One Night (2012) - full transcript
Hounded by feelings of loneliness and failure, Sid Whilemson is at her breaking point. When she decides to treat herself to a night on the town, a one night stand isn't part of the game plan. Then she meets charming and philosophical bartender Max White. When she takes Max back to her place, they have an intense sexual experience and are surprised to uncover a remarkable connection between them. Now Sid and Max must decide if they are willing to risk exposing their secrets and painful pasts, to stop the downward spiral of their lives, and take one last chance on love.
(door unlocking)
(keys jingling)
(moaning)
(moaning)
(police siren wailing)
(moaning)
You want one?
No, thanks.
Bartender that neither
drinks nor smokes.
If I were in Vegas,
I'd have lost money.
Are you a betting
kind of girl?
Depends.
I guess I'm not
your average bear.
Sensed that about you.
How's that?
The way I poured
your Jack and coke?
No, when you referenced
Baudelaire.
Not only did you pick
one of my favorite poets,
but one of my favorite
poems as well.
That's when I knew
I was gonna fuck you.
Guess I'm not
your average bear either.
(door opening)
(sounds of traffic passing)
(toilet flushing)
(door opening)
You from here?
Born and raised
in beautiful Van Nuys.
You from L.A.?
No, Chicago.
What brings you out here?
Mm, let me guess.
Chicago, big theater town,
you work at a bar
in Los Angeles...
Actor.
No.
No?
No.
Hmm.
I'd have bet the farm
on that one.
So you are
a betting kind of girl.
Depends.
What do you do?
I work in the corporate world.
Sales.
What company?
Starbucks.
What, are you in corporate
headquarters or something?
No, I work at the Starbucks
on Beverly and Detroit.
Prefer to do my selling
one person at a time.
Come in sometime,
I'll buy you a latte.
Is that what you do?
What do you mean?
Well, is that it, or are you
trying to do something else?
Everyone out here seems to be
trying to do something
other than what
they're actually doing.
No.
I'm just a girl
who works at Starbucks.
I didn't mean for it
to come off like that.
Not at all.
What about you?
Is it your life's passion
to sling drinks
at some shithole in Venice?
Oh, God, yes.
Oh, I honed that dream down
with my high school counselor.
We spent hours upon hours
talking about how to achieve
my impossible dream,
and...now I've done it.
I'm gonna go out on a limb here
and I'm gonna guess
that besides being
an awesome seller of coffee,
you like to read.
How did you know that?
You just have some...
psychic, creepy superpower.
When'd you start?
My mom used to say that...
when I was born,
I asked the doctor
for just one more day
to read "The Stranger."
She still live out here?
No.
She passed away
a few years ago.
I'm sorry.
Life.
It's bound to kill you
sooner or later.
The apartment's great.
I love old buildings.
Hardwood.
Old, yes.
Great, no.
Where do you live?
Hollywood.
One of those monstrosities
with 40 units.
Keep telling myself
I'm gonna move,
but I never get around to it.
They say it's one
of the top three
most stressful things in life.
-What, moving?
-Yeah.
You know what the number one
fear is of most people?
Clowns.
Public speaking.
Which is psychotic
when you think about it.
We're more afraid of looking
stupid in front of each other
than we are of dying?
I guess we all feel
like we're frauds
and we'll be found out.
Frauds?
Yeah.
What I mean is, I guess...
we're all afraid,
and we're walking around
trying to convince ourselves
and each other that we're not.
On some fundamental level,
we know this.
"How are you today?"
"Good, you?"
"Oh, great."
When what's really happening
is my company's cutting back
and I'm terrified
I might lose my job.
We can't tell each other
that, right?
We can't be honest, God forbid.
I guess we all believe
that we're the only ones
that feel that way,
so we spend our lives
pretending that
everything's okay.
Now you want me to speak
in front of a bunch of people,
and the terror that
somehow I'll be found out,
be exposed, suddenly just
slams me in the face,
you know, it overwhelms me.
People can be cruel.
I can understand
not wanting to put ourselves
at the mercy
of a bunch of retards.
To expose ourselves
just so others
can criticize us
and tear us down?
I do, too.
But at some point,
you have to ask yourself,
"Then what's the fuckin' point?"
I'm afraid to be who I am,
and I can't walk around
hiding like everyone else.
Where does that leave me?
You want a drink?
I don't drink.
Right.
A bartender who neither
drinks nor smokes.
Water?
Sure.
(cabinet door opening)
(glass rattling)
(faucet pouring)
You're very free with your body.
Am I?
Yeah.
Most women are
so self-conscious.
What you see is what you get.
I like it.
(truck beeping)
Do you do this a lot?
What?
This.
Fuck random girls from the bar.
No, not really.
No, huh?
No.
What about you?
You typically walk into a bar,
seduce a bartender,
then bring 'em back here
and fuck them?
Yes.
-What is this?
-What's what?
Where is this coming from?
I thought we were having
a good time here.
We are.
I just want to be clear.
Clear about what?
About what this is.
-I'm clear.
-Are you?
Yes.
Good.
'Cause I don't want
any complications.
Neither do I.
So we're on the same page.
Yes.
Good.
(dog barking)
(panting)
(heavy breathing)
(panting)
(sounds of traffic passing)
(cigarette case closing)
(lighter clicking)
Sure do like to smoke, huh?
I adore it.
Well, if it makes you happy.
It can't be that bad.
You like Sheryl Crow?
She rocks.
"Tuesday Night Music Club"
is one of my favorite albums.
Second only to
"August and Everything After."
Counting Crows are
quite possibly my favorite.
True poets.
That they are.
Two Crows.
Interesting.
In mythology,
the crow is meant to be a guide.
It's God's messenger
leading people to good.
I don't believe in God.
Me neither.
Well, not in a religious one,
at least.
So you believe in a god?
I think there's
a universal intelligence.
I mean, there's so much precise
and immutable law
in the universe,
it's hard for me to believe
that something hasn't had
a hand in its creation.
Sixty-five million years ago,
a rock from outer space
smashed into the rock
we currently live on
and annihilated
most of its species.
What is so precise about that?
It's all just random.
There's no method
or conscious choice.
People's lives
mostly happen to them.
There's no guiding force
other than the decisions we make
and there are certainly
no assurances in that.
It's a crapshoot at best.
People have horrible shit
happen to them all the time
in spite of living right.
You do everything right,
do all the right things,
work really hard,
and still never get
what you want.
Where the fuck is God in that?
What about just being born?
Abuse, poverty, birth defects.
Out of the gate, you're screwed.
Where's the divine planning
in that?
Are you saying God
does this on purpose?
Any way you slice that pie,
I don't want a piece,
fuck you very much.
I'll stick with the Jell-O.
It's not as tasty,
but it goes down
a lot fucking smoother.
Jell-O?
Look, I'm not saying
I don't question those things.
I do.
Pisses me off, too.
I had a friend once who got
really sick outta nowhere.
Couldn't figure out what it was.
Was in the hospital,
in and out of consciousness,
for over a week.
I was visiting her.
She was sleeping,
and I'm sitting there
looking at her,
and I'm telling God
to go fuck Himself in my head.
I mean, I'm literally
cursing God out,
calling Him
every name in the book.
You know,
cocksucker, cunt, whore.
I mean, I was furious
that this was happening to her.
And all that resentment,
all that rage,
it finally bottlenecked on me
and I started crying.
I mean, sobbing.
And I'm trying to be quiet
so I won't wake her...
and my...chest burns,
my throat aches,
my eyes are slits,
and this whole time,
I'm calling God a motherfucker.
I'm muttering it just under
my breath over and over.
Just, "Motherfucker,
motherfucker, motherfucker."
I mean, it's almost like
a Buddhist chant at this point.
Just, "Motherfucker,
motherfucker, motherfucker."
And I suddenly feel something.
You know that feeling you have
when someone's staring at you?
Only it was times ten.
I looked down,
and she's staring up at me.
And she's looking
at me in a way...
I don't think
I could articulate, it's...
her, but it's not her.
It's like...
the purest her.
Like if her soul
suddenly grew eyes.
She says,
"Energy can be neither
created nor destroyed,
just transferred.
This is law.
It is infinite intelligence's
way of proving we are eternal."
And in that moment,
I believed it.
She was so clear.
It was so true in her
that it made it undeniable.
In that moment, I knew something
bigger than me existed,
was real.
That's a beautiful idea,
but I bet most of the time,
you don't believe that.
I lose touch with it
all the time, but...
isn't that the nature
of faith or belief?
It doesn't mean that
I'm not gonna get afraid
or lost or confused, it just
means at the end of the day,
you have that faith
to go back to.
That knowing
that no matter what,
no matter how fucked up
everything seems to be,
things are really okay.
Can you honestly tell me
that most of the time,
you know everything is okay?
Me neither.
What happened to her?
She died.
So you believe in nothing?
I believe that if I want
something to change,
I better get off my ass
and do something.
At least try.
All by yourself?
All by my lonesome.
It's a delusion to think
that we're not alone
and on our own.
There's a limit to what people
are willing to do for you.
They've got their own lives
to untangle.
They can't neglect their own
life to help you better yours.
It's insane to think that.
Do you have any friends?
I have friends, yes.
If you don't believe people
can help each other, why bother?
Or for that matter,
are you even really friends?
Friends rely on each other.
Doesn't sound like you're
capable of having friends,
not really.
Fuck you.
Oh, I'm sorry, I guess
I should just sit here
and keep my mouth shut
and agree with everything
you have to say.
Fuck you!
You're a brat,
you know that?
-Am I?
-Yeah.
You have a real meanness in you.
It's fine if we don't agree
on some things,
but you don't have to be
a bitch about it.
Get the fuck out of my house!
It's fine if we don't agree.
I just don't want you
to be mean to me.
I don't think that's too much
for one fucking person
to ask from another.
Life's hard enough as it is
without people needlessly
making it fuckin' harder.
I mean, is it impossible
for two grown adults
to have a meaningful
conversation
without someone
fucking getting hurt?
What's so difficult about that?
Two people, just expressing
a little bit of truth
with each other
without blood ending up
on the fuckin' walls.
Is that too much
to fucking ask?
(sighs)
I didn't mean to raise
my voice. I'm sorry.
It's okay.
I understand.
I actually had
a really good time with you.
I think you're really
interesting, different.
I like that.
Thank you for having me over.
I'm sorry.
It's okay.
See you at the bar, I guess.
Yeah, sure.
Stay.
Please.
(footsteps approaching)
Do you cook?
Mmm.
Yummy.
Yeah. Scrambled eggs,
dry toast, and tap water.
Breakfast of champions.
Still, I love breakfast.
There's something
hopeful about it.
You know, start of a new day,
nothing horrible
has occurred yet.
A man sits over his eggs
and there's a sense of
possibility in the air.
Maybe today will be
"the day," you know?
-"The day"?
-Yeah.
Maybe today will be
the day that x happens.
For example...
maybe today's the day
I win the lottery.
Maybe today's the day
I get that big promotion
I've been pining for.
Maybe today's the day
I use that ab cruncher
I bought three months ago.
Maybe today's the day
I don't want to claw
my eyes out of my head
every time someone asks
for a vanilla latte.
Well, yes.
Not quite as filled with hope,
but that's the general idea.
Here's to hopin'.
Actually,
breakfast kinda reminds me
of my mother.
Every morning I would...
wake up and go into the kitchen,
and there would be nothing.
My mom usually wouldn't be home.
Not because she was
an early riser
and had to get off to work,
but because she was sleeping
at her
boyfriend-of-the-week's place.
My mom loved the boys,
all right.
So I would...scavenge around
and...eat whatever we had.
One week I ate a can
of peas every day.
Breakfast of champions.
What about you?
I bet you...woke up
to your mom singing
in the kitchen
while she cooked you
pancakes and bacon
and squeezed
the orange juice herself.
Not quite.
But close, though,
only it was my dad,
and he did cook,
thank you very much.
It was my favorite part
of the day.
My dad cookin',
crackin' jokes,
bein' silly.
He always seemed so happy
in the morning.
Where was your mom?
She died when I was six.
I'm sorry.
How?
I'm sorry.
I'm just curious.
You don't have to talk about it
if you don't want to.
My mom was a drunk.
Apparently she'd go
on these benders
for two or three days
at a time, just disappear.
On one of 'em,
she met a man at a bar,
and they decided
to go back to his place.
On the way there, my mother...
she opened the passenger-side
door and just stepped out.
When I was 18,
my father sat me down
and told me all about it.
Said I had a right
to know who she was.
The longer he talked about her,
the more obvious it became
that he still loved her.
In spite of everything
that happened,
he still loved her.
Crazy.
Love isn't logical.
No.
No, I guess it isn't.
Where's your dad?
Is he still in Chicago?
No.
He died about 14 years ago.
Lung cancer.
Jesus Christ.
Life.
Bound to kill you
sooner or later.
(cigarette case closing)
(lighter clicking)
I lied to you before.
My mom's still alive.
She's still in Van Nuys,
but I haven't spoken
to her in years.
She calls from time to time,
tells me how much
she loves me and misses me.
Anyway...
I just thought you should know.
Thank you.
(fork clanks on plate)
(plate thunks on floor)
(heavy breathing)
(heavy breathing)
(moaning)
(groaning)
Come in me.
(panting)
(moaning)
(groaning)
(moaning)
(whimpering)
(panting)
(tearful sniffle)
(door opens, closes forcefully)
(lighter clicks)
Sorry about that.
You have absolutely nothing
to be sorry about.
I haven't cried in...
Jesus, I don't know how long.
All that talk about the past,
I guess.
We barely know each other,
and here I am,
sobbing in your arms.
You probably think
I'm some psycho girl
who's completely unstable.
Well, I thought that
long before you cried.
(Sid chuckles sardonically)
Crying is good.
Oh yeah, Dr. Phil?
When's the last time you cried?
I don't know.
Sure you do, come on.
I don't know, really.
Really?
I just cried
like a fucking six-year-old
and you can't at least tell me
the last time you cried?
Fine.
It was after my wife left me.
You're married?
No.
I was married,
now I'm divorced.
How long?
How long was I married or
how long have I been divorced?
Both.
We've been divorced
for over two years.
Kids?
No.
No kids,
she didn't want them.
At least not with me.
Well, what happened?
Why am I always
fuckin' talkin' about myself?
Why am I always telling you
my dirty little secrets?
How 'bout you tell me something?
Tell me something you never
told someone else before,
how's that?
Something you swore
you'd take to the grave.
I don't have anything like that.
Bullshit.
-Bullshit?
-Yeah.
I'm sure you have
at least two of 'em--
fuck, probably more.
What makes you think that?
'Cause at the end
of the day, Sid,
I get the sneaking suspicion
that you and me
aren't all that different.
I tell you one,
you tell me about your wife.
Ex-wife.
Fine.
Ex-wife. Deal?
Deal.
And you better not
try and bullshit me.
I'll know if you're lying.
I'm not a fucking liar.
Fine, go ahead.
Fine, don't rush me.
-Fine.
-Fine!
(Sid groans)
My dad used to walk me
to school every morning.
And one day, instead of being
woken by the sound of his voice,
I woke to an empty house.
I cried all the way to school,
and I sat there
terrified all day
something had happened to him.
Heh.
I was too afraid
to tell anyone,
'cause for some
fucked-up reason,
I got it in my head
that they would blame me,
that it was somehow my fault.
And I ran,
I ran home after school--
I mean, I fucking sprinted.
I sat on the couch
and I stared at the front door,
hoping he would walk through it,
praying he would walk
through the door
and say, "I'm so sorry,
Beautiful.
I'm so sorry I didn't get
to walk you to school today.
I got called away."
I sat there
until 12:30 at night
when my mom finally stumbled in.
She was usually home by six,
but apparently, she'd gone out
drowning her sorrows
with the girls from work
and looking
for my dad's replacement.
Obviously, I knew none of this
at the time.
I started crying.
Saying, "Daddy's missing!"
And, uh, she looked at me
and simply said,
"Daddy's gone.
He left."
When I finally asked her
if he was ever coming back,
she just looked at me
and shrugged.
So I took that as a maybe.
And every day
for the next two years,
I sat at the window
with a pair of old binoculars
my father had left behind
and I scoured every face
that walked by,
and I looked
into every car that passed,
and I looked as far
as my eyes could see,
searching for him.
Looking to see
if I could find my daddy.
Of course, as you can imagine,
I never did.
There it is.
There's my big, dirty secret
I never told anyone.
Happy?
No.
-Did you ever see him again?
-Nope.
I'm sorry.
Your turn.
Tell me about the missus.
We met three years ago.
Where?
Jesus, what difference
does it make?
Deal's a deal, motherfucker.
I stuck to my end,
now pony up.
We met during rehearsal
for a play.
I lied to you too,
I am an actor.
I knew it.
Why lie?
Because it opens up
the same line of questioning.
"Oh, you're an actor--
have you done anything
I would have seen you in?"
Which is the stupidest
fuckin' question in the world,
because how the fuck do I know
what you've seen?
Then I have to face the truth
that I've been out here
for ten years,
I haven't really done anything.
No TV, no big films, just...
theater, some non-union films,
and lots and lots
of shitty student films.
-So what's wrong with that?
-Because it disgusts me.
I'm disgusted by that, okay?
I'm embarrassed
and ashamed by it, all right?
All right!
So to get back to your question,
we met three years ago
and got married.
For how long?
Eleven months.
Whoa.
-You really stuck it out.
-Hey.
Hey, just 'cause
your dad left you,
don't go fuckin' assumin'
I ran away, okay,
because I didn't!
-She left me, all right?
-All right!
-She left me.
-All right!
She left me!
Okay!
I can't do this, I'm sorry.
What's "this"?
We're just talking.
Yeah, sure.
Oh, I see.
You mean that somewhere
deep down inside,
little old Sid
is just some needy bitch
who wants you
to be her boyfriend.
Look.
I like you.
I really do.
But I just can't be
in something right now.
I just don't want to.
Well, who the fuck
asked you to,
you presumptuous fuck?
I don't want
anything more from you
than a couple of orgasms.
What makes you think
I wanna be with some
40-year-old
fucking bartender anyway?
Don't. Don't be fucking mean.
You know what I think?
I think I was right before.
I think you should go.
Yeah, sure.
That was shitty of me,
I'm sorry.
No biggie.
Yeah, well, I'm sorry.
I think you're great, really.
Most people, 20 minutes in,
I wanna set myself on fire.
You're different.
Glad to hear it. Get out.
No.
I'm sorry?
No, I think I'm gonna stay.
It's really not your fucking
decision to make, now is it?
Get. Out.
Nope.
(clunking shoes off)
Wow.
You are precious.
One minute you're telling me
you don't want
anything to do with me,
and the next,
you're refusing
to leave my house?
That's a very
glass-is-half empty kinda way
of looking at it,
don't you think?
You wanna know what I think?
I'm sure in the next 20 seconds,
I'll have an idea.
I think you have
exactly ten seconds
to put those shoes back on
and get the fuck outta my house
before something bad
happens to you.
Can we just go back
to the part where
all you want from me
are some orgasms?
Because I'm really starting
(inaudible).
Okay, sport, out!
Whoa!
I'm sorry about earlier, I am.
I'm sure you are,
but I'm through with you,
-so out you go.
-Fine.
But look, I didn't mean
what I said, I was upset.
I'm serious,
I'm done with you.
What the fuck, Sid? Come on.
I'm done--me, not you, me!
Fuck!
What the fuck
is wrong with you, huh?
(screams)
Fuck.
(Max cries)
(sounds of passing traffic)
(chair scrapes floor)
You don't have to go
if you don't want to.
(Max laughs ruefully)
I lied to you before
when I told you
I just worked at Starbucks.
I write.
I wanna be a writer.
I don't know why
I'm telling you now.
I guess I thought
you should know.
Why'd you lie?
Same as you.
In all these years,
I've never published
a single thing.
Not one word.
I'm sorry.
I know what that's like.
I'm sorry I freaked out on you.
I didn't mean to hit you.
It's okay.
Stay?
On one condition.
(insects chirring)
(sounds of traffic passing)
It's great.
You don't have to say that.
I'm serious, it's great.
You're a great writer.
Have you submitted it anywhere?
No.
Are you crazy? Why not?
I just can't take another no.
I can't.
-What are you doing?
-Shh!
What's your last name?
-Why?
-Because.
What are you doing?
What's your last name?
-Lemme see.
-No.
Last name, please.
-Do I have to get my bat again?
-If you want,
but it's not gonna stop me.
I'm submitting this
to The New Yorker.
No. Come on!
No, Sid, I'm submitting this.
All right,
this needs to be seen,
other people have
the right to see this.
And when they say no?
Or worse, I hear
absolutely nothing,
what then?
Then we try somewhere else.
"We"?
Yes, we.
I've officially made myself
your agent.
Hey, pal.
Based on what you told me
about your career,
that's like winning
a bag of shit.
That's nice,
that's very nice language.
Thank you.
You know the difference
between you and me?
A vagina?
Yeah...and I haven't given up.
Whilemson.
Spell, please.
W-H-I-L-E-M-S-O-N.
Is Sid short for Sidney?
Siddhartha.
My dad loved books too.
It's a beautiful name.
Thank you.
Email?
Congratulations.
You've just submitted
your short story
to The New Yorker.
Thank you.
You know what's so funny?
When I first started writing,
I was ecstatic about all of it.
The research,
the rewriting,
the long hours,
the confusion.
The times when the characters
started saying things
you never anticipated.
I loved it all.
I even loved the submitting.
The rejection didn't matter,
because I was doing
what I loved to do.
I was doing what I knew
in my heart was right.
I just knew I would win out.
I knew I would publish.
The idea of not
making my living as a writer,
of not getting to share
my stories with the world?
It was ludicrous.
Now...
...four novels,
sixty-two short stories,
two screenplays,
and notebook upon notebook
of poetry later...
the idea of writing...
just the idea of it,
hurts.
Have you ever been to a psychic?
A psychic?
Yeah.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I went to one once,
she totally helped.
-Did she, now?
-Yeah.
It was kinda crazy, creepy,
you know, the way
she was starin' at me,
you know, the intensity of
her eyes, it was unsettling.
Yeah?
Did she tell you you were
gonna be rich and famous
and then rape you
for a hundred bucks?
No, not even close.
She's staring at me
and she finally says,
"You were a dog in a past life."
Seriously, and I say, "Okay,"
and she goes,
"You were hit by a car
and you broke your collarbone."
-Dogs have collarbones?
-Apparently.
And then she says,
"You still have scar tissue
and calcium deposits on it,
to this day."
And you know what?
She was right, I do.
Get the fuck outta here.
Seriously--here.
Look.
(Max snarls like a dog)
(Sid groans)
Cocksucker!
Cocker Spaniel, actually.
(laughing)
(birdsong)
The sun's coming up.
I wanna see you again.
Do you?
Yes.
Why?
Because I like you.
I like you a lot, Siddhartha.
And so we see each other again,
then what?
I don't know.
What?
We start dating?
Are we gonna date?
Maybe, yeah.
What's wrong with that?
I thought you said
you didn't wanna be
in anything right now.
Isn't that what you said?
I changed my mind.
Oh, and how do I know
a few weeks from now
you won't change
your mind again?
How do I know that?
I guess you don't.
Exactly.
Exactly.
I've never felt this way before.
What way?
I've never felt the way
I feel about you before.
I've never just met someone
and felt so drawn, so connected.
If you don't feel the same way,
I understand.
I mean, it's okay, maybe
I'm off base or something.
No.
I feel the same way.
Then this is rare, right?
This is something we shouldn't
just shut the door on,
should we?
What if we're wrong?
What if our feelings are wrong,
or worse, temporary?
Huh? What then?
I don't know, Sid.
I wanna try.
Sid.
I thought you were
a betting kind of girl.
Depends.
Okay.
*