Malcolm & Marie (2021) - full transcript

What?

I said you look beautiful tonight.

I can't hear you!

I said
you look beautiful tonight, baby!

Whoo!

Whoo!

I'm a little wavy. But life is good.

- Because we fucking did it!
- Did what?

I wrote and directed and premiered a movie

that knocked the audience
the fuck out tonight.

Did you see that?



- Did you see that audience?
- Hmm.

- Baby, did you see that audience?
- Mm-hmm.

I said, did you see the audience?

Man, I delivered a fucking knockout punch.

The last eight minutes straight,
they were sobbing

and when the credits hit,
it was like a fucking bomb.

It's like a bomb went off.

It feels good.

I cannot believe this is real.
Baby, I can't believe this is real.

Afterwards, I talked to six critics.
Six or seven of 'em.

They was all on a nigga.

You feel me?

The white guy from Variety loved it.
The white guy from IndieWire loved it.

The white woman
from the LA Times, she really loved it.



She kept saying
that I'm the next Spike Lee,

the next Barry Jenkins,
the next John Singleton.

I just looked at her, like,
"What about William Wyler?"

You could tell, for three whole seconds,
she was like, "Was William Wyler Black?"

Sh-yeah!

And then she realized,
"Oh… shit. That's racist too."

She got flushed. Face red.
That shit had me dying.

Marie, that was hilarious.

And she kept stumbling
over her words, saying shit like,

"The movie was so emotional."

"I... Malcolm, I couldn't even
think straight. Oh, my God, Malcolm."

"Just, just, Malcolm. Malcolm."

Yeah, it was like a super white moment.

What was interesting, though,

was that you can tell that
because I'm Black, as the director,

and the woman
is a Black lead, stars in the film,

she's already trying to frame it
through a political lens,

when in reality, it's a film
about a girl trying to get clean.

Now, are there certain obstacles,
because she's a Black woman?

I mean, hell yeah.

Right? That's reality, too,
but it's not a film about race.

No. It's about shame, it's about guilt,
and how that shit is inescapable.

And it annoys me
that so many of these journalists

can't help but to flex
their college education.

Malcolm, you have a college education.

Yeah, but I'm not academic, baby.
I'm not elitist about my shit.

I'm not trying to make a film
for the three people

in my media studies class that I respect.

- I am a filmmaker.
- Hmm.

- Right?
- Mm-hmm.

- Am I a filmmaker, baby? That's right.
- Mm-hmm.

And I'm going to be part of the larger
conversation about filmmaking

without always having
some white-ass writer

making it about race
'cause it's fucking convenient.

You know, I could see...
I could see the reviews now.

It goes something like this.
This is how they be writin' and shit.

"This film
is an acute study of the horrors…"

They like to use words like that.

"…the horrors of systemic racism
in this mental healthcare industry."

Instead of it being a commercial film

about a drug-addicted girl
trying to get her shit together.

I mean, these people,
these fucking people are so pedantic.

They are. I mean, we get it.

You're smart. We get it.
You're woke. We get it.

Let us, us artists,
have some fucking fun with the shit.

Let us have fun with the art.

Malcolm, you're writing
the Angela Davis biopic right now.

Yeah, but that's different.
That's different.

I'm choosing to make a film
that's fundamentally political,

but not everything I do
is political because I'm Black.

Yeah, I think Angela Davis
would disagree with you.

- She... She would, huh?
- Mm-hmm.

For real, though, like,
if I decide to make…

A fucking LEGO movie,
it's not because I want to tell a story

about how the building blocks
of the American empire was slave labor.

I may just wanna make a LEGO movie.

- You don't wanna make a LEGO movie.
- Yeah, that's true.

But that LEGO movie was fire.
That shit was heat! Right?

And you've never gotten
a good review in your life.

Damn, baby, that's… You right, though.

And you're complaining about reviews
that haven't yet been written.

Right again.

So, stop. Makes you sound like an asshole.

Yeah.

But shit,
you know what I'm saying, though.

Yeah, but save it for another day.

Yeah.

You're complaining
about the white girl from LA Times

'cause she gave you
a bad review that one time.

Aw, she didn't just give a bad review.

She gave a dumb-ass review.
There is a difference.

Malcolm, you won. Okay?

She's comparing you
to Spike Lee and Barry Jenkins.

But she's such a mediocre-ass writer.

Fine, you're not
the next Spike Lee or Barry Jenkins.

- Doubt she knows who William Wyler is.
- I don't know William Wyler.

- Is it ready, babe?
- Mm-hmm.

Here comes the mac and cheese.

- You don't know who William Wyler is?
- No.

Oh, man.
He did The Best Years of Our Lives.

Sh... Shit was heat. Ben-Hur?

He's one of the most
versatile filmmakers of all time.

I mean, Wuthering Heights.

Heads-up.

Roman Holiday.

Yeah, some classics.

It's different, though.
You don't work in film.

You're right, Malcolm, I don't.

Did you have fun tonight?

It was nice.

"Nice."

The entire night while I was talking to
all those sweet, smiling, rich people who,

a month ago, wouldn't give me the time
of day, I just kept looking at you.

And I think to myself, "God, you're the
most gorgeous creature on planet Earth."

And the sexiest too.

I mean, there's nobody sexier.
Even Anthony said it.

I mean, not in a bad way.

- In a positive way.
- Hmm.

When I'd see you…

With your cranberry and soda…

Smiling, chopping it up…

And I'd think,
"God, how fucking lucky am I?"

- I couldn't wait to get you home.
- Aww, that's so sweet.

Hold your cute little ass and kiss it.

Tell you that I love you.

I love you, Marie.

- Do you want salted or unsalted butter?
- I'll just have you.

What was that?

- What?
- That was a fake-ass smile.

- No, it wasn't.
- Swear to God, it was.

No, it wasn't. It was nothing.

Bullshit, I can fucking read you.
I know when nothing is something.

Well, maybe you can't read me.

No, I can read you.

- I haven't eaten all night.
- That's not what this is.

It's 1:00 in the morning.
Can we eat and go to sleep?

Please, Marie.
I really don't wanna fight tonight.

Neither do I.
That is why I'm making you mac and cheese.

So you are angry.

No.

- Was it the thing that Anthony said?
- No.

- The joke about you being a model?
- No.

Wouldn't take it seriously.
He's old and from a totally different era.

I didn't take it personally.

- Promise?
- Promise.

- Was it Taylor?
- No.

- You sure?
- Yes.

- I know you get weird around Taylor.
- I do not get weird around Taylor.

- You get meek.
- "Meek"? Huh, really?

- Well, you don't talk a lot.
- Well, that's different from being meek.

- I just mean...
- What?

Meek implies that I'm shy or small.
That she's the queen of fucking England.

- I didn't mean it like that. I meant...
- What?

What?

- She's a movie star.
- Hmm.

- She's about to become a movie star.
- Don't jinx her, Malcolm.

I have nothing nice to say to Taylor,
so I don't talk to Taylor.

- It has nothing to do with being meek.
- It's just… she notices.

Really?

- Really.
- How do you know?

- 'Cause I just do.
- Really?

She sees how you are with other people.
You're talkative. You're funny.

What can I say? I'm personable.

Right.
Which is what makes her insecure.

What does? Other fucking
human beings with personalities?

No. The fact that
you're not yourself and she sees it.

She'll survive.

So why you angry?

Marie, you're angry.

Marie, what you angry about?

Marie.

Marie?

Marie!

Marie.

Marie, talk to me.

I promise you, it's not a good idea.
Let's just talk tomorrow.

- But you're upset with me.
- It's not that big of a deal.

I can't go to bed knowing you're angry.

Malcolm, I promise you,

nothing productive
is going to be said tonight.

- How do you know?
- Because I know you.

- What does that mean?
- And I love you.

What does that mean?

It means you are literally incapable
of de-escalating a situation

unless it's work-related.
Even then, it's 50-50.

Why is it
that anytime anything good happens,

you have to find something, anything,

the most minor fucking detail
to harp on, to make ugly,

to ensure that there's no reason
to fucking celebrate.

- Really? You wanna go there?
- Yes.

- Okay.
- All right, then. What is it?

- Your speech, Malcolm.
- Oh, give me a break.

You're outside of your mind.

When I said you find the most minor detail
to make it ugly, I meant it.

You forgot to thank me, Malcolm.
It's not a minor detail. That's a big one.

But I've thanked you
a million times before.

You know that I'm thankful.
You know I'm appreciative.

You know I made a mistake,
so why turn it into something more?

Because it is more.

What?

It's our entire fucking
relationship in a nutshell.

- Oh, you can't be serious.
- I'm dead serious.

- You're psychotic.
- You're hyperbolic.

I'm not. It's psychotic to think

that forgetting to thank you
is symbolic of anything

other than me legitimately
forgetting to fucking thank you.

You thanked 112 fucking people tonight.

You thanked your mother, your gaffer,
your agents, your third grade teacher,

the usher at the theater when you were 12
and saw whatever the fuck.

- Didn't thank the usher.
- You know what I mean.

You don't have to be sarcastic,
petty and obnoxious about the shit.

I'm sorry. I forgot to thank you.

I am genuinely sorry,

which is why I apologized to you
a thousand times during the movie.

I felt so guilty,
I couldn't concentrate on the movie.

Huh. That's a shame.
You've only seen it 7,000 times.

Every time I'd lean over and said,
"I'm sorry," you said it was fine.

You squeezed my hand and said it was fine.

You said, "I love you.
Don't worry. It's fine."

Well, Malcolm, I changed my mind.

How can you just change your mind?

Honestly, it's pretty fucking easy.

That doesn't seem a little crazy to you?

- Nope.
- It doesn't?

- Nope.
- Why?

Well, because when I was
in the theater, it didn't matter.

Wasn't that big of a deal. It was fine.

Until the after-party,
when every single person,

from your mother to Taylor,
kept coming up to me and going,

"You know, I bet you're probably
a little bit upset right now

because he forgot to thank you,
but you know how much he depends on you."

Taylor said that?

- Yeah. She told me not to read into it.
- What the hell does that mean?

Funny you should say that.
That's the exact thought I had.

- I didn't cheat on you.
- I didn't ask.

- Just saying...
- Didn't ask.

- Well, I'm just saying...
- I didn't ask.

It's not just about
you forgetting to thank me, Malcolm.

It's about how you see me.

And how you view my contribution,
not just to this relationship,

but to your work.

Specifically in a movie
you made about my life.

You know, Marie…

You are genuinely…

Unstable.

I'm not kidding!

I'm actually concerned
for your mental well-being!

Obviously, there are certain similarities.

But Imani's not based on you.

You're fucking delusional!

In what fucking universe
is Imani's character based on you?

Really?

Are you actually yelling and belittling me
from across this house

because you are too busy
eating mac and cheese?

- What?
- "What?"

- I'm not.
- Don't fucking lie!

- You literally just got seconds.
- No, I didn't.

Do you know how disturbing it is

that you can compartmentalize
to such a degree

that you can abuse me
while eating mac and cheese?

- Abuse you?
- Mac and cheese I fucking made you.

- Abuse you?
- Verbally abuse me.

Thanks for the clarification.
It's kind of an important one.

But verbally abuse you? Get out of here.

If you're gonna treat me
like an insane person and call me crazy,

the least you could do is do it without
casually eating macaroni and cheese.

How does that work for you?

What does that sound like
in your fucking brain?

"What a cunt! Mmm.
This macaroni and cheese is delicious."

"What a cunt. I wonder if there's more."

"What a cunt. If I could direct
commercials for Kraft, I would."

Say whatever you want.

Get pissed off I didn't thank you, Anthony
said that joke about you being a model,

that Taylor said
whatever the fuck Taylor said...

- It was mean.
- Well, she's an actor.

All night I had to watch you two
smile and take pictures together.

- She's the lead in my film!
- I know. I don't care.

It's my job to make her feel comfortable.

- Not at my expense.
- Actually, it is.

Despite how you fucking
feel about it, it is my job.

- You'd never forget to thank her.
- Jesus Christ!

- You wouldn't.
- 'Cause she's psychotic.

No, because she would flip the fuck out

and spend the night making you pay for it
so you'd never let that shit happen again.

You're saying you're not nuts enough.

No. What I'm saying is
you spend your entire life

catering to the feelings and the whims
of literally everyone but me.

Agents, producers, crew members, actors,

fucking fictional characters
get more respect

and empathy from you than I do.

And… That's what's so odd
about this whole fucking situation,

because I get it.
Taylor is wonderful in the film.

But when you get up there
and you talk about

her ability to breathe life
into the character of Imani

without ever mentioning that if
I didn't live my life, she wouldn't exist,

it's kind of fucking weird.

Imani is not based on you.

She's a 20-year-old drug addict trying
to get clean. Just a fucking coincidence?

Obviously, you getting clean
was a part of the inspiration.

- At 20?
- Yes.

And you provide genuine insight into that.

What that was like.
But Imani is not based on you.

It's an amalgamation
of different things, a bunch of things.

Who?

People!

What people?

A lot of different people.

- Like my cousin. Rick, for one.
- Okay.

- A lot of different people and things.
- Your cousin.

You know what, Malcolm?

I feel like once you know someone is there
for you and once you know they love you,

you never actually think of them again.

That's not true.

It's not until you're about to lose
someone that you pay attention.

- Is that what this is?
- What?

Is what you're threatening…

If I don't apologize,
I'm going to lose you?

I'm not looking for an apology.

- What do you want? A screenplay credit?
- Don't be cruel.

I'm serious.
I know we talk for hours about work.

Is it so much of a nuisance
that you'd like compensation?

I had a draft of the script
before you ever came into my life.

It's not about credit.
I don't want fucking credit.

Well, what is it, Marie? What do you want?

The film is beautiful.

I'm proud of you.

Took forever to make and it was tough,
but I have one question.

Do you think that the movie would be
as good as it is if we weren't together?

No.

And that's all I wish you would have said.

Great.

Are we no longer fighting?

That depends.

On what?

On whether you can manage
to not say something hurtful

for the rest of the night.

I mean, I'm not that bad.

Fuck you aren't.

Can I kiss you?

No.

- Are you sure?
- Mm-hmm.

But I really, really wanna kiss you.

I don't care.

Just don't take me for granted.

I don't.

You did.

I'm sorry.

You can kiss me now.

Yes!

I'm the only person who tells you
you're being an asshole

when you're being an asshole.

I know.

And now…

That you've made a movie
that everybody loves…

The world's gonna be kissing your ass.

- You think so?
- Mm-hmm.

Yep.

I heard that shit all night.
"Oh, he's so sensitive."

"He's so in tune to emotion.
He's romantic."

"I bet he's sweet, right?"

- What did you say?
- I said, "Well, I mean, yeah."

"When he's not being
an emotional fucking terrorist."

Yes.

- Yes.
- No.

You think you're tough,
skinny-bones Jones?

I am tough.

Nah, I'll eat your ass for breakfast.
You light work.

You know, life is gonna get
easier, but it's also gonna get harder.

What do you mean?

Just don't believe the hype, Malcolm.

And don't push away
the people who ground you.

- Yeah.
- Yeah.

You're gonna
start making fake movies

about fake people with fake emotions.

Then you'll start having dinner
with the white girl from LA Times.

- Yeah. Mm-hmm.
- No! Not the white girl.

You'll be talking about
this one-take and… and that one-take,

and how the camera…

You know you do that, right?

Literally.

Next thing you know, you'll be on
your press tour for your new LEGO film.

Talk about how it's an allegory
for the failures of reconstruction.

"Well,
the original working title was…

Forty LEGOs And A Mule, but the…"

"The studio got a little, uh…"

Malcolm, you laugh, but I can see it.

I'm serious, I can see that shit.

All your new Twitter friends
will be quote-tweeting your ass,

handclaps and shit, talkin' 'bout,
"This is what change looks like."

"Yes, king!"

- Oh, brutal.
- Mm-hmm.

But the rest of America will be like,

"What the fuck is this Negro doing
selling us some shit with these LEGOs?"

"I'm not seein' that shit."

Then there's
gonna be boycotts, fucking protests

because you're politicizing these LEGOs,

but thankfully, you'll have your new
white girlfriend from the LA Times.

I mean, she's gonna come ridin' in
with her SPF-50 brigade

on some real soccer mom shit…

…tweetin' at people left and right.

"Well, this is literally censorship!"

"Who is in charge here?"

"It is our moral obligation
to go and see this movie

written and directed by a real Bla…
I mean, person of color."

"We are gonna make history, okay?"

"We're going to make it
the biggest box office ever."

And the next thing you know,

you will have made
a toy company a billion dollars.

- Yes!
- Yes!

"Congratulations, Malcolm Elliot!
You fucking did it!"

"Here's a couple million dollars
and a fuckin' fruit basket."

"But just as a thought,
have you ever considered

doing the Angela Davis biopic,
but with LEGOs?"

You know
your white voice is crazy.

- You laugh, but…
- That's funny.

You could change the world.

You should've
never given up acting, baby.

Why, Malcolm?

I always believed
if you found a character

that actually allowed you
to be yourself, you'd be astonishing.

Well, Malcolm…

Unfortunately no one
can really write me except you.

Marie!

Marie.

Marie!

Marie!

Marie, stop playin'.

Marie!

Shit.

Marie!

Marie, stop playin'.

Marie!

Marie!

Marie!

Shit.

Marie.

Marie!

Oh, my God!

- Where the fuck did you go?
- To pee.

- To pee... Where?
- Outside.

Why didn't you just use the bathroom?

Because I didn't grow up with a backyard.

- The novelty hasn't worn off yet.
- Jesus!

You know, you are
the neediest man I have ever dated.

But at the same time, you are also
the least jealous man I have ever dated.

I mean, I could literally be hanging
on some random guy's arm

and you would never think it's sexual.

You'd just come up to me and be like,
"Hey, babe. What the hell are you doing?"

"I need your help. I can't remember
anybody's name here. Let's go."

- But whose arm are you hanging on?
- That's it. Doesn't matter.

- Is this about tonight?
- Mmm.

Kinda.

- "Kinda"?
- Hmm.

I was outside smoking and you were in here

apologizing in whatever
emotionally obtuse way made sense to you.

As if a song written 50 years ago
about a different fucking girl

would somehow make me
feel better about our relationship.

Some people would say
lack of jealousy is a good thing.

- Not when it borders on indifference.
- What are you talkin' about, Marie?

Malcolm, you can encourage me
to have a life of my own,

but that's just… That's bullshit.

You don't want me to have
a life that is separate from yours

because you are too fucking needy.

Thought we were done fighting.

- Don't be sensitive. This isn't a fight.
- Yeah, right.

It's not. It's an observation.

- Tsk. Oh, you don't wanna go there.
- Why?

- Trust me, you don't.
- Why?

Even if you do,
you're not thinking clearly.

- I think I'm thinking clearly.
- Trust me, you're not.

- I do have a slightly masochistic streak.
- But you're not dumb.

- Oh, my God. Thank you.
- Don't be a fucking brat.

Don't patronize me
and tell me I gave up something

when you know damn well
your work is all that you have time for

and all you care about.

Oh, so you gave up a career in acting
to be an emotional fucking support dog.

- Fuck you, Malcolm!
- I get it now.

- Fuck you!
- 'Cause you're scared, you didn't want it.

You never wanted it.

- 'Cause you're scared to try and fail.
- You are ugly inside.

No, fuck you!

Marie, when I met you,
you were a fucking pilled-out disaster.

You were barely 20 years old.

Couldn't hold a conversation
without noddin' off,

or passin' out, or breaking down.

Don't act like for the last five years
you became so enlightened that I fucking…

Forgot the old you.

Of course I want you to have a life.

You know why?
Because I'm terrified that if you don't,

you're gonna hang everything on mine.

And when, God forbid,
I forget to thank you at a movie premiere,

you come home, you start a fight,
and by morning you're drinking on Xannies,

trying to fuckin' cut your wrists
with a pair of fucking nail scissors.

Stupid motherf…

Malcolm, I want you to leave this room.

Oh, shut the fuck up, Marie.
You know, I get it. I really do.

You have pain and fucking
disappointment and dreams

like everybody else on planet Earth.

You're mad you didn't get
the jobs you wish you'd got.

You're embarrassed
you had to play "Skinny Girl In Alley"

and "Concerned Nurse Number Two."

Well, guess what? None of us
are proud of where we first start off.

I started off, I had to do token fuckin'
punch up on straight to VOD rom-come,

and under-the-table rewrites on films
that didn't wanna pay writers!

But you keep working!

You keep on trying!
You work harder and harder

'cause even if
you're not talented, which you are,

you can still get somewhere,
as long as you don't have an ego.

You don't have to be proud
of everything you do!

But you do have
to work harder than 99% of people.

You know what's bullshit?
What's a fucking cop-out, Marie?

Is you acting like my work
is so fucking suffocating

that you can't even breathe,
that you don't have any fucking space.

I mean, look around.

Look at this fucking house
the production company put us up in.

Pick a room, get to fucking work,

and stop blaming me for your
inabilities to get your shit together!

I checked you into rehab.

I went to group therapy with you.
I've been with you.

I fucking supported you
every single step of the way.

When you were depressed,

when you were on so many meds
that you couldn't fuck for half a year,

I was there for you.

When you relapsed, I was there for you.

When we lived on 38th Street
and you went out to that meeting, right?

And you went to the meeting
and you didn't come home

because you were
fucking somebody else, right?

Guess who was there for you?

This nigga right here.

So, don't go there.

Do not fucking go there because
you are not gonna win this one, Marie.

Trust me.

All right, how about
we cut the bullshit, Malcolm?

Since everybody's being honest tonight,
how about you be honest? Hmm?

About the real reason
you were there for me.

I was good fucking material.

Hmm? That's why you stuck by me.

Because I was a story.

It was a world of emotions you weren't
used to seeing so fucking close.

And because I was 20 years old and I'd
never been loved the way you loved me

or thought you loved me,
I didn't realize what I was to you.

A fucking movie. A tragedy.

One that you could continue watching
for as long as you were there for me.

And tonight, in that fucking audience,
I watched the whole shit play out.

So don't pretend like it was
a selfless fucking act, Malcolm.

It's literally the basis of your art
and it is the reason

why all these people are calling you
brilliant and brave and fearless.

"So tell us, Malcolm."

"How were you able to breathe life
into the character of Imani?"

"How were you able
to channel the voice of a young woman

so well, so authentically?"

"Well, Jennifer, that's a good question.
I guess you could say I stole it."

"I ripped it off."

"Not a literal theft, a spiritual one."

You're a fucking fraud.

The reason you didn't thank me tonight
is because you already know that.

You have nothing new to say.

All you can do is fuckin' mimic.

Be a fucking parakeet, a goddamn cockatoo.

I mean, God forbid you are ever alone,

and have to dream up
another original idea.

What are you going to write, Malcolm?

Yourself?

Give me a fucking break.

You don't have the balls.

You don't have the gravitas, the fucking
introspection to look at yourself

and your flaws and your shortcomings

and the fact that you may not be
the next Spike Lee or Barry Jenkins

because those motherfuckers
had something new to say.

Something true to themselves
and their fucking experience.

You say the film is about shame and guilt.

Correct?

Your words, not mine.

All right. Well, I have
a question for you, Malcolm.

Whose fucking shame?

Whose guilt?

What the fuck do you know
about shame and guilt?

You have two parents, no bad habits
other than being a fucking prick,

and a college education.

Your mother is a therapist.
Your father is a professor.

Your sister works for a think tank in D.C.

But out here, on these streets,
these smiling fucking rich people,

they think you know
what it's like to scrap.

Think you fucking lived it.
Give me a break.

You're more privileged than the white girl
who works for the LA Times,

who thinks she's doing a public service
by lifting up your mediocre ass.

Now you're being cruel.

Try slitting your wrists
with a pair of nail scissors.

You're not gonna wanna survive it,
because it's embarrassing.

Don't worry.

I'm not so petty I throw it out
in argument because I'm angry.

- I didn't mean it.
- Too late.

It's embarrassing and it's cruel,

and it makes me regret
sharing so much with you.

Fucking calling me…

I'm keeping you…

Bullshit!

How the fuck am I keeping you from a life?

So stupid.

Fucking bullshit.

I know… I know what this is.
This is bullshit.

Fuck Malibu.

What do you mean, "mediocre"?

Were you just trying to be mean?

Is that why you said it?

Out of everything I said,

"mediocre" is what stuck with you?

I just wanna know
if you actually believe it.

Guess.

- Answer the question.
- What is the question specifically?

Do you not like the movie?

I never said that.

- So you don't like me and the movie.
- I never said that.

That's literally
what you just fucking said.

I feel like you're being a bit irrational.

I'm being irrational?

I'm being fucking irrational?
This is the biggest night of my life,

and you're trying to turn it
into the worst and I'm being irrational.

Look at you.

You're so solipsistic
that you see yourself in everything.

Even in things you had nothing to do with.

You notice the way Imani walks.

You turn to me and say,
"I wonder where you got that walk from."

I don't say shit.
I actually smile, don't I?

Keep that shit light
because I don't wanna hurt your feelings,

but you tally that shit up, Marie.

While I'm actually
doing something, creating something,

you're on the sidelines trying to justify
your motherfucking existence.

"I know that line." "I said that."
"I did that." "You got that from me."

Shit, even feedback from you
comes with an IOU, Marie.

You wanna play fucking dirty?

Well, let's fucking go.

You wanna hurt me, Marie.

I promise you,
I can hurt you ten times worse.

You're a fucking featherweight,
a level-one boss.

I can snap you like a twig.

Imani is based on you
as much as she is on me.

What she says to the nurse,

that's what I said to the doctor
when my dad was in the ICU.

You noticed the way
Imani walks, didn't you?

It's a good walk.

That was my ex-girlfriend, Jess.

So was the scene
on the bicycle in the rain.

It wasn't based on the trip
you and I took to Barcelona.

That's Jess and I
on the Citi Bike in Brooklyn.

The way she ties her shoes with two loops…

That was Jayla.

You weren't the first.

The joke about
how she doesn't give handjobs.

Well, that's an old played-out line
that every nigga done heard before.

The joke she makes
about how quickly she orgasms.

That was Kiki.

Kiki.

She's a dancer.

Dancer. We'll call her a dancer.

Who I met
outside of St. Louis on a road trip.

I fucked the shit out of her
in the penthouse suite of a Marriott.

Once on the bed, once in the shower.

We might've even fucked
in the closet or some shit too.

I got a Polaroid of her.

Sitting naked in a heart-shaped tub.

It's in a photo album
at home in our closet.

But you're an addict, right?

That's what makes you so unique, right?

That's what makes your contribution
so much more significant, right?

Get the entire fuck out of here.

You're not the first broken girl
I've known, fucked or dated.

I wrote my first script
in a one-bedroom apartment with Leah,

who I thought loved hour-long showers

until I found her passed out
with a fucking needle in her arm.

Two years ago,
I got an email from her sister

saying she took a whole bottle
of Tylenol to the head and passed away

and asked if I had any pictures

'cause she was putting together
a slideshow on her behalf.

Now that I think about it,
I should've thanked her tonight.

She deserves it.

Same with Tasha.

First girl I actually loved,
I truly loved.

The first girl who truly broke my heart.

She never cheated on me.
She's got that going for her.

She found Jesus,
got married, got divorced.

She constantly DMs me
pictures of her daughter

saying she wished she had a child with me.

I send her heart emojis because I honestly
don't know how to respond to that.

Are you done?

Not even fucking close.

Why, would you like me to stop?

No, Malcolm. Keep going.

- Why?
- Hmm.

'Cause you like that shit?

You know how disturbed you are, Marie?

You may have gotten clean, but
you still haven't figured this part out.

Why you love being hurt,
traumatized and fucking eviscerated?

It's not normal.

It's not healthy, and it permeates
every aspect of our relationship.

The way we talk,
the way we fight, the way we fuck.

I've dated some
damaged people in my life, Marie.

But none of them wanted to be
debased and degraded like you.

And honestly, Marie…

It's nothing to be proud of.

So stop fucking smiling,
'cause you look like a clown.

Now there's some material for you.

You know what I just realized, Marie?

It's not about justifying your existence.

It's not.

It's about you
being so scared and so selfish

that you have to break me down.

Second guess everything I do.

"Am I mediocre?"

"Can I do this without her?"

"I don't know. I better ask Marie.
Maybe Marie will know the answer."

"Where's Marie?
I need Marie." That's a cut.

"Marie, where did you go?"

"Did you see that performance?
What'd you think?"

"You liked it? Yeah, me too."

God forbid I'm secure enough
in my opinion that I don't need you.

That's what this all is about.

Your whole speech about fake films.

You just need a reason to be needed

because if I don't need you, then
what the hell am I doing with you, Marie?

You want control

because you can't imagine the reason
I'm with you is because I love you.

I just love you, baby.

I don't need you.

But I love you. That there's somebody
on this planet that just loves you.

I love the way your mind works, Marie.

I do.

I love the way you see the world.

I love the way you think.

Your instincts.

And I'm so fucking grateful

because everything
that you've been through, everything…

That's what made you you.
That's what made you you.

The girl that I love,
the girl that I fuck with,

the girl that I'm up
at 2:00 a.m. in the morning

on the biggest night of my life
because she's relentless.

And crazy.

And I'm sorry, though. I'm sorry.

I apologized, you know, and…

A thousand times. I know I fucked up.

But honestly, the second we got home,

all I wanted to do
was celebrate with you, baby.

Marie, my girl, the love of my life.

You wanna know the part
of Imani that's based on you?

It's the end.

The part that makes it
such a tragedy. The part…

That she…

Where she loathes herself so much
because of all the guilt and the shame.

That she can't let the good in.

That's the part that's based on you.

Her inability to fathom

that there's someone
on this planet Earth that just loves her.

Despite her not loving herself.

That's you.

That's the part that isn't fiction.

You gonna start smoking again?

Fuck!

That fucking piece of shit!

Fuck you! Fuck you!
Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!

Fucking piece of shit! Fuck you!

- What's going on?
- Fuckin' LA Times review's up.

- Oh, shit. What does it say?
- I don't know. Fucking Internet.

- Is it good?
- Hold on.

- Who sent it to you?
- No one. I found it.

- How come no one sent it?
- Marie, stop. It's loading.

All right. What's the headline?

Oh, gotta pay a fucking paywall now?
A fucking paywall? Really?

When was it posted?

Dollar-ninety-nine a fucking month.
Twenty minutes ago.

And no one sent it to you?
How come no one sent it to you?

Shit. Where's my fucking wallet?

You don't have your credit card
saved in your phone?

- No!
- Why?

- Because I don't trust that shit.
- Really?

- Marie, stop.
- I'm sorry. Okay. Okay.

Did what's-her-name write it?

- The white girl?
- Yeah.

- Yeah.
- Then it's gotta be positive.

Shit, I hope so.
Where's my motherfuckin' wallet?

Did you check the bedroom?

- What?
- Check the bedroom?

- Yeah, I checked the fucking bedroom!
- Okay. Well, then did you check the bar?

I checked the fucking bar too, Marie!
Where the fuck is the…

Where the fuck is the…
Oh, I got it. I got it.

- Got it? Where was it?
- Doesn't matter.

Oh, shit! Where the fuck is my phone?

- Malcolm.
- Where's my phone?

- Malcolm. Malcolm?
- What?

It's right here. It's right here.

Calm down.

"Imani review."

"A cinematic tour de force

takes aim at the twin horrors
of healthcare and racism,

in Malcolm Elliot's rebellious,
jazzy directorial debut."

I fucking hate this woman.

Who wants to see that film?

"Cinematic tour de force" is all I heard.

- You didn't hear "jazzy"?
- No, I heard "jazzy," too.

"Like the opening Steadicam shot."
It's a dolly, you fucking idiot.

"Through the streets of Bed-Stuy,
we know one thing

about our slender protagonist Imani.
She marches to her own beat."

"She sets the tone,
the atmosphere, the vibe."

"She may slink and slide through
halfway houses and in-patient hospitals,

but make no mistake,
as the title suggests,

this is her film, her world, her turf.
Until it's not."

"If you can't tell
by the rhythm of my white girl words,

you are in for a Black film."

The synopsis.
Boring, boring, boring.

The only reason you know it's 2-perf 35 is
because I said it at the premier, dipshit.

"Positive…"

"Leading to a harrowing
and indelible scene

where Imani overdoses
at a Chinatown market,

and that's where Elliot's
true target becomes clear."

"This is a film about how the American
healthcare system treats women of color."

And at this precise moment,

every Negro who subscribes
to the LA Times just said,

"Then why the fuck
do I need to see this film?"

Just 'cause the film doesn't star
anybody that looks like her

doesn't mean it's political.

- What's wrong with being political?
- Political films are exhausting.

You love political films.

Not the ones the white woman
from the LA Times calls political.

I'm sure she loves Do The Right Thing.

Made at a time when politics weren't cool.
That's what made it so revolutionary.

"When Imani is placed under 5150,

a term for people
being held against their will

and being a danger
to themselves and others,

after a harrowing scene
with a pair of nail scissors, she…"

"She's placed
under the care of friendly doctor

played by… TV show fame…"

"But Elliot knows
the waters he's wading into,

and carefully, brilliantly subverts
the white savior trope."

Oh, she's on one now. This fucking stupid…

"Later, when Imani finds herself, uh…

At her ex-boyfriend's house
begging for a fix,

Elliot uses tight lenses."
It's the fucking same lens.

"Claustrophobia…"

"One begins to question his intentions

in reveling in the trauma
of his Black female heroine for so long."

"It's a scene
better implied than depicted."

"If not for the restraint
of his own picture,

then merely to separate itself
from an exhaustive history

that depicts gendered violence
against women of fucking color."

Are you fucking kidding me?
Are you kidding me, ma'am?

Are you fucking... In the next line!
Oh, shit! Oh, shit!

She says it's a "genuine masterwork."
A genuine fucking...

I can't read this fucking shit anymore.
It's too fucking moronic.

The fact that the LA Times will
hire such a fucking halfwit is beyond me.

First she says that I brilliantly
subvert the white savior trope.

She is a savior.

She's trying to save her,

so how the fuck
did I subvert it, lady? How?

You wanna know how?
It's because I'm Black!

If I was white,
she would've said I fell for the trope.

But because I'm a man,
she can question my intention

saying that I'm reveling
in the trauma of a woman.

"Better implied than depicted."

The fuck out of here! Why?
Because Taylor took her shirt off?

I'm sure she just doesn't think
that the nudity was necessary.

None of it is necessary, Marie.

None of this shit is necessary.

Movement, blocking, lighting,
fucking digital versus film.

This cut here, that cut here.
Let's pan. Two-shot.

None of this shit matters.
It's all about what you want.

But my fucking problem with her
before she even wrote this dumb-ass,

bitch-ass, pussy-ass review is
the same after readin' this cock-sucking,

motherfucking, dog-dick review.

She's not looking at the film.
The ideas in it,

the emotions, or the craft.

Cinema doesn't need
to have a fucking message.

It needs to have a heart and electricity.

Morons like this
sap the world of its mystery

because they need everything
spelled out with fucking A-B-C blocks.

And they're terrified to embrace
anything potentially dangerous

because they're trying
to predict the culture.

This fucking bobblehead shouldn't be
writing for the LA fucking Times.

She should be holding
smiling sun placards for the local news

because all she is,
is a motherfucking weatherman!

Or weatherwoman.

Whatever.

Fucking… Dorothy-ass…

Malcolm.

What?

She did call it a genuine masterwork.

I don't give a fuck!

Unlike her, at least I'm consistent.

You can't hang everything on identity.

You can't say that I brilliantly
subverted this trope 'cause I'm Black,

but I fell into this one
because I'm a fucking man!

Identities are constantly shifting.

Does the male gaze exist
if the filmmaker's gay and not straight?

And to what degree?
What if they're asexual?

What if they're transitioning
and you don't even know it?

You can only look back at things
and wonder what the fuck it all means!

I mean, why did Ben Hecht and Selznick,
two fucking Jewish men,

spend so much time on Gone With the Wind?

To this day,

no one can explain to me why the fuck
Billy Wilder made Spirit of St. Louis

and lionized
that Nazi bastard Lindbergh, huh?

Or why Ida Lupino loved film noir
and fucking violent men.

Why Ed Wood wore fucking panties?

He wore panties and made B films
about fucking space aliens.

Or Elaine May was fascinated
with emotionally stunted men.

I mean, did she see herself in them?

Did she hate them in real life, but wanted
to get to know them through the work?

The fact that Barry Jenkins isn't gay,
is that what made Moonlight so universal?

Or was being gay the reason Cukor
empathized with women more than men?

It's all a mystery is the point!

What drives a filmmaker?
What drives an artist?

I mean, why did Pontecorvo,
a fucking rich Italian Jewish man…

Why did he fucking feel such a kinship
to Algerian Muslim guerrilla fighters

that he fucking made Battle of Algiers?

A fucking classic! Tell me that!

Can you tell me that? Fucking Karen!

Can you tell me that? You can't, can you?
Because why? 'Cause nobody knows!

Who the fuck knows? Who the fuck knows?
Why did I shoot the scene the way I did?

Is it because I'm a man,
because I'm straight?

Is it because I'm desensitized to violence

or is it because I believe that
if you witness trauma onscreen,

the audience should also
feel that fucking trauma?

That is the mystery of art. Of film.

What drives someone to make something
and fucking say something.

Now, you can criticize this system,
which, like every fucking system,

is white as fuck,

and in our business,
fucking male and white as fuck!

I mean, goddamn!

I've been waiting my whole life,
I've been askin',

"Where the fuck
are all the Black filmmakers,

'cause I'm gettin' sick and tired
of these little British boys

runnin' around here all in they feelings
trying to overcome a fucking birth defect

to save the fucking Queen from Hitler."

Just do me a fucking favor, all right?

Ban every fucking film
with a postscript, and we'll be good.

We'll be fucking great!

But to write shit like this?
To write this bullshit?

To box people in
because you don't have the love of film,

because you don't have the mind
to critique the form, medium, technique.

You don't have the words
to describe the emotions

or too much fear
that you're not gonna get clicks,

or too much fear
that the mob's gonna turn on you.

Fuck you for inhibiting
the ability for artists to dream about

what life may be like
for other fucking people.

Fuck you! Twice! With a sick cactus dick!

Even if you come up short,
even if you could do better, fuck you!

You're the reason they make this stale,

safe, stagnant turgid shit
in the first place!

You're the reason! Not me!
You're the reason!

I mean, you should be fucking bold!
You should be fucking reckless!

People should be fucking reckless!

They should be yelling
at the top of their lungs!

Hey, Karen! Hey, Al!

I hear you, and I don't give a fuck!

Because they're not gonna get any better

until they start rebelling against this
purist, moralistic, academic nonsense

in the same way Spike Lee
rebelled against the white system

when he made Do the Right Thing.

Normally, I wish death
upon someone like this.

Someone who lacks
the fucking imagination like this.

But instead, I'm gonna pray fucking hard,

the way my mama taught me,
that she gets fucking carpal tunnel,

until her hands atrophy and cramp

and she can no longer write nonsensical
fucking garbage like this anymore!

Oh, my God.

So this is what happens
when you get a good review?

You're fucking crazy.

I'm ser... You're delirious.

Honestly, Malcolm,
you are a true insane person.

I know. I know. I just…
I'm tired of fighting, Marie.

That was a fight
you had entirely with yourself.

You think you're the first writer

in the history of writing
to have this issue with critics?

'Course not.

Of course not,
'cause it's all the same bullshit.

So, what, Malcolm? You wanna make movies,

and no one's allowed to say
anything bad about them?

Give me a break.

"Oh, no!
Someone attacked my movie."

Well, fuck these lazy-ass critics.

Malcolm, you are not making pottery
for a living, okay?

You are a filmmaker,
and filmmaking is the most capitalistic,

mainstream fucking art form
on the planet Earth.

No matter how many times
Taylor told E! News

that she was a fucking communist.

- She what?
- Or a Maoist.

- Come on.
- It was something like that.

She might've talked about
the redistribution of wealth,

lack of social programs.

- While selling a film?
- The mental healthcare industry...

- For $15 a ticket?
- I'm just saying...

On E! News.

It was Entertainment Tonight.

And you wonder
why the white girl's talking about

the mental healthcare system
in her review.

Because…

Oh, she… Oh, shit, you're right.

Right?

Yep.

I hate to break it to you, but uh…

No one in this game is a radical.

- Oh, Taylor's pretty radical.
- Bullshit. She likes to play one on TV.

What do you mean?

All of y'all are
a bunch of hookers and hoes.

- You calling me a ho?
- Yes, I am calling you a ho.

Fuck you.

'Cause you're a ho!
What? You are. That's fine.

That's why you're hell-bent
on sounding smart,

'cause you're compensating
for the fact that you're a ho.

Instead of just understanding that…

This is just how
the world of ho-dom turns.

You know, you got an actress
in a $2,000 dress,

talkin' about socialism on a red carpet

because she's too afraid
to admit that, guess what,

she's just… she's just a fuckin' actor.

There's no shame in that.

And then you got
every entertainment outlet

running with her call to arms,
her viva la revolution.

Not because they actually care
or want to spread the message.

But because they know that there's
nothing that sells more than disgust.

That's what gets the clicks.

And you dumbasses
fall for that shit every time.

Honestly, nobody cares
what you have to say.

They don't.

You guys play fucking dress-up
for a living.

This is some only-in-America, ho-ass shit.

And all of you are guilty.

You know? So just stay in your lane.
Keep doing your ho shit. It's fine.

Malcolm, you got
a great review with an asterisk.

Boo-fucking-hoo.

I'm a ho, huh?

Mm-hmm. Most definitely.

- I love you.
- Don't manipulate me.

- Okay.
- Okay.

- Okay. I got a gameplan.
- Okay.

I love what's happening.

Oh, my God. And thank God. I just…

Been wanting to do this all night.

Here's the gameplan.

I'm gonna go from here…

To the bathroom.

- Because I have to pee.
- Okay.

- Okay. Is it okay?
- That's fine.

And let's just keep it positive.
Happy thoughts.

You stay right here.
Don't move. You look beautiful.

- Stay right here. Okay?
- Okay.

- You stay right here.
- Okay.

Hey.

Oh, my God. Oh, my…

Malcolm?

Yeah?

Can I ask you a question
and you promise to answer

without making me feel like shit?

Yeah.

Why didn't you cast me?

When you first wrote it,
you wrote it for me.

So why didn't you cast me?

So that's what this whole thing
has been about tonight?

No.

- Bullshit, Marie.
- It's not.

- You're lying. Yes, it is.
- I'm not lying.

At some point, Malcolm, this was
something that we were gonna do together.

And I don't know when that changed.

I don't know when, I don't know how,
I just know that I was in that audience…

And I thought to myself, "Wow."

"I did not mean to give all that away."

And I don't wanna get
into all the reasons why you cast Taylor,

but you're so good at fighting.

You're so good at fighting.
You fought to make the movie,

to make it the way you wanted to make it.
So why didn't you fight for me?

Because I would have been good.

I would have.

Maybe even better.

So there it is.

- What?
- The fucking truth.

Leave it to you to spend the entire night
burning it all to the ground

only to reveal that in the end,
you're just jealous.

- I'm not jealous.
- Yes, you are.

- I'm not jealous.
- Of course you are.

The feeling that I'm feeling right now
is deeper than that.

It's not jealousy.

Oh, come on. Give me a break, Marie.

It's the fact that
I can't tell my story anymore.

I can't articulate all the fucking chaos
that's going on in here

because you already did.

You already did and Taylor already did.

I know it's not solely mine.

I know that.

I know it happened to both of us.

But the difference is you were able
to take all the ugly shit

and make it something beautiful.

Something good.

Something that…

That could move people.

But, Malcolm, I'm stuck with it.

Yeah.

I just wish it was something
we could have done together.

And to be brutally honest, yes…

I would have been better.

Because I experienced it.

I lived it.

Not only would I have been better,
I would have made your film better.

You gave up acting.

When I got the film financed,
I asked you to audition.

You said yes, but you were reluctant.
You have talent, but that's not enough.

It's not enough.
You have to want it, Marie.

- Trust me, Malcolm, I wanted this one.
- That's fuckin' bullshit.

You didn't try, and that's
the harsh reality of all of this.

That same instinct
that exists in Imani, in you,

that instinct to fucking self-sabotage,

that didn't go away.

- I didn't try because you didn't want me.
- Now you wanna play the victim.

Now you wanna say you felt like
I didn't want you so you didn't try.

You are fucking intolerable.

Fucking… You fake-ass,
fraudulent, thievin' fuckin' con man!

You didn't want me because if you did,
you would have to share the stage.

You wouldn't be
the sole author of this film.

It would have a lineage that extended
beyond you and your brilliance,

because people would ask me and I'd say,
"Yes, this shit happened to me."

Then all of a sudden everyone would go,
"Is it him or her that's talented?"

If that's what you have
to tell yourself, then be my guest.

It's about ownership.

It's about the illusion you wanna create

that filmmaking
isn't a collaborative effort.

It's you, and everybody else
is just following directions.

Because if it were me…

If it were authentic 'cause of me,
you couldn't swing your dick around!

That's why you didn't thank me tonight.

- That's also why you didn't cast me.
- Authenticity.

- Yeah. Mm-hmm.
- Ain't that the word of the day?

It's all I heard tonight.
"He's such an authentic filmmaker."

"The movie is authentic."
"He channeled his voice authentically."

- Know why people love that word?
- Why?

They don't know what makes something good.

I think authenticity is key.

Of course,
because that's all you have to offer.

- Anyone, all they have to say.
- It's all I have to offer.

The only word that people
that don't know shit about film

feels like they got something to offer…

No, I have nothing to offer.

They can't say anything about film,
but they love to talk about authenticity.

They don't know dick about film.

About fucking Citizen Kane
or Best Years of Our Lives...

No one fucking cares about that shit!

Authenticity. Oh, shit!
They know that shit through and through.

Authenticity does not matter,
your perspective doesn't...

You don't fucking have any!

Recreating reality
doesn't make something interesting.

It's about your interpretation
about reality.

- What you feel about reality.
- You're full of shit.

What you reveal about reality.

Perspective, your perspective.

Transcribing a conversation or holding
a camera up and pressing record,

that's a fucking YouTube video.

- That's a confession or memoir.
- Okay.

- We've seen and heard it a thousand times.
- All right.

Your experience, your life,
your fucking struggle, doesn't matter.

You've been an addict, boring!
You overdosing, not fucking interesting.

It's about transferring your emotions

and all those moments
into something cinematic and moving.

So, you know what? Good luck, Marie.

- I hate you!
- I hate you hate too!

- I hate you more!
- I hate you the most!

I fucking hate you!

Fuckin' asshole!

Fucking mental patient.

Marie, what are you doing?

Put the knife down please. Marie?

Do you remember
those antidepressants I was on?

I'm not on them anymore.

I'm not doing well.
I'm really, really not doing well.

I've never been clean.

And I don't plan on getting clean.

I'm a piece of shit.

I'm a liar.

I cheated on you.

I fucked your friends.

I fucked your friends.

God, I feel like I'm crazy.

I've stolen from your mother.

And you know what
the fucked up thing is?

I don't even care.

I don't mind.

Because I deserve it.

Tell me where the fucking pills are.

Tell me where the pills are.

Um…

And that, Malcolm,
is what authenticity buys you.

Well, damn!
Why didn't you do that in the audition?

You are, by far, the most excruciating,
difficult, stubbornly obnoxious woman

I've ever met in my entire life.

I go from wanting
to cut your head off one moment

to wanting to kiss your beautiful,
stupid little face the next.

I fucking love you.

I love you.

- Should we get married?
- Not in the mood.

I feel like we're gonna
get married and divorced

a couple times, might as well start now.

No.

- I'm so turned on right now.
- I'm not.

Fuckin' psychopath!

All this madness was about you,
and that scene,

sayin' to me
that you could do it better than Taylor

and seed doubt in my mind that,
for the rest of my life,

- the movie could've been better.
- Mm-mm.

- Yes. That's exactly what you doin'.
- Mm-mmm. No.

- That's bullshit.
- It's not!

Brilliant!

You know what's interesting
about the white girl from LA Times

calling out that scene in her review?

Marie, who cares?

I mean, I've always said,
it was my least favorite in the film.

But my favorite in the script.

Can we talk about this later, please?

- I think it's important, you know?
- I beg you.

To look back and wonder why that is.

- Don't you?
- No.

Not to strip you of your mystery,
you know, just out of curiosity.

Out of pursuit of wanting to be,
I don't know, a better fucking artist.

Oh. You are exhausting.

You gonna be this exhausting at 70
or will you have exhausted yourself?

That depends where you are.

Living with the white girl
from the LA Times

because at least I can
win an argument against her.

But, you know. It just made me wonder,
why did I see that scene so differently?

I don't know. How did you see the scene?

It was less graphic.

So what? He doesn't attack Imani?
That's what it was on the page.

No, he attacks her. I just never thought
that you'd shoot it with her top off.

- What's the difference?
- Her tits were out.

- So?
- So, I just feel like you sexualized her.

If I rolled a camera on you
right now, am I sexualizing you,

or is this what you have on,
on a Friday night?

My tits aren't out.

If you were in a Chuck E. Cheese,
they'd throw your ass out.

- It was Taylor's idea anyway.
- I'm sure it was.

Look, it just made
everything more graphic.

Okay? And I just thought…

Would the scene have been
a bit different if you were a woman?

Yes, but I also would have shot
the entire movie differently

because I wouldn't have been me,
I would've been a woman.

I would've had
a totally different sensibility.

But that's not how
you judge film intelligently,

by the 600 trillion different choices
not made due to an intangible

yet purely hypothetical
assessment of one's identity.

But rather the choices
actually being fucking made.

Look, I'm not defending her
as a great fuckin' thinker.

Good. 'Cause she's an idiot.

I'm just saying… would the movie
have been a little better

if you had a dash of femininity?

- Who gives a fuck?
- I do.

- Fuck.
- I do. I do.

I do, Malcolm,
because it just made me wonder

if the problem
she has with you as a filmmaker

is the same problem
I have with you as a partner.

Well…

All that being said and done,
Karen thinks I'm a fucking tour-de-force.

Now you like her review?

Fucking masterwork is
what you're looking at right now, girl.

You're joking, but I'm not.

That's unfortunate, because I really
can't keep arguing about this shit.

The more I think about it,
her problem is my problem.

- Which is what?
- That I'm with you. I haven't walked out.

I'm not wondering
what other movies are playing.

I got you. I'm on your side,
and then you just…

You gotta fucking take shit too far.

Come on.

No, we're in a fight,
maybe the worst fight we've ever been in,

but instead of just making your point
and saying it's not about you,

it's an amalgamation of people,

you gotta fucking revel in it.
You gotta twist the knife

and put images in my head that you and I
both know will never fucking leave me.

What?

- Kiki.
- Oh!

Kiki.

- I was angry. What the fuck!
- From outside of St. Louis.

- A heart-shaped bathtub?
- I was angry.

You're a cheeseball. Ugh! Malcolm!

Ew! Ew!

You're a fucking moron, honestly.
You could've won without all that shit.

You could've won
with 20% of what you said,

but you cannot help yourself.
It is just who you are.

'Cause if I were ever fucked
in a penthouse suite of a Marriott,

in or around a heart-shaped bathtub,

I would never fucking
utter a word about it aloud.

I would never tell my friends about it,

I would never wield it
in a fight as a weapon.

You know why?
Because I know it would hurt me

way more than it would hurt you.

And it's a bummer,
Malcolm, you know?

I really enjoyed having sex with you.
Up until about 15 minutes ago,

it was an aspect of our relationship
that I genuinely had no complaints about.

It was also my only remaining vice,
that and cigarettes.

But, well, lo and behold,
you had to take shit too far…

Come on.

And obliterate any and all joy
there was to be found in fucking you.

The gloves were off, okay?
We were in a fight, like…

Oh, it didn't support your argument.
It just grossed me the fuck out.

It made me go,
"I cannot believe I have unprotected sex

with this nasty-ass,
grimy-dicked fuckin' brute,

a fuckin' animal,
a fuckin' barnyard animal."

That's what you are. A fuckin' hog.

You are a shit-where-you-eat hog.
Hog of a human being.

Yeah, you fuckin' think it's funny.

- You're being dramatic.
- I'm not being dramatic.

You think 'cause we had a common enemy
in Karen from the LA Times,

all shit is sweet. We good now?

Think again, motherfucker. We ain't good.

She's my spiritual sister. I mean that.

We're both seeking refuge

from your assaultive,
battering ram of a fucking personality.

Because of your limitations
as a partner, and a filmmaker,

we are both ducking for cover.

We may not have a lot in common,
but sis and I are in the fucking foxhole.

Oh, you are
the last person to talk, Marie.

You have fucked,
dated some of the wildest,

strangest human beings
that ever walked this planet Earth.

You have, one, no fucking standards,
which is a red flag.

Two, no fucking type,
which is also a red flag.

And three, no discretion.

Which means everyone who knows you,
knows you're a red flag

and talks about you're a red fucking flag.

Well, Malcolm, here's the difference.

I'm not lugging my balls around this house
bragging about the places they've been.

I don't need to know the details.

I don't need to know all the…
the moves and the steps

and the places that brought you
to my doorstep. You're here.

I loved you unconditionally. Why?

Because I value mystery.

The unknown. It's what supports
the tension of a relationship

and forces us to be the best version
of ourselves. The what-if factor.

What if there's someone
who loved him better?

Who was smarter, nicer.

Woke him up every day
with breakfast and a blowjob.

What if I'm not
the best girlfriend he's ever had?

What if he dreams of someone else?

Better conversations,
a girl with hips and an actual ass

instead of this string bean body?

Look, I know a little bit about your type.

Not so much that I'm paralyzed
with insecurity and doubt.

So that every single day when I get up,

and I talk to you,
and I wear this fancy fuckin' dress,

and I hold your hand,

I'm trying to be the best girlfriend
you have ever had.

So, when you tell me
that who I'm up against is Kiki…

- Here we go with the bullshit. Here we go.
- …from St. Louis,

in a heart-shaped bathtub,
it makes me give a lot less of a fuck.

You gotta bring up all the shit.

I don't know where you're going,
but I'm not done.

I'm not even fucking close to being done.

But what it also makes me realize,
the reason you don't get jealous

is because you don't
value that mystery, do you?

The reason you don't value it,

the reason why you never wonder
if you're the best fuck I've ever had,

or the most talented person
I've ever been with,

or the kindest, or the smartest,

it's because it is inconceivable to you

that there is anybody on this planet
that is more interesting than you are.

Your lack of curiosity is merely
an extension of your narcissism,

your megalomania,
your egotistical view of the world.

As a result of never doubting yourself,

you never stopped to ask yourself,
"How can I be a better partner?"

You're good. You are set.

The man I'm looking at right now
is as good as he's gonna get.

You yelling at me in a bathtub

about how you're
gonna snap me like a twig,

is the best and worst of who
you will be in this relationship.

And that's why you can forget
to thank me in your speech.

Because you're not afraid that I'm gonna
come home and go…

"You know what? You lost me tonight.
Fuck this shit. I am out."

But if you steamroll every single person
in your midst, day in and day out,

you are going to end up living
in a fictional fucking reality.

Look at me.

I'm the last person standing.

I'm the last person to look at you and go,
"You know what? Up your fucking game."

"If not for me, then for your work."

Malcolm, if this is a movie,
you hold on to me for dear fucking life.

Because that's who
we've been for one another.

That's who you've been for me
and I've been for you from the day we met.

From the day I overdosed in that market,
from the day you drove me to rehab.

From the first day I read your script

about me, about us,
about our relationship.

About how drugs
were destroying my ability to love you

and your ability to love me.

All I wanted tonight
was a "thank you," Malcolm. That is it.

That's all.

"Thank you, Marie.
Thank you for loving me."

"Thank you for making my life better,
for getting your life together."

"Thank you for watching 100 cuts
and reading 100 fucking drafts."

"Thank you for your notes,
your experience, your patience,

your authen-fucking-ticity
you bring to this film. Thank you."

"Thank you for being a drug addict.
Thank you for being clean."

"Thank you for dumb shit,
like buying toilet paper and milk

and organizing
the shit with the movers. Thank you."

"Thank you for doing
the shit I don't wanna think about."

"Thank you for making me coffee.
Thank you for making me smile."

"Thank you for the good sex
and the cuddles."

"Thank you for doing the laundry
and picking out my suit tonight

and making my ungrateful ass
some mac and cheese

after I forgot to fuckin' thank you."

"Thank you for the mistakes you've made…

For the charm you bring,
the life you bring."

"Thank you for loving me."

"Thank you for getting over this,
for moving forward, for being you."

"Thank you for all the shit
I forget to thank you for…

And thank you for looking
so goddamn sexy in that dress tonight."

"You make me look good."

"You make me a better person."

"Thank you for understanding

that I'm not always great
at expressing how I feel

and it comes out in my work
more than in real life."

"Thank you because…

I know it doesn't always feel good,
so I hope you can live with that."

"Thank you."

"I know I'm emotionally obtuse sometimes,

but I'm grateful
you don't hold it against me."

"Thank you…

For assuming the best."

"I love you, Marie.
I'll always love you, my Marie."

"Thank you."

"From the bottom of my heart, thank you."

I love you, Marie.

I'm sorry.

Thank you.

You're welcome.

Marie?

Marie?

Marie!

Marie!