Sang yan mat gan ji che dut (2000) - full transcript

So, Hank.
- Meredith.

You're a writer.
- A great writer.

You know what the worst
thing is? You're not writing.

Are you familiar with Hell-A Magazine?
- Hell, no.

They would like
you to blog for them.

Do you have a gun?

You're out there sticking your dick
in anything that moves.

My name is Hank.
- I know.

Who did she go with?
- Bill's daughter.

I didn't know he had one.

How old is she?
- 16.

This is Mia, Bill's daughter.

And this is Hank.

You two know each other?
- No.

I need you, baby.
- No.

Hank, I'm getting married.

Don't marry him. Marry me.

I hate you.

What are you thinking about?

I'm thinking about how much
I absolutely fucking loathe this city.

Just as I was thinking about
how much I absolutely love it.

Meanwhile, I haven't written
a goddamn word since we got here.

You need to relax.

I just miss New York, honey.

You know, and I miss you,
because you're still there,

in that big, thick head of yours.

Come back to us, Hank.

Your girls miss you.

Who are you talking to?


Professional hazard.
- What do you do?

I'm a writer.

Non practicing.

I've got something you could read.

I think you have potential.

- Bob.

- Really?

Becca doesn't want to see you.
- You looking for a cock punch?

Let me talk to her.
- Trust me, as the father

of a teenage daughter,

just give her some space.
She'll come around.

You know something, Bill, is it?
- Yep. Still Bill.

Well, I appreciate the
parenting advice, but maybe,

just maybe, giving them too
much space is not such a good idea.

Maybe too much space is
actually the root of the problem.

Hank, please...
My daughter is 16,

and she's an angel.
Clearly I'm doing something right.

You poor bastard.
- Excuse me?

Homo says what?
- What?


What the fuck is that?

You like it? I
could've bought a car instead.

I think you should still buy the car

and then run over
whoever created that turd.

Everything okay here, boys?

It's all good.
- It's all good?

That's kind of a hip lingo.

"It's all good.

"It's all good."

Yeah, that's what
they say, the kids.

I still hate you.


But I do want
to see your movie.

It's my book.
It's not my movie.

Not my problem.

I like your movie.

How is that even
possible, honey?

Because it proves you're not
the asshole they say you are.

Cursing will cost you.

Now who says I'm an asshole?

Can we swap nights this weekend?

We're having some
people over on Saturday,

and I want Becca to be there.

Uncle Charlie and aunt Marcy.
- Thank you, sweetie.

Dad should come.
- They're his friends, too.

And uncle Charlie's his agent.
Maybe he has an offer for him.

You're welcome
to come, Hank.

Absolutely. Bring a date.

Ear buds.

First of all,

you could not handle me hitting it off
with somebody right in front of you.

You're right. It
could be very painful.

But I think I'll get through it.
- Okay, so I take this

to mean the answer is no,
you're not going to marry me.

Hank, I'm standing right here.

Did you ever stop and
think that it might be nice

for Becca to see us all
get along for a change?

Yes, and it might be nice

if I could fellate myself
while farting the white album,

but I haven't been able
to quite master that yet.

- Is he coming?


What can I bring, Bob? Bill.

Whatever the fuck;

that's not a "fuck," Becca.

Your assistant makes me want
to touch myself in a bad place.

That's nice. My assistant
makes me want to hang myself.

While masturbating?

Are you retarded or something?

Funky back tat on the small of
the back. You know what that means.

She likes it in the pooper.


I have no idea. I just wanted
to say "pooper". I?ve found

that the back tat is a watermark
of the promiscuous, though.

Still, she's the world's
worst assistant.

She drops calls,
she loses manuscripts,

she can't even get
my fucking macchiato right.

But she does seem
to have a nipple ring.

Quite possibly two. There is something
very cool going on in that area.

Enough about my assistant's nipples.
You want to talk some business?

How's the new book coming?
- Now, that's a hostile question.

You have owed your publisher
a book since Becca was breast-feeding.

I remember because I used to like
to watch Karen do that.

Kiss my black ass.

You need a fucking job.

What? Okay. What do you got?


You hear that?
- What?

That's the sound of my phone
not ringing for you.

You have burned every bridge

I built for you
with my bare hands.

Except, of course Hell-A Magazine.
- No, don't say it....

They want you to blog for them.
Just take the fucking meeting already!

Let's ask Dani California.

Hell-A Magazine. Thoughts?

You'd be perfect for them.

Nipple ring? Two?

Anywhere else?

She's got a nose ring, too.

You know what that means.
- She likes it in the nose?

That is sick.

Look around. L.A. needs you.

Now more than ever.

Your voice is a shotgun blast
to all the pretentious fucks

who pollute this
once-great city of yours.

Just so you know, it's
not and never will be my city.

Use the blog, Hank.

Channel your rage.

You're a dying breed.
You're a real writer, a real man.

You've got heart,
balls, and swagger.

Either way.

Come over to the
dark side, Hank.

Join us at
Hell-A Magazine.

I appreciate the
enthusiasm. I do.

But I don't have much to say.
- Think about it.

Where you going? I
thought I was the real deal.

It's a shame I'm
in a relationship.

Write me something, Hank.

Good night.
- Good night.

The airplane.

So, what do you think?
- Very little of substance.

My tits.


They seem pretty
fucking groovy to me.

Think they're too small?
- Too small for what?

I want to make them bigger.

They're absolutely almost perfect,
in every conceivable titty way.

What about my lips?

Highly kissable.

Not those lips.


What about them?

Do you think they're too floppy?

- Floppy?

I think of getting them fixed.

Vaginal rejuvenation.
You heard about it?

Get them trimmed up a little.

That way they don't look like
day-old deli meat.

I think I just lost my manhood.
And got hungry at the same time.

I can help you find that.

You can try.

Hey, this is you.
- I thought you recognized me.

I'm not a big
porn guy, actually.

And who might that be?

My daughter.

Do you need to
go... see to her?

It's okay. She'll quiet down.
Don't worry about it.

Go be with your daughter.

I'm gonna have to confiscate
this thing for further study.

Piece of shit!

Hell-A Magazine blog number one.

Hank hates you all.

A few things I've
learned in my travels

through this crazy
little thing called life.

One: a morning of awkwardness is
far better than a night of loneliness.

Two: I probably
won't go down in history,

but I will go
down on your sister.

And three:
while I'm down there,

it might be nice
to see a hint of pubis.

I'm not talking about
a huge'70s playboy bush or anything,

just something that reminds me

that I'm performing
cunnilingus on an adult.

But I guess the
larger question is,

why is the city
of angels so hell-bent

on destroying
its female population?

Jesus H. Christ.


Just little old me.

Are you okay?

You look a little pale.

Are you gonna
have a heart attack?

You are getting on in years.

Just because I'm older than you
doesn't necessarily make me old.

Well, I am 16, you know.

So I've been told.
- What's the word for that again?

It's statutory rape.

That's two words.

Hi, daddy.

Honey, put some clothes
on, okay? We have company.

I'm sure it's nothing
he hasn't seen before.

Thanks for coming.
- Thanks for having me.

It's my pleasure.

The pleasure is all mine.

I think this is...

an important first step
we're taking here.

Really? What step is that?

The one where I
sit back and watch

as you try to steal my family
out from under me?

It's not gonna happen.

Game on, broheme.

Hey. You didn't
have to do that.

Well, I didn't. It's for me.

Sorry about that.

Hank, Sonja.

Sonja, Hank.
- Hi.

Uh, I love your writing.

And I love you.

I read your adaptation way back
when Soderbergh was gonna do it.

I fucking loved it.
- Hey, my salad days.

You and I are gonna
get along just fine.

I'm sorry. Honey?

Can I borrow the missus for a moment?
- Yeah.

Can I talk to you?

What the fuck
are you doing?

What do you mean?

You're trying to set me up
with this woman.

I thought it'd be nice for you to have
a play date with someone your own age.

And if we get
along swimmingly?


I had to leave
you, remember?

I'm not holding a torch here.

And you need to get on
with your life.

And you need to get in touch
with your emotions, woman.

He says he's not used to dating.

Nobody likes you.

You're ugly and your
mother dresses you funny.

Now smile, you
fucking douche.


- Yes.

Can I get a dog?
- Absolutely.

Yes. As long as it poops here.

We'll talk about it.

I'm sorry, Hank.

My apologies.
- That's fine, Bill.

She's very sweet.

Well, I'd like
to propose a toast.

To friends...


a new beginning...

And a happy ending!

Well said, honey.

I'll drink to that.
- Cheers, cheers!

So, how did you and Bill meet?

I don't think this is
the right setting for that...

I think this is the
perfect setting for that story.

Bill hired Karen to redo
his place...
This place.

And along the way, they talked
Zen and the art of the mid-life crisis

and... eventually

fell head over
heels in love.

In Karen's case,
heels over head.

And Bill got another trophy
for his mantel, and...

Karen got to move into
her own Barbie dream house.

Talk about being the architect
of your very own...

Happy ending!

Got it.
- That's a bit of an oversimplification.

But I'm not surprised.
- Floor is all yours, Bill.

I'll pass.
- That doesn't surprise me.

How did you and Karen meet?

Some other time, sweetie.
- Mia, I don't think...

What? I'm curious.
Come on!

Karen's not a big fan
of memory lane.

I'll tell it.
- Rebecca.

Mom was going to art school and playing
bass in this downtown noise band.

Dad had just published his first novel.

They met cute at...
What was it called again?

- Right.

He thought she
was pretentious,

and she thought he was way
too pleased with himself.

But they had sex anyway.

In the morning,
he made her breakfast,

and she talked about her plan
to move to Seattle

so she could stalk and marry...

Chris Cornell.


But then she read dad's writing.

And that was it.

Nine months later, I was born.

They never got
married, of course.

But they stayed
together a long time.

A lot longer than most people do.

Oh, my boyfriend's here.
I got to go. Bye, daddy.

Good night!

Bye, honey. So long.
- I wish I could tell

an interesting
story about me and my ex,

but it's really just
L.A. clich? number 4b.

He was sleeping
with his assistant.

Oh, shit. That happens.

His name was Ted.
- Your husband?

His assistant.

Could be worse.
- Really? How so?

Well, instead of finding out
that your husband was gay,

you could've found out
that he was a...

scientologist or
something like that.

I'm a scientologist, Hank.

Or a Nazi.

Or Al Qaeda.

Keep trying.
- See, this is what I love

about L.A. is the diversity.
- My bet you do.

The Eagles!

Eagles of Death Metal.

Cool. Right on.

I liked having
you here tonight.

Well, I liked
being here tonight.


Oh, it's a pleasure
doing business with you.

I hate to burst your
bubble, sweetie, but...

that movie has nothing to do
with your old man.

Of course it does. Your novel,
while very much
an exercise in nihilism,

is firmly rooted in romanticism.

You read the novel?

Jesus fuck.

You shouldn't take
the Lord's name in vain.

Where'd you get that old chestnut?
- Bill.

I was wearing my
Cradle of Filth t-shirt.

The one with "Jesus
was a C-word" on the back.

That's my girl.

But I do pray sometimes.

Sort of.

What do you pray for?

That you and mom work out your shit
and we move back to New York.

No, honey. You don't owe me
anything for that one.


Are you okay?

But I'm working on it.

Can I get a dog?

Oh, you're good.

You're good.


Hey, look, I'm
sorry about before...

What I said. I don't know what the fuck
I'm talking about half the time.

Ask anybody. They'll tell you.
- No worries. No worries.

You want to...
You want to get fucked up?

Why are you so smiley?

There's nothing quite like
getting stoned on the very bed

that your ex-domestic partner
shares with her fianc??

It's the little things.

Could you do me a favor?


Tell me what you think.


Yeah. Honestly.

I'm, forty-something years old.

I don't have time to play games.
I need to know the truth.

Your breasts are obviously real.

And, um, you have...

an abundance of pubic hair,

which is really nice.

And, um...

there's no evidence
of vaginal rejuvenation.

I'd say aside from the fact
that you worship a space alien,

you just might be the most beautiful
woman I've seen in a long long time...

Thank you.

It's my pleasure.

Would you do mean other favor?

Would you fuck me?

My husband recently left me
for a guy named Ted,

and right now all I wanna do
is get fucked stupid

by a guy who actually likes women.

If that's okay with you.

I'd be lying if I said
I never wondered

what it might be like
to violate a scientologist.

You must be looking like
Art Garfunkel down there lately.

Oh, my god. You're obsessed.

You haven't been in
for a wax in months.

So either you're taking
your lady business elsewhere

or you're sporting
a ginormous hippie bush.

You know what? I hate that shit.
I just came to keep you in business.

And I just want you to
be happy and hair-free.

Well, I am happy.

Thank you very much.

Are you sure you're not making

a deal with the devil
that your ass can't cash?

What does that even mean?



Are you totally serious
about marrying this guy?

Yes. Why?

I love him. He loves me.

He's great with Becca.

I mean, what else is there?

What about Hank?

What about him?

He loves you. He's
trying to get his shit together.

He has been trying
to get his shit together

since the day
we first met.

And the sex with Bill?
Is it good?

Yeah. It's different, you know?

Come on.

I want to show you my house.

Oh, my God.

My house is my art.

I don't think Tom and Katie would
approve of what we're doing right now.

Oh, God. Shut up
and fuck me already.

Are you clear yet?

Shut up and fuck me.

You are one kinky thetan.

Are you okay?


Oh, god.

My painting.
- It's all good.

We got it under control.

It's all good.

Okay. We're so high!

I don't know what happened.

You look like ass.

Did we just have sex?

What do you want from me?

Isn't it obvious?

What happened the other night
will never, ever happen again.

And why is that?

Because it's sick and wrong.

Well, maybe I'm in
the minority here,

but I just don't think
there's anything sick

and wrong about a little fucking
and punching between consenting adults.

You're not an
adult, for one.

You dirty old man.

Well, I guess
I'll just have to...

get out my vibrator
and read your blog.

That's cool. Then it won't be
a total waste of time.

I thought it was cool.

I was like, "Hey...

"I totally fucked that guy."

Must be weird, though.
- What?

Becoming the employee of a man
you so clearly hate.

What are you talking about?

My father...

He owns Hell-A Magazine.

Mia, is that you?

Coming, daddy.

Always a pleasure.