the Academy of Motion Pictures.

Maybe all the above.

And it was also the night
she met her final
and most deeply felt love.

The love story she
had always been denied.

- What do you think?
- Yeah.

This Lady Ina Coolbirth,

she's a trooper.

You've always been drawn
to strong women like me.

I'm not sure you
were all that strong.

I think it was a very dry teat
I was suckling at, Mother.

Let me in!

Let me in! Please!

Hey, F-Fredrick. Freddie.

Would you, uh, run down to the
lobby and get me some smokes?

I'm almost out.

Son of a fucking--

Jesus Christ. What is
the matter with you?

What?

They're gonna bill me for this.

Why can't I come
dance too? Like this?

And do my special thing?

Oh, stop
it for God's sake.

My-- Jesus. You
are a basket case.

Doesn't it ever bother you,
the way people stare?

Mama,
I don't like that man.

Let's just be me and you.

Oh, you don't
like that man, huh?

You like your little bow tie,
don't you, huh?

And your gingham shirt

and your Fauntleroy trousers,

and those suspenders.

-You like those, don't you, huh?
-Mm-hmm.

Well, they all cost money.

And money is what
Mama doesn't have.

That's why I have to woo and
marry a man like that.

Without you
messing everything up.

"A boy."

That's the last thing
they always say when
they're running for the hills.

"Oh, I didn't know
you had a boy."

I wanna tell them, "I don't.
Have you seen that little thing?

- The way he flounces?
- He's not a boy at all."

"Lucky me, I got myself
a sideshow attraction."

I told him you were
my nephew.

I said I was doing a good turn
for my wayward sister

who's on a boxcar train
somewhere between here
and San Francisco.

It was pretty
good, wasn't it? Huh?

All right. Now, listen to me.

You stay in here

and be just as quiet
as a little mouse.

And then, Mama's gonna
give you the very last dance
of the night, okay?

Shut up and just
stay in here, all right?

And don't make any
more noise. Goddamn it.

Ooh, you look beautiful.

Let me in!

I will say,
this chapter is superior
to the other.

Stronger.

Here. Have another drink.

You're onto something,
don't lose the flow.

Oh. Oh. Wait.

And here. Boy.

Here.

Try a few of these. Hmm?

They'll keep you going.

Look at these pills.

Like lozenges of pure relief.

What a century.

The meds. Boy, oh, boy.

But you--

You just sit here and write.

Come. Make them love
you again.

Oh, and here. Take
a few more bennies.

Keep you going.

P.B. Jones walked
into the restaurant,

and there wasn't the usual
collective frisson of worry.

Just ease. He spotted Lee.

Why are you so down on
California, for Christ's sake?
You used to love it.

-Hi.
-Oh, Jesus.

Her latest husband,

a famously gay
minor moviemaker
with an acid tongue.

More acid even than hers.

Specializing in ballet flicks
and flimsy celluloid
smart-assery.

Burt Moss. Nobody's
idea of a good guy.

No, I've got something for you.

Oh, what could you possibly
have for me, you snail darter?

-Look. Read it.
It's your memoir.
-Oh.

I know you're stuck.

It's got your voice.

I am giving you this book,
and it'll be as if you wrote it.

- I know you wanted
literary credibility.

I found it very easy
to write in your voice
because I know you so well.

She knew she'd not
been blessed with the talent

or even the force of will
to finish such a book.

But that didn't matter
because he was doing it
for her,

and it was as true and right
as if she had done it herself

because P.B. knew where
all the bodies were buried.

And she would finally be
better at something
than her fairy-tale sister.

It's utterly beautiful.

- It's me.
- No, it-it's--

Okay, fine. What's
the shrink's number?

"And I can give
you something else you want,"

says P.B. Jones quietly.

She looked at P.B.

"I can help you get
rid of that mistake."

"What mistake?"

-"The film director," he says.
-Yes. Yeah.

"I can help you kill
the smarmy little fucker."

How did you know?

-That was a mistake.
-Mmm.

He likes chorus boys
and Bijan of Beverly Hills

- and Jerry Robbins
and yachts. That's it.

Well, we can get rid of him.

♪ Woke up this morning ♪

♪ Wanting to cry ♪

♪ Then I remember ♪

♪ Yes, I knew why ♪

Now he was going to
help his aggrieved friend
remove the latest grief.

And in so doing, reestablish
his own primacy in her life.

A friend again.

A friend to warm
the phone lines and have
someone to gossip with again.

A friend indeed.

There had been too many
small and large humiliations
to bear in this life of hers.

Enough was enough.

And now she had accidentally
on purpose married
a viperous homosexual.

And everyone knew.

A dancer turned director.
And how that stung.

But P.B. had, in his travels,
learned a lot,

including how to poison someone
using nicotine.

A Russian sailor
had taught him

that parlor trick
in a flophouse in the seaport
of Split in Croatia.

It was a matter of taking
the liquid form
of the substance

at a very high concentrate
and finding the right
delivery system.

Will this really work?

And after feeding the victim
some sort of sleeping pill,

in this case, a nicely
ground up fistful of Seconal--

Another good title--

In some very good
single malt whiskey.

Injecting the concentrate
of tobacco behind the ear.

I read your latest story
while you were napping.

Did you read the Lee stuff?

The book isn't working
for one reason,

and I'll tell you what that is.

You may be writing about
the end of society,

the last gasp of a dying class,
their habits and foibles,

but there is no
discernible raison d'être...

because you are not in touch
with your hatred.

All these stories
about the Swans,

it's all about them letting you
back into their hearts.

You bringing a gift
to make up for it.

So write about my suicide.

Why is that so hard for you?

You were in your late 20s
when I did it.

You weren't a baby.

Do you think that
made it hurt less?

Did you ever even read
the police report, huh?

Don't you walk out on me.

You're drunk, Nina. Of course,
I'm having affairs.

How else would I survive you?

You walk out on me

and you will never
stop paying the bills for it.

Do you understand?

No!

"Accidental overdose."

How did they know?
There was nobody there.

That's the story
you should tell.

The story of the black swan.

I don't want to tell that story.

Please.

I'm not asking.

I'm demanding.

I'm your mother.

Can you show some
goddamn respect?

She's getting
ready. I can smell it.

I know this scene.

Oh, boy.

I hope you're prepared.

Please don't-- Please.

You know, you told me
that of all your Swans,

of which I was only
an honorary member,

that I was the one that reminded
you most of your mother.

Well, you had
the same exhausted look
of terror in your eyes.

Which you have, too.

I recognized it.

Maybe that's why you
were so cruel to me.

Could you ever forgive me
for what I wrote about you?

Never.

There are some things
that are beyond forgiveness.

And the others won't
forgive you either.

If you publish
the finished Answered Prayers,

even if you think you're being
kind, it'll just make it worse.

Those friendships
died with "Côte Basque,"

the golden age of society,

which you-- you helped kill.

Perhaps it was a--

- a subconscious final gift
to your mother.

And to yourself for never
feeling like you truly belonged.

So what can I do now?

I think you know.

Poor Nina.

Don't you wanna say goodbye?

I'm not good at goodbyes.

I can't.

My masterpiece.

The book or your soul.

It's up to you.

Light it.

Go on.

Are you comfortable?

You got your notepads,
your pencils, erasers,

alcohol, tobacco, firearms.

You need anything else?

Uh, just a muse
to whisper in my ear.

Oh.

I
got you. I got you.

Oh, God. Truman,
what have you done?

What did you do?

I'm gonna get some towels.

Why did
you come, my mother?

Oh, Truman.

Truman.

Truman.

Mama.

It's so cold.

I'm so cold.

How could this be California?

Beautiful.

What are you saying?

Beautiful Babe.

Beautiful Ba--

No.

Jack,
are you still there?

Yes, I'm still here.

So the book, is it there?

He said he was going to
finish it out there.

- Huh?
- The last time I saw him,

he said he had a grand plan
for Answered Prayers.

Oh, Jack.
He was in no shape.

I know. I know.

Truman.

"Grand plans."

It just seemed like there might
be something to it this time.

No.

I picked up one of his notebooks
by the pool.

What was in it?

Gibberish.

It was just one thing
written over and over.

"A dream, a dream, a dream.

A dream that's as real as
stubbing your toe."

Whatever that means.

Oh, what are we gonna do, Jack?

Now that he's not here anymore
to tell us what to do.

Do you wanna plan the memorial?

Um.

No, you should do it.

He was closest
to you at the end.

He wanted to be cremated.

I'll take care of it.

Bye.

Up next,
this very special item

from the estate of
the late Joanne Carson

the second wife
of Johnny Carson.

This very unusual item.

Miss Carson was a great
and loyal friend of
the great writer Truman Capote,

who died at her home
in Bel Air in 1984.

And today, we're
selling his ashes.

And this is a
historic lot, friends,

because this is the first time
in the modern era

that a celebrity's ashes
have been at auction.

And we're going to start
the bidding right now
at just $2,000.

2,000 right there
in the back of the room, 2,000.

There's 2,500. We have the
next bid at 25 right here.

3,000 is the bid right now.

3,000 on the phone.

3,500 is the bid right now.

Friends, remember you are
bidding against

an entire world
on the phone right now.

3,500 is the bid
I'm looking for right now.
Thirty-five is the bid.

Friends, think about this.

Miss Carson famously said
that these ashes,

having them, gave
her great comfort.

In fact, she kept
them beside her bed.

4,000 is the bid
I'm looking for now.

4,000 right now.
4,500 will be the bid.

45 is the bid
right there. Thank you.

5,000 is the bid I have.
5,000 right there, number 110.

-Darby.
-$6,000 from
a bidder from Hong Kong.

6,000 is the bid,
looking for 6,500.

The lady in green, thank you.

7,000 is the bid,
looking for seven.

Now I have $7000
looking for eight. Seven--

-7,500 from Berlin.
-7,500 from Berlin.

Now we have eight.
Looking for nine.

9,000. The lady in
green, she's back.

9,000 is the bid right now,
looking for $9,500.

Friends, think about this.

If Truman were here right now,
he'd be loving this.

I mean, this is a scene,
and he loved to cause a scene.

How about $10,000?
10,000 from...

-Can I keep going?
-Yes, it's fine.
You can afford it.

- Tell me when to stop.
- And we're at 11,000 now.

11,500 from the lady
in green right there.

12,000 right
behind her. Thank you.

12,500 for Mr. Capote's ashes.

12,500
is the bid right now.

13,000 from the lady in green.
Thirteen-five.

14,000.

14,500 in the back there.

15,000 right there.
Fifteen and a half.

16,000 is the number
we're looking for now.

Sixteen is the number. 16,500...

...for Mr. Capote's ashes
going once for $45,000,

going twice, going three times

to a mystery buyer
in New York confirmed.

And at $45,000,

sold!

$45,000.

I wonder who bought them.

Some oligarch for
his library maybe?

- I'm just glad
we got out when we did.

Look at all these flip-flops
people are wearing.

And to a formal auction.

The world is so graceless now.

I never thought society
would simply evaporate.

What happened?

Everything ends.

- Shall we go have lunch?
- Mmm.

The Polo Lounge.

It's the only place left
that's a little like New York.

Mmm, nothing's
a little like New York anymore.

Not even New York.

Jesus. What a dump.

Let's get out of here, hmm?

Amen to that.

Come on, dear.