Genius (2016) - full transcript

When, one day in 1929, writer Thomas Wolfe decided to keep the appointment made by Max Perkins, editor at Scribner's, he had no illusions: his manuscript would be turned down as had invariably been the case. But, to his happy amazement, his novel, which was to become "Look Homeward, Angel," was accepted for publication. The only trouble was that it was overlong (by 300 pages) and had to be reduced. Although reluctant to see his poetic prose trimmed, Wolfe agreed and was helped by Perkins, who had become a true friend, with the result that it instantly became a favorite with the critics and a best seller. Success was even greater in 1935 when "Of Time and the River" appeared, but the fight for reducing Wolfe's logorrheic written expression had been even harder, with the novel originally at 5,000 pages. Perkins managed to cut 90,000 words from the book, and with bitterness ultimately taking its toll, the relationships between the two men gradually deteriorated. Wolfe did not feel grateful to Perkins any longer but had started resenting him for owing his success to him.

Might want

to read this one.

Please tell me

it's double-spaced.

No such luck.

Where'd you get it?

A woman named aline Bernstein,

the stage designer?

The author's her protege.

Every other publisher in town

has already turned it down.

Is it any good?

Good?

No.

But it's unique.

A quick look.

Thanks, Max.

I'm in your debt.

602 to new canaan,

last call!

Good evening, Pete.

All aboard, Mr. Perkins.

A stone, a leaf,

an unfound door

of a stone, a leaf, a door.

And of all

the forgotten faces.

Which of us has

known his brother?

Which of us has looked

into his father's heart?

Which of us has not remained

forever prison-pent?

Which of us is not

forever a stranger

and alone?

Remembering, speechlessly

we seek the great

forgotten language,

the lost Lane-end

into heaven,

a stone, a leaf,

an unfound door.

Where? When?

O lost,

and by the wind grieved,

ghost, come back again.

A destiny that leads

the English to the Dutch

is strange enough

but one that leads

from epsom into Pennsylvania

and thence into the hills

that shut in altamont

over the proud

coral cry of the cock

and the soft stone

smile of an angel

is touched by

that dark miracle

of chance.

Hello, daddy!

Hello, ducks.

More rehearsal.

He didn't even notice us.

"Fear no more

the heat o' the sun.

"Nor the furious

winter's rages.

"Thou thy

worldly task hast done.

"Home art gone,

and ta'en thy wages.

"Golden lads and girls..."

Jimmy, I told you already.

I don't like the movies.

I read books.

You're not listening to me.

Subtract

us into nakedness

and night again

and you shall

see begin in crete

4,000 years ago,

the love that ended

yesterday in Texas.

Hello, daddy.

How do I look?

Just beautiful.

It's

the prom next week.

Already? You're so old

and not married yet.

O death in life

that turns our men to stone!

O change that

levels down our gods!

Hello, Mr. Perkins?

Your father doesn't approve

of my drama club.

Daddy, why don't you

want mama to be

an actress again?

Because limelight

is not becoming to a woman

of your mother's years.

Oh, you rat!

Oh, boo!

Oh, yes, you save

the whirlwind life

of glamour for yourself.

Book signings and

parties and the like,

while we languish here

in the wilderness.

Do we live

in the wilderness?

How thrilling!

We should get knives!

Yes, we should!

Guess who will be

the head pirate?

Cecil, did you ever

pick up a girl before?

- Did you?

- No.

Oh, goodness.

You're the funniest person

I've ever seen.

Hold it.

What's the matter, Cecil?

I don't know.

What's that, Cecil?

Don't wait up.

Ten.

Eleven.

Ten.

Swine.

He had

listened attentively

to a sermon in chapel

by a sophomore

with false whiskers.

He had prepared studiously

for an examination

on the contents

of the college catalog.

Ten.

That's

a very long paragraph.

It started

four pages ago.

Poor Maxwell.

You're too

young to be in love.

How old

do you have to be?

Forty.

Or, I should say,

he was like a man

who stands upon a hill

above the town he has left,

yet does not say

"the town is near"

but turns his eyes

upon the distant

soaring ranges.

The end.

Mighty books.

Mighty books.

May I help you?

God damn.

Look at all these books.

Do you ever stop to consider

the pure man-sweat

that went into

each and every line?

Little testaments of faith,

screamed out in

the dark night,

in the cold, dark night

when the wind's

blowing alpine,

in the vain hope

that someone will read

and hear and understand.

You must be Thomas wolfe.

Are all these your authors?

Not tolstoy.

Mr. Perkins.

Please, sit down.

I wasn't even gonna come.

Prefer to get my

rejections in the mail.

There's something

surgically antiseptic

about those familiar words,

"we regret to inform you..."

But I wanted to meet you.

The man who first read

Mr. f. Scott Fitzgerald

and said,

"yes! The world needs poets.

"My god!

Someone publish

this bastard,

"'cause the world

needs poets.

"Or why even live?"

So I'm looking

at that man now.

Well, congratulations.

On finding one genius.

Two, if you count Hemingway.

As for this one,

he'll persevere.

You can't kill the deep roots

by cutting off

a few top branches.

And the roots go deep,

Mr. Perkins.

And they are unassailable.

Mr. wolfe,

we intend to

publish your book.

If that's acceptable

to you.

Now, I'd like to do

some work with you.

In its current state,

o lost is simply too long

for one volume.

I think you could afford

to shape it a bit,

cut off a few of

the "top branches".

Mr. Perkins.

I know you're not

fooling with me.

You don't look the type.

But my god,

this is too much for me.

You don't know.

You don't know.

You don't know.

Every son-of-a-bitch

publisher in New York

hates my book.

Mr. wolfe,

if you could sit down.

Tom.

Tom.

Tom, please.

Tom.

I take it your book

is autobiographical

in nature.

No other way to write,

is there?

Eugene gant is me!

And my mama is Eliza,

and my papa is w.O. Gant.

We'll get into all that.

I know it's too long.

I know it's too long.

My lord, you don't

know how I struggled

to cut the gorgon down.

You don't know how

i fought with her.

But I'll cut

anything you say.

You just give me

the word.

Tom,

the book belongs to you.

All I want to do

is to bring your

work to the public

in its best possible form.

My job, my only job,

is to put good books

into the hands of readers.

Thank you, Mr. Perkins.

Now, scribner's has agreed

to give you our standard

advance against royalties.

If this is satisfactory,

we can proceed at whatever

pace is comfortable for you.

$500?

No one ever

thought my writing

was worth a dime.

Oh, lord!

Do you mind if

we start tomorrow?

Of course.

I promise to work hard.

Yeah!

Oh, lord!

I can barely...

Oh, mighty. Oh, indeedy.

"Mr. wolfe,

we intend to

publish your book."

No!

Tom!

Oh, my angel, thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you,

my lover, my love.

I'm so...

I'm so happy

for you. Oh!

How much you figure

we have to cut?

I'm guessing

around 300 pages.

It's not the page count

that's important,

it's telling the story.

There it is.

Four years of my life.

My heart bleeds

to see any of it go.

But I guess it's die dog

or eat the hatchet.

You took the words

right out of my mouth.

The last few weeks

working on the book

have been the most

thunderingly thrilling

of my entire woebegone life.

Glad I could amuse you.

You spend your lifetime

in the pages of books,

as we do,

and those characters emerge

that speak to you deep,

to the marrow.

They are your mirrors.

In my time,

I aspired to Sydney carton.

Or Pierre

from the tolstoy.

But I know

that's not who I am,

much as I would have it so.

We are not those characters

we want to be.

We're those characters

we are.

I'm caliban.

That island creature,

monstrous and deformed.

Caliban.

So ugly.

So alien.

Hurt and shunned

into poetry.

What is Manhattan

but an isle full of noises?

"Sounds, and sweet airs

that give delight

and hurt not?"

"Sometimes a thousand

twangling instruments

"will hum about mine ears,

"and sometimes voices

"that, if I then had

waked after long sleep

"will make me sleep again."

I have a thought

about the book, o lost.

I think we should

discuss the title.

I don't know that

it truly captures

the meat of your book.

Here, imagine

you're a reader.

You're wandering

through a bookstore

and lots of books

and you see a book titled

trimalchio in west egg

and you see one

titled the great gatsby.

Which are you

going to pick up?

Gatsby.

That's why Scott changed

his original title.

He knew it needed

a bit more meat.

It's your book,

just give it a think.

Here we are.

My god, Max!

It's a mansion.

It is so nice

to finally meet you,

Mr. wolfe.

Max has told us so much.

Tom! It's tom.

Please.

And nice to meet you.

Every man Jack of you.

Or "girl Jack,"

i should say.

Max has been circumspect

about all these

beautiful daughters.

A bounteous sea

of loveliness.

Max tells us

you're working

on a new book.

I'm nothing if not

a big old octopus.

An octopus.

One arm still

wrapped around o lost,

while another one

sneaks over here

through the briny deep

to write the new book.

I guess you could say

I'm... I'm tentacular.

What's the new one about?

It's about America.

All of it.

I'm trying to

capture everything.

Every city and village

and stone and leaf

and man and child.

And every farm and flower,

every river.

It's about

the one acetylene torch,

white, bright truth

that burns in the heart

of every man in this country.

And that is the search

for a true father.

I don't mean

biological father.

I'm not talking

about sperm.

I mean, I search for the need

of a father of our spirit.

It's about every single thing

that makes this country great.

It's mammoth!

Max says

the only ideas

worth writing about

are the big ideas.

Big ideas,

fewer words.

You see,

I'm lost without him.

Aren't we all?

You know I'm a writer, too?

That so?

Max didn't tell you?

Mmm.

I've been working on a play

for quite some time now.

It's about pauline,

Napoleon's sister.

Historical pageant,

is it?

Well, it's attempting

to be more modern.

I wrote a play once.

It was not a happy experience,

i can tell you that.

I found it

an anemic form,

lacking the multi-colored

cloak of prose.

So I dumped the form

and returned to my novels.

Do you have a title

for your new book?

Your daddy and i

have considered a bunch.

Right now we're thinking about

of time and the river.

"The river" 'cause

that word just reminds

me of my father.

The river running

away from his door

and right back again.

That sounds like

quite a long book.

Don't say that, aline.

I'll see you tomorrow.

Keep yourself ready for me.

Goodnight. Goodnight.

This should

do you nicely.

I'll see you

in the morning.

Max.

Thank you

for tonight.

I hope I didn't

offend anyone.

I so want your family

to like me.

Don't worry.

Of course not.

I'm not a circus animal.

See, I know I seem

like a freak.

Too loud,

too grandiose,

not quite real.

That's who I am.

That's how I got

out of asheville,

by making noise.

I thrashed my way out.

But I feel things

like a real person.

So...

...from caliban's heart,

i say this.

In all my life,

well, till I met you,

i never had a friend.

If we nail down

Ben's death today,

then, hell,

we're within hollering

distance of the end.

Aline!

Max.

Let me introduce you.

This is Mrs. Bernstein.

How do you do?

Mr. Perkins.

Tom has told me

so much about you.

She's the first person

who told me my writing

was worth anything.

Hell, she's the whole

reason for our book.

I thank you for that.

We were expected

last night.

Oh, I told you...

It was embarrassing

for me.

You know I hate

those theatrical affairs.

And you know

i didn't want

to go alone.

If you'll excuse me.

All those actors

make me feel awkward.

You know that!

I told you i

wasn't gonna come.

We will

continue this alone.

I'll come by

around 2:00.

2:00. Perfect. Thanks.

Come on.

Good day,

Mr. Perkins.

You are so mad at me.

No, I'm not.

I'm not mad at you.

There it is.

Hmm.

This is our last chance

before we go to the printer.

So I'll ask you again.

Have you thought

about another title?

You'll hate it.

Try me.

Now, I'm

a scribner's bestseller,

I figured I deserve

a little of the high life.

Say it again, Max.

Fifteen thousand

copies this month.

Oh.

Aline,

you hear that?

Mmm-hmm.

Not even the economy

of the entire country

crumbling around our ankles

is hurting my book.

Have you read

tom's book,

Mrs. Bernstein?

Yes, Mrs. Perkins,

it's dedicated to me.

I wouldn't have

been able to do it

without my sweet jewess.

She bought the paper

and the pencils.

- And paid for the typist.

- That's enough.

That's enough.

She put a roof

over my head

and food in my

prodigious belly.

Hell, y'all know how

much I love to eat.

You must be very

proud of the book,

to see all your

faith rewarded.

Our faith.

It's our faith now,

isn't it, Mr. Perkins?

Tom couldn't have

done it without you.

That's not true.

You needn't play

at humble pie with me.

Tom speaks of

your contribution

with such passion.

He really can't seem

to stop talking about you.

"Max says this.

Max says that."

Easy, girl.

Easy, girl.

"Max, Max, Max."

No, we should

give Mr. Perkins

all of the credit.

I mean, after all, he is

the genius who made all

of your dreams come true.

He's the one who shaped

that massive collection

of words into a...

Into a marketable

bestseller,

putting it into

the eager hands

of readers everywhere.

I mean, that is

quite a triumph

for Mr. Perkins, hmm?

The work is tom's.

He deserves to enjoy it.

Really?

Is that what

tom deserves?

Leave Max alone.

I'm not speaking to you,

I'm speaking to your elder.

You should learn

to trust your elders.

They know what's best.

They should also

behave in a manner

appropriate to their years.

You're Thomas wolfe?

I'm reading your book.

It's a masterpiece.

Is it, now?

Very much.

Look, um, I have

some friends who are

dying to meet you.

You don't mind

if I steal him

for a tick or two?

Of course you don't.

Oh, not at all.

After you.

Okay. I'm Willow.

Nice to meet you.

What a pleasure.

Good evening.

This is Thomas wolfe.

No, it's my pleasure.

Good evening.

Nice to meet you.

You don't know what they're

like, the state asylums.

Grotesque.

I don't have the words.

There...

There are no words

in my lexicon.

One word, no flourishes.

Grotesque.

The screaming is

constant and so...

Desolate.

They don't have

enough toilets.

I can't let Zelda

stay in such a place.

I know.

But private asylums

are expensive

and I know gatsby

didn't make any money.

But I'm up

against it, Max.

Scribner's can't give you

any more advances.

The post won't even take

any more of my stories.

I guess I could go back

to Hollywood and give

that another try.

I hope you don't do that.

Why?

You're a novelist.

Not anymore.

I should have died

when I was 24.

Right after

this side of paradise.

Did you get that

book I sent you?

Which?

General Grant's memoirs.

Do you know how he

came to write them?

This is interesting.

He was dying

of throat cancer

and he wanted to leave

something behind

for his family,

so he started writing

his autobiography.

He worked every day

for hours and hours.

He was in great pain,

anguish,

but he just

kept on writing.

And in the end, he produced

the most astounding book.

So very beautiful.

Just a little velvet

to see you through.

I'll write you

a great book.

I know.

Mrs. Perkins.

Mrs. Bernstein.

Hello.

You're designing

this production?

Yes.

Me and all the lost boys.

We know a few of them,

don't we?

You didn't know him

when he was young.

He was fresh out of Harvard

and he was all ready

to carve up the world.

He was unlike anyone

I'd ever met.

I understand.

I don't think

that you do.

You see, my husband

is a very kind man, but

he's a man without color.

He's a man

of wall street

and numbers.

I don't

understand numbers.

You have children,

Mrs. Bernstein?

Yes.

A daughter and a son.

They're grown.

I did a foolish thing

when I fell in love

with tom,

but I can't help

how I feel.

My heart was touched.

At the very time

in my life

when everything beautiful

was falling away

and no one needed me,

i met tom.

And tom made me

feel beautiful again.

But I know now

I've lost him

to your husband.

Mrs. Bernstein.

My husband always

wanted a son

more than anything

in the world.

We reached a point

when we realized that

wasn't going to happen.

And then he met tom.

I can't let him go.

Aline, go home

to your family.

They need you.

Tom doesn't.

Family,

husband,

dignity.

I gave that

all up for him.

Tom.

Come in.

Tom?

I have it.

You have it?

The new book.

With you?

Yes.

Well, let's have it.

Bring it in, guys.

Put it down there.

This is

of time and the river?

Here you go.

Thank you, sir.

Well done.

Now, go home

and get some sleep.

I need you...

Let me read it.

Read it kindly.

Please?

If we work every day

in the evening,

when we won't be disturbed,

we can do it.

How long?

Nine months.

If you work hard and

if you resist the temptation

to add much more.

I have to be able

to add more.

Tom, the book

is 5,000 pages long.

Point taken.

Now, to begin,

on page one.

Oh, lord. Page one?

Now, look here,

you've given 80

pages to Eugene

on the platform

before the train arrives.

That is, perhaps,

gilding the Lily a bit

as to suspense?

I mean, I'll only wait

so long for a train.

Those three sections

to me...

Here you are, Mr. Perkins.

When he meets the girl,

you've written this.

"As Eugene's eyes

became accustomed

to the haze

"of the cigarettes

and cigars swirling

miasma-like,

"he saw a woman,

in serge

"and gloves that crept

like living tendrils

"up her normally

ivory arms,

"but now sun-kissed

as a blush

"as the incarnadine discovery

inside a conch shell

"seen for the first time

by a bewildered zoologist

"as he is undone

by its rosy,

promising pinkness.

"Those were her arms.

"But it was her eyes

that stopped his breath

"and made his heart

leap up.

"Blue they were.

"Even through

the swirling vapors

of pompous chesterfields

"and arrogant

lucky strikes,

"he saw her eyes

were a blue beyond blue,

like the ocean.

"Blue beyond blue.

"A blue he could

swim into forever

"and never miss

a fire-engine red

or a cornstalk yellow.

"Across the chasm

of that room,

"that blue, those eyes

"devoured him

and looked past him

and never saw him

"and never would,

of that he was sure.

"From that moment,

"Eugene understood what

the poets had been writing

about these many years.

"All the lost, wandering,

lonely souls who were

now his brothers.

"He knew a love that

would never be his.

"So quickly did

he fall for her

"that no one in the room

even heard the sound.

"The whoosh as he fell,

"the clatter of

his broken heart.

"It was a sure silence

"but his life was shattered."

End of chapter.

You don't like it?

You know I do.

That's not the point.

So he sees a girl

and he falls in love

for the first time, yes?

Does his mind go

to deep-sea marine life?

At that moment, yes.

I don't believe it.

I think you fell in love

with the images,

not the girl.

So we cut the zoology

and the cigar brands.

I'll do it.

And the ruminations

on pink?

No. No!

The adjectives are true.

He's a man who

thinks that way.

Pink is never

just pink.

It's a thousand other things,

all profoundly

important to him.

All variations

on his psychological state.

Every image and the sound

of every word matters.

No, it doesn't.

Nonsense.

They're vital!

You're losing the plot.

Vital!

He's falling in love.

What was it like

the first time

you fell in love, tom?

Was it cornstalk yellow

and pompous chesterfields?

It was a lightning bolt.

And that's what

it should be.

A lightning bolt.

Save all the thunder.

I got you.

I got you.

Cut that.

Cut that.

All right.

We cut the textile.

"He saw a woman..."

Cut. Cut. Cut.

"But it was her eyes

that stopped his

breath in his throat,

"that made his heart

leap up."

No, cut the wordsworth.

"It stopped his breath."

"Blue they were..."

Cut the marine life.

"A blue beyond blue,

like the ocean."

Cliche.

"A blue beyond blue

like..."

Like nothing but blue.

"A blue he could

swim into forever

and never miss..."

Mmm, cut this.

Then pick up with...

Had there ever

been such blue? Had there

ever been such eyes?

Don't need the rhetorical.

Why?

It's not a lightning bolt,

it's a digression.

"A blue beyond..." No!

Her eyes were blue.

Better.

And cut.

He was worthless,

she was everything.

She was a girl

across a room.

That's enough.

And so, cut "the lost,

wandering souls..."

Cut.

"So quickly did

he fall for her

"that no one in the room

even heard the sound,

"the whoosh as he fell,

the clatter..."

The whoosh, the clatter.

Is that the point?

Well, what did you hear

when you fell in love?

What did you hear?

Clattering?

The point is it was all

happening inside him.

His life changed,

no one else in the room

noticed anything.

Then make that

the point.

I hate to see

the words go!

Maybe the larger

question is this.

In a book crowded

with great rolling

mountains of prose,

how is this moment

profoundly different?

Because it's simple.

Unadorned.

Like lightning.

Standing out

in the black sky

by its starkness.

Exactly.

God damn!

All aboard!

Track 12, southwest trunk line

now departing from track 12.

"Eugene saw a woman.

"Her eyes were blue.

"So quickly did

he fall for her

"that no one in the room

even heard the sound."

Period.

End of chapter four.

Only 98 more to go!

I love you,

Max Perkins!

...with Francis

and Eugene in Paris.

Exactly!

As if you're skipping

across the Atlantic.

"Matching

Eugene's disorientation."

He didn't know

that she would never

see him,

that her love

would never be his.

How could he know that?

Hold on, he did.

How?

"The subtle

grapy bloom of dusk."

Tom, we discussed

a transition line.

One line to bridge the cut.

You've given me

50 new pages

on the doctor.

You've given me his whole

life story and his father's

whole life story.

I like the doctor.

Well, so do I.

I adore the doctor.

But by god, 50 pages?

Some books are

supposed to be long,

you know?

Thank Christ

tolstoy never met you.

We'd have that great novel

war and nothing.

To be a novelist,

you have to select.

You have to

shape and sculpt.

Why?

Because we've been working

for two years and the book's

only 100 pages shorter.

Five goddamn seconds

of peace is all I ask!

Can't you give me

five goddamn seconds?

God damn!

It's the tip of the iceberg,

tom. You're giving me

the full iceberg.

So you're saying

this is trash,

this is trash...

You knew this

was gonna happen.

Why are you playing

all dewy-eyed ingenue?

Because I did not imagine,

even taking you at

your absolute worst,

you could be so selfish.

I can't turn my

back on the work.

Aline!

It's what I do.

It's my job.

And this is my job.

When will you ever learn

how much an opening

night means to me?

Is this all right?

Yes, you look lovely.

Could you please put

the scarf on your downstage

shoulder when you enter?

Thank you.

It's an important

night for me.

I need you here.

I have to work tonight.

You've been working

every single night

for the past two years.

Do you have any

idea what it's like

coming home to

an empty apartment

every night?

Look, I'm not saying

your work's not important.

Of course you are!

I ask for one night.

One night of your precious

time to be at my side

and support me.

You don't understand.

You don't understand.

We are at a moment

of radical crisis

with my book!

Stop it. Stop it!

I've never known you

not to be at a point

of radical crisis about

something. You really ought

to be on the stage.

Max says

if we push through...

There we go.

"Max says! Max suggests!

Max instructs!"

He can have you

every other day of the week

but I need you tonight.

So, please,

would you get off

my set, go home

and put on your blue suit

and I will pick

you up at 7:00.

I won't be there.

Make your choice, tom.

Right now.

There's no call

for this, honey.

Right now.

Look what you

have done to me.

He's under

a lot of pressure.

If we don't keep

going now, I don't know

what'll happen to him.

You want

the big hamper?

And the thermoses.

Thanks.

You have to think

what it's like for him.

His first book comes out,

everyone calls him a genius.

Expectations on

the second book

are mighty big.

He's scared.

That's why he

won't stop writing.

Why don't you explain that

to your daughters?

Louise.

They want

their father back.

It's my job,

it's what I do.

Every minute

of every day?

And if it takes years,

it takes years.

You're never

going to get

this time back.

It's one damn vacation,

for Christ's sake!

Louise, a writer like tom,

i get one in a lifetime.

You get your daughters

for the same lifetime.

I'm sorry.

Wave to the girls.

All right, ladies!

Are you ready for

our great adventure?

Close your door, darling.

You gotta

stop worrying about

Louise so much,

they'll be back

before you know it.

Tom,

where are we going?

Ah, you'll see.

We're supposed

to be working.

This is work.

I decided you can

never appreciate

the music of my book,

the tonality

and Cadence,

without experiencing

the dark rhythms

that inspire me.

Bourbon!

In a big ol' tumbler.

You?

Martini, please.

Very dry.

He'll have a bourbon.

You got it.

You hear it, Max?

I don't care much

for music.

There's a savage indictment

of your grim, puritan soul.

Come on!

There must be

one song you like.

Flow gently, sweet afton.

I'm partial to

flow gently, sweet afton.

You got it, sir.

Two bourbons,

gentlemen.

The whole thing about jazz

is that these fellas

are artists.

They interpret the song,

letting the music

pour on out,

riff upon riff,

just like I do

with words.

To hell with

standard forms.

To hell with

flaubert and Henry James.

Be original. Hmm?

Blaze new trails.

That's the whole

ugly gorilla.

Ugly gorilla.

Of course.

There.

That's Henry James

for you.

It's comfortable

and familiar, isn't it?

Uh-oh.

What's that?

Sounds like an ugly gorilla

coming our way, don't it?

That's tom wolfe!

Feel it, Max!

I see your feet moving.

I see your knees moving.

Come on, Max!

Feel it!

Nice.

You see those two

fine ladies over there?

Subtle.

Max, be subtle.

At the bar?

Mmm-hmm.

Let's go over there,

say hello.

Come on!

Let's have some fun.

I can't. I can't.

They're working girls, Max.

It doesn't count.

Yes, tom, it does.

Well, you don't mind

if I...

No.

Hell, I never know

when to stop, do I?

- Three bourbons!

- You got it.

One, two, three.

And you, too.

I saw you looking at me.

Don't worry,

i ain't gonna

leave you out.

I'm gonna want

the both of you.

All right?

Let's have a drink.

I'll tell you

one thing, my friend.

You wouldn't do

this to Hemingway.

You wouldn't do this

to Fitzgerald, not to your

two goddamn sacred cows!

Every word they write

is golden genius!

Stop it!

I bring you stuff

wrenched right

from my guts

and you tell me

it doesn't fit.

That's enough.

Go home.

What?

Go home.

Go to sleep.

No. No, no.

I'm sorry.

Please, don't make me go home.

Let me come home with you.

We... we can still

make the 9:02.

No, I'm exhausted

and you're drunk.

We'll pick up

tomorrow.

No.

You heard him, tom.

Come home.

I'll pay

for the taxi.

What the hell

are you doing here?

I can make you dinner.

I'll pay for that, too.

Get out of here.

I'm working.

Mr. Perkins has informed

you you're not working

anymore tonight

so come on, come with me.

Mrs. Bernstein...

- Don't touch me!

- For heaven's sake.

You stay there.

Jesus, aline!

- Come.

- Aline.

You don't want

to see me?

Fine!

Fine!

You will never

have to see me again.

Aline.

Hmm?

What are you doing?

What the hell

are you doing?

- Aline!

- No!

- Stop it.

- No!

- Spit 'em!

- No!

Spit 'em!

No.

You spit 'em out.

Spit 'em out.

Spit 'em out!

You spit it out.

Stop now, aline.

My love.

My love, my angel.

Stop now.

All right.

All right. All right.

Show me your

strength, darling.

Look at me. Look at me!

Show me your strength.

Hmm? Come on.

Come on.

All right. Come on.

Come on. That's it.

All right. All right.

Mr. Perkins...

I know things such as this

don't happen here

on the fifth floor.

I apologize.

That's not necessary.

If you'll excuse me.

Wait up, wait up.

I'll be right there.

No, tom, really!

Just give me

a second.

I'll see you at home.

All right.

All right.

You were right,

about the cut.

Sorry about being

such a bear.

Don't you think

you should go

with Mrs. Bernstein?

Hell, she was just

being theatrical.

All right,

so we forget

about the cut.

Let's go on

to Eugene

in London.

"He thought of the huge

smoky web of London

with the same joy,

"of the suave

potent ale he could get

in one place there,

"of its squares and

ancient courts..."

Daddy!

Daddy!

Hurry up.

Hi, daddy.

Hello, duck.

Ooh!

Daddy, I caught

a rainbow trout.

Nine inches!

You go help

your sisters.

You would not

believe the amount...

Maxwell, please.

Tom.

Tom!

It's done.

Done?

Stop writing.

Gather all your papers

and bring them in tomorrow.

Can you do that?

Can you do that?

Yes.

We finish editing this month.

We go to press in April.

We publish in October.

Look at me and say yes.

Yes.

Hmm. Shoot.

Mmm-hmm.

I think I'll go rambling.

Maybe Europe.

Don't want to be around

when the reviews come out.

What?

There's one paragraph

i have to add to the book.

By god!

I have to add it.

If you start

adding paragraphs,

we're sunk.

One paragraph will lead

to two and then we'll be

here for another year.

Shall I read it

to you?

It goes

at the very front.

"This book is dedicated

to Maxwell evarts Perkins.

"A brave and honest man

"who stuck to

the writer of this book

"through times of

bitter hopelessness.

"The author hopes

"this book will

prove worthy of him."

I wish you wouldn't.

Oh.

Why?

Editors should be

anonymous.

More than that,

there's always the fear

that I deformed your book.

Who's to say

it wasn't the way

it was meant to be

when you first

brought it in?

War and peace.

Not just war.

Max.

That's what we editors

lose sleep over,

you know?

Are we really making

books better?

Or just making

them different?

Morning, Mr. Perkins.

Miss wyckoff,

where would we find

Mr. wolfe at the moment?

He's in Paris, sir.

"Magnificent reviews.

Full of praise.

"Congratulations,

you've done it again.

Max."

"I can face

blunt fact better than

damnable incertitude.

"Give me the damn

straight plain truth

right now, damn you!

"Tom."

"Talked of everywhere

as a truly important book.

"All comparisons

with greatest writers.

"Even James Joyce."

"Hell, Joyce wishes

he was so good."

"Had to rush out

five editions of the book.

"Thirty thousand copies.

"Never seen

a book so talked about.

"They're calling

you a genius again,

god help you.

"Come home soon. Max."

Mrs. Bernstein.

Mr. Perkins.

What can I do for you?

It's rather what

can I do for you,

Mr. Perkins.

I couldn't help noticing

tom dedicated his

new book to you.

He dedicated his

first book to me,

you will recall.

It was a lovely sentiment

but what he was

actually saying was,

"thank you and goodbye."

I had served my purpose.

And now,

you have served yours.

"Thank you and goodbye,

Mr. Perkins."

With respect,

Mrs. Bernstein,

you haven't

the slightest notion

of my relationship with tom.

And in view of that...

He makes you do things

you never thought you'd do.

He liberates you.

And just when

you have come

to depend upon that,

he will leave you.

And you will never

feel so alive again.

I'm sorry, Mrs. Bernstein.

I know this has

been hard on you.

Whatever pain

he's caused you,

I can only hope

he didn't mean it.

Can you give me his

address in Europe?

He asked me not to.

Can you tell me

when he's coming home?

I don't think so.

So,

I don't exist anymore.

I've been edited.

I haven't quite decided

who I'm going to shoot yet.

Tom,

myself

or you.

Have you

a suggestion?

Suicide seems

a bit extreme.

And killing tom

won't help much.

So I suppose

that leaves me.

I suppose it does.

You're overwriting

the scene, Mrs. Bernstein.

We shall see,

Mr. Perkins.

I am very sorry

for what's going

to happen to you.

Truly, I am.

Enjoy the time with tom

while you have it

because after him...

...there is a great hush.

Hey,

good to see you.

Max!

Tom!

Oh!

Wonderful

to see you, tom.

But we need to talk.

I have a taxi waiting.

Heck, no!

Taxi can take

my luggage.

No taxis or trains

or buses or automation.

I have to ambulate.

I have to feel

my country again.

You go ahead.

Thank you, sir.

You don't know how

much I missed you.

Oh, I missed you too, tom,

but this is important.

Aline came to the office

and she has a gun.

An actual gun.

Hell with her.

I've been away

so long,

we have to celebrate

my return to the greatest

of nations

with all things American.

I have to eat some wieners

and, and walk the city

and drink us

some serious liquor.

I mean,

can one man do it?

Write his whole

life story fairly?

Honestly? Like proust,

without all the upholstery.

Well, sure.

Now, of time and the river

stopped when I met aline.

I'll have to write

about that next.

She won't like it.

She'll love it!

It'll make her immortal.

Oh, Max,

look at this.

What's happening

to our country, Max?

It's so frivolous.

What?

What I do.

Writing books.

These folks

will never read.

Telling my life story

like it's important

to them.

These people

are starving.

Hey, come with me.

Come on.

You have got

to be kidding me.

It'll be worth it,

i promise.

Have I ever lied to you?

This would fall under

the general category

of breaking

and entering.

Let's have

an adventure.

Damn!

I don't believe it.

I don't believe it.

Why on earth

are we here?

This is where I first lived

when I came to New York.

This is where I wrote

look homeward, angel.

I would come here

every twilight

and look at the city

and dream of what

my life might be,

till the stars came out.

The stars in the sky.

The lights

in the buildings.

All those lights.

All the power of life.

You're not

frivolous, tom.

I think back in

the caveman days,

our ancestors would

huddle around

the fire at night

and wolves would be

howling in the dark,

just beyond the light.

And one person

would start talking.

And he would

tell a story,

so we wouldn't be so

scared in the dark.

I guess I'll have

to look at the proofs

when I get back.

Is that all right?

How long?

Well, if I don't get shot,

a couple of months.

I'm telling you,

Spain is where

the action's going to be.

You've already done

a bullfighting book.

Nah, it's not

bullfighting this time.

World's gone

beyond that, I'm afraid.

It's war that's coming.

And you need

to be there?

Well, I need

to be somewhere.

I need to feel the old

lucha por la vida,

you know?

The struggle for life.

What else is there?

Hoist her up, boys.

We want to take

a photograph.

All right,

you heard him.

So,

how's the muse

from greater

asheville doing?

He's writing

a new book,

god help me.

Did you read

of time and the river?

Crap.

The boy has

serious delusions

of importance.

And he's been mouthing off

to the press too much.

Tell him to shut the hell up

and stick to his pencil.

Well, you know tom,

he's exuberant.

Bullshit.

He's starting to believe

what they say about him.

Same thing that happened

to Fitzgerald.

Gets to hear

he's the great man

of letters so many times,

he starts to believe it.

Then he's got

to live up to it and

then he stops writing.

Tom has to write,

it's in his blood.

Well, they said

the same thing about

Scott five years ago.

Most elegant writer

i ever knew.

Now the poor

son of a bitch

can't string

five words together

to save his own life.

You know tom

will leave you soon.

I don't think so.

You don't think

those bastards

at Harper's and MacMillan

aren't pouring poison

in his ear already?

Tom won't listen.

You saw the dedication

in time and the river.

Yeah, I did.

A bit like something

on a tombstone.

Come on,

let's take a photo

with your catch.

I'll get him mounted

and send him to you.

Our daughter's going

gangbusters at vassar,

she, uh...

She seems to have

developed an affection

for drama.

She might even

be an actress.

She wants to talk

to you about it, Louise.

Oh, I would love to.

That must be tom.

I'll get it.

It's tom, honey.

He's come to see you.

Come on, Maxwell!

Let me in, now.

- Tom, easy.

- Where is Scott?

You might have waited

to start drinking.

I... I have

to see Scott.

Tom.

Scott. Scott!

Tom! Look at me.

Zelda's just out

of the hospital

and she's not well,

so for god's sake,

don't start in.

Listen to you.

I'm not some

rude mechanical.

Scott!

You old bastard.

Tom!

I tried to tell that

to Max. I mean...

Tell me, Scott.

Does...

Does he...

Does he make you

take a lot out?

He doesn't make me

do anything.

Well, does he

"advise" you

to take a lot out?

We're different

writers, tom.

How's that?

I don't write

such long books.

Don't or can't?

Tom!

Just say it,

Scotty.

There's no shame

in writing short,

though I think

you've taken it

a bit too far.

I mean, come on.

Are you gonna write

another novel? Hmm?

Max, I hear you finally

went fishing with Ernest.

Yes, in the wilds

of darkest key west.

Don't ignore me.

That's enough.

Don't pretend

I'm not here.

Jesus Christ!

I know goddamn well

you ain't written

a word in years.

Don't blame me

for that.

Come on, get up!

What? What? Why?

- You're leaving.

- Where are we going?

- Get out.

- Why?

It's all right,

my sweetheart,

it's all right.

Stay calm.

It's all right.

You should tell him

to put her away somewhere

and get back to work.

He... he's probably

past it now.

Couldn't make

a whole book,

but he's still

got some talent

around the edges.

Faded grandeur,

i suppose you'd call it.

Or he'd call it.

But that...

Would you shut up?

It amazes me, still,

after all these years,

how cruel you can be.

I... I'm only

being honest.

Did you ever

once try to imagine

how it is for Scott?

Why...

Why would I?

How many words

did you write today?

What?

How many words

did you write today?

Maybe 5,000.

Scott wrote

maybe 100.

If today was a good day.

If today was a great day.

And he needs to write

as much as you do.

He fights

over every word.

Then, he should

fight more.

His wife

is going mad!

Nobody cares about

what he writes or even

remembers him anymore.

Can you imagine

what that's like?

Don't blame me

for his weakness.

It hurts me to

see you so cruel.

So I've disappointed you,

yet again.

Yes, very much.

Well, I'm sorry

I'm not decent enough

for your fine dinner parties

and your fine friends.

But before

you drag me out

to the woodshed,

I think you ought to look

at who's giving the lesson.

Am I supposed to

grow up like you?

No, tom, but you're

supposed to grow up.

How dare you?

You, of all people.

You, of all goddamn people!

You're nothing

but a coward!

Stuck in that

sterile little office.

Every beautiful thing

in you stunted.

You don't have

the first idea

what it is to be alive!

You don't know

what it is to wake up

and grab hold

of life every day

and fight with it.

You're just so

goddamn scared to live.

There are other

ways to live!

There's loving your children

and seeing them grow up right.

There's providing

for your family.

There's doing work

that's important and

giving to other people.

That's enough.

No, I've taken

your abuse

'cause I told

myself you were worth it.

That the work was worth it.

But god help anyone

who loves you, tom.

Because for all

your talk

and all your millions

of beautiful words,

you haven't the slightest

idea of what it means

to be alive.

To look into

another person's eyes

and ache for him.

I hope someday

you will.

And then maybe

all your words will be

worth five of Scott's.

Max thinks

he created me.

You know that?

Like pygmalion.

He thinks... he thinks

he found this ugly lump

of Carolina Clay

and molded it into me.

They say

i don't even write

my own books.

They say I can't

write my own books.

It's all because of Max

and his brilliant editing.

I hear it

everywhere I go.

Wouldn't I be lost

without Max?

What would I do without

the great Maxwell Perkins?

So he finally

stood up to you.

Good for him.

You wouldn't believe how much

the folks at Harper's offered

me for my new book.

There it is.

I told them no.

You told them maybe.

You tell everyone maybe.

And now you're going

to tell them yes.

Hey, I'm thinking

of taking a trip.

A vacation, like.

Buying an old car

and just driving off.

Maybe see California.

All those

sun-kissed locales.

Why don't you come?

I mean it.

Let's hit the road

and have some fun again.

You and me.

Like it used to be.

No one else in

the world even exists.

Mmm... we're in our

own private cathedral.

Doesn't that sound like

a momentous journey?

You need

to spend time alone.

I'm a writer.

All I do

is spend time alone.

No, you spend time

with your characters.

You've never been alone.

First you had your family,

then you had me,

then you had Max.

You need

to spend time alone.

You need to look

at how you move

through your life.

You hurt me.

You're going to hurt Max.

You shouldn't hurt

anyone else.

Human beings

aren't fiction.

You have no idea

what I had to go through

to get to where

i am now.

So I can look at you

and feel

nothing.

You know the way out.

The last time

i saw my father,

I was standing

at a train window,

when I went north

to college.

He just got

smaller and smaller

as we pulled away,

until I couldn't

see him anymore.

That train

carried me to my life.

Beyond the hills

and over the rivers.

And always,

the rivers run.

Sometimes they flow

away from my father

and sometimes they

flow back to his door.

I have to prove

i can do it

by myself.

Then prove it.

Scott.

I know it was

a while ago

but I'm sorry.

I was a damn brute.

I wouldn't blame you

if you slammed

the door in my face.

You don't know how sorry

i am for talking to you

and Zelda like that.

Please, say

you forgive me.

Believe it or not,

I've been drunk

myself once or twice.

Thank you.

I'm still a bit

of a washout

as a screenwriter.

I just can't make

the grade as a hack.

Even that

requires a certain

practiced excellence.

I'm mighty glad

to see you, Scott.

I've been rambling around

for months now.

Haven't had anybody

to talk to about work.

Ah. Work.

I mean,

who better to talk to?

The man who created

something immortal.

More and more,

i trouble myself with that.

"The legacy."

Will anyone care about

Thomas wolfe in

100 years? Ten years?

When I was young,

i asked myself that

question every day.

Now, I ask myself,

"can I write one

good sentence?"

How can you say that?

Don't you want

to be remembered?

This side of paradise

was just put out of print,

for the first time

in 18 years.

Gatsby will go next.

That'll never happen.

You know how much

i made in royalties

on gatsby last year?

Two dollars and 13 cents.

But I don't mind.

I'm working now.

My next-door neighbor

is a radio actress.

She periodically rehearses

her screams and laughter.

That's a little

disquieting.

Oh, the laughing's worse.

Trust me.

You spoken to Max lately?

Oh, don't talk about Max.

Why not, tom?

I know he's your friend,

but you have no idea.

He crippled me.

He deformed my work.

He as much admitted it.

And then he tried

to take all the credit

for my success.

He did no such thing.

Do you know how

much you hurt him?

We hurt each other.

Don't be glib

with me, tom.

You don't know

what he did to me.

What he did to you?

Uh-huh.

What did he do?

He made all your

dreams come true.

He gave you a career.

A life!

There.

The scribner party line.

I expected more from you.

That decent man

believed in you

when nobody else would.

He poured all his hopes

and dreams into you.

All the things he would

never do, all the books

he would never write.

And now you repay him

with ugly accusations

and brutality.

You ought to be

ashamed of yourself!

That man has a genius

for friendship

and you've squandered it.

There will come a day

when you're not

the success you are now.

It's a long road

then, believe me.

Why hurt the one man

who will walk on

that road with you?

Daddy?

Hello, puppet.

Why doesn't tom

come around anymore?

Oh, Nancy.

Tom needs some

time for himself.

Is he coming back?

I don't think so.

See, tom's the kind of

fellow who needs to make

his own way through life.

Is he mad at us?

No, honey.

No, sometimes

people just go away.

They have to grow up,

leave home.

It'll happen

to you, too.

Poor daddy.

I miss him, too.

Tell you what,

get me his book.

"A destiny that leads

the English to the Dutch

is strange enough

"but one that leads from

epsom into Pennsylvania

"and thence into the hills

that shut in altamont

"over the proud coral cry

of the cock

"and the soft stone smile

of an angel

"is touched by that

dark miracle of chance

"which makes new magic

in a dusty world.

"Each moment is the fruit

of 40,000 years.

"The minute-winning days,

like flies, buzz home to death

"and every moment

is a window on all time.

"And like a man

who is perishing

in the polar night,

"he thought of

the rich meadows

of his youth,

"the corn,

"the plum tree...

"...and ripe grain.

"Why here?

"O lost!"

Mr. Perkins,

you have a call.

From tom's mother.

Mrs. wolfe?

Who even heard

of such a thing?

Tuberculosis

of the brain.

Doesn't even

seem real.

To be brought low by such

a strange and sudden thing?

They're doing

everything they can.

Who would credit it?

Who would credit it, now?

What's that?

That he should

end up here,

of all places.

When tom collapsed

out west,

they brought him back here

for the surgery.

Best place for it, they said.

Right here in Baltimore.

His father died in

this very hospital,

just along the hall.

It's like tom's whole life

is leading him,

like a river,

back to his father.

The surgeon said

his brain was filled

with tumors.

A myriad of tumors.

That's the word he used,

"myriad."

I think tom

would like that.

There's nothing

they can do, you see.

The doctor said

it was a matter of weeks.

Might regain consciousness,

most likely not.

No, you stay

with Nancy.

You should,

you know, prepare her.

She always

loved tom the most.

The plural of

"myriad" is "myriads",

by the way.

Mr. wolfe?

Pencil.

Oh, no, Mr. wolfe,

I'm sorry,

you just lie still.

I'll get the doctor.

Pencil.

Afternoon,

Mr. Perkins.

Afternoon, James.

Dear Max,

I've got a hunch.

And I wanted to write

these words to you.

I've made a long voyage

and been to a strange country

and I've seen

the dark man very close.

And I don't think

I was too much

afraid of him.

But I want most

desperately to live.

I want to see you again.

For there is such

impossible anguish

and regret

for all I can

never say to you,

for all the work

I have to do.

I feel as if a great window

has been opened on life.

And if I come

through this,

I hope to god

I am a better man

and can live up to you.

But most of all,

I wanted to tell you,

no matter what happens,

I shall always feel about you

the way I did

that November day

when you met me

at the boat

and we went on top

of the building

and all the strangeness

and the glory and the power

of life were below.

Yours always,

tom.