The French Dispatch (2021) - full transcript

A love letter to journalists set in an outpost of an American newspaper in a fictional twentieth century French city that brings to life a collection of stories published in "The French Dispatch Magazine".

(MACHINE WHIRRING)

(TYPEWRITER CLACKING)

(CLOCK TICKING)

(BELL TOLLING)

(HORN HONKS)

(BICYCLE BELL RINGS)

FEMALE NARRATOR:

It began as a holiday.

Arthur Howitzer, Jr.,

college freshman,

eager to escape a bright

future on the Great Plains,

convinced his father, proprietor

of the Liberty, Kansas Evening Sun,

to fund his transatlantic passage

as an educational opportunity

to learn the family business

through the production of

a series of travelogue columns

to be published for local readers

in the Sunday Picnic magazine.

(KIDS CHATTERING AND LAUGHING)

(SHOOING IN FRENCH)

(KIDS YELLING)

FEMALE NARRATOR: Over the next

ten years, he assembled a team

of the best expatriate

journalists of his time

and transformed Picnic

into The French Dispatch,

a factual weekly report on the

subjects of world politics,

the arts,

high and low, fashion,

fancy cuisine, fine drink,

and diverse stories

of human interests

set in faraway quartiers.

He brought the world

to Kansas.

(BELL TINKLES)

His writers line the spines of

every good American library.

Berensen,

Sazerac,

Krementz,

Roebuck Wright.

One reporter known

as the best living writer

in quality of sentences

per minute.

One who never completed

a single article,

but haunted the halls

cheerily for three decades.

One privately blind writer

who wrote keenly

through the eyes of others.

(WOMAN SPEAKING INDISTINCTLY)

FEMALE NARRATOR:

The uncontested crackerjack

of grammatical expertise.

Cover illustrations

by Hermes Jones.

Famously gracious

with his writers,

Arthur Jr. was less courteous

with the rest of

the magazine's staff.

ARTHUR: Oh, no, what's that?

I need a turkey.

Stuffed and roasted

on a table

with all the trimmings

and pilgrims!

FEMALE NARRATOR:

His fiscal management system

was convoluted but functional.

ARTHUR: Give her 150 francs

a week for the next 15 years

against five American cents

per word, minus expenses.

FEMALE NARRATOR: His most

repeated literary advice,

perhaps apocryphal,

was simply this...

ARTHUR: Just try to

make it sound like

you wrote it that

way on purpose.

FEMALE NARRATOR:

His return to Liberty

comes precisely 50 years

after his departure,

on the occasion

of his funeral,

by which time the magazine's

circulation exceeds

half a million subscribers

in 50 countries.

A willow hamper

containing umpteen pins,

plaques,

and official citations

of the highest order

is buried at his side,

along with

an Andretti Ribbon-mate

and a ream of triple bond,

Egyptian cotton typing stock.

He received

an Editor's burial.

In his will,

he stipulated that

immediately upon his death,

quote...

ARTHUR: (ON SPEAKERS) The

presses will be dismantled

and liquefied.

The editorial offices will be

vacated and sold.

The staff will be paid

ample bonuses

and released

from their contracts,

and the publication

of the magazine

will permanently cease.

FEMALE NARRATOR: Thus,

the publisher's obituary

will also serve

as that of this publication.

All home delivery readers

will, of course,

be refunded, pro rata

for the unfulfilled portion

of their subscriptions.

His epitaph will be taken verbatim

from the stenciled shingle

fixed above the door

of his inner office.

Berensen's article.

The Concrete Masterpiece.

Three dangling participles,

two split infinitives

and nine spelling errors in

the first sentence alone.

ARTHUR: Some of those

are intentional.

(MEN MURMURING)

ALUMNA: The Krementz story,

Revisions to a Manifesto.

We asked for

2,500 words,

and she came in

at 14,000,

plus footnotes, endnotes,

a glossary, and two epilogues.

ARTHUR:

It's one of her best.

(MEN MURMURING)

- Sazerac?

- Impossible to fact-check.

He changes all the names

and only writes about

hobos, pimps,

and junkies.

ARTHUR: These are his people.

(MEN MURMURING)

How about

Roebuck Wright?

His door's locked,

but I could hear the keys clacking.

- ARTHUR: Don't rush him.

- (MEN MURMURING)

The question is,

who gets killed?

There's one piece

too many

even if we print

another double-issue,

which we can't afford

under any circumstances.

(MEN MURMURING)

- (KNOCK AT DOOR)

- (DOOR OPENS)

A message from the foreman.

One hour to press.

You're fired.

(WHIMPERING) Really?

Don't cry

in my office.

Shrink the masthead,

cut some ads,

and tell the foreman

to buy more paper.

I'm not killing anybody.

(ALL MURMURING)

FEMALE NARRATOR: Good writers.

He coddled them.

He coaxed them.

He ferociously protected them.

What do you think?

For myself?

I would start with

Mr. Sazerac.

FEMALE NARRATOR:

These were his people.

- (BICYCLE BELL RINGS)

- (BICYCLE WHEELS WHIRRING)

(TYPEWRITER CLACKING)

SAZERAC: Ennui rises suddenly

on a Monday.

(DOG BARKS)

(INDISTINCT CHATTER)

(MUSIC PLAYING)

Through the time machine

of poetic license,

let us take

a sight-seeing tour.

A day in Ennui over

the course of 250 years.

The great city

began as a cluster

of tradesmen's villages.

(RINGS BICYCLE BELL)

Only the names

remain unchanged.

The Bootblack District.

The Bricklayer's Quarter.

(MUFFLED MUSIC PLAYING)

The Butcher's Arcade.

Pick-pocket Cul-de-Sac.

(MEN SHOUTING IN DISTANCE)

On this site,

a fabled market,

vending all forms of

victuals and comestibles

under a single vast,

glass-and-cast-iron

canopy,

later demolished,

as you can see,

in favor of a multi-level

shopping center

and parking structure.

Like every living city,

Ennui supports a menagerie

of vermin and scavengers.

- (TRAIN BRAKES)

- (RINGS BICYCLE BELL)

The rats which colonized

- its subterranean railroad.

- (RATS SQUEAKING)

- (CATS YOWLING)

- The cats which colonized

its slanty rooftops.

The anguillettes

which colonized

its shallow drainage canals.

After receiving the Host,

marauding choirboys,

half-drunk on

the Blood of Christ,

stalk unwary pensioners

- and seek havoc.

- (KIDS YELLING)

In the Flop Quarter, students.

Hungry, restless, reckless.

In the Hovel District,

old people.

Old people who have failed.

The automobile.

A mixed blessing.

On the one hand,

the honking,

skidding, speeding,

sputtering, and backfiring.

The emission of toxic fumes

and filthy exhaust-pollution,

the dangerous accidents,

the constant traffic,

the high...

Fuck! (YELLS)

Department of

Local Statistics.

Average rainfall,

750 millimeters.

Average snowfall,

190,000 flakes.

Eight-point-two-five

bodies are pulled

from the Blase river

each week.

A figure which

remains consistent

despite population growth

and advances in

health and hygiene.

As the sun sets, a medley of

unregistered streetwalkers

and gigolos replaces the day's

delivery boys and shopkeepers,

and an air of promiscuous calm

saturates the hour.

What sounds will

punctuate the night?

- (GUNSHOT)

- (WOMAN SCREAMS)

And what mysteries

will they foretell?

(KIDS YELLING)

Perhaps the doubtful

old maxim speaks true.

- (CLANGING)

- (SAZERAC GRUNTS)

SAZERAC: All grand beauties

withhold their

deepest secrets.

(SHIP HORN BLOWS)

"Rats, vermin, gigolos,

streetwalkers."

You don't think it's

almost too seedy this time?

- No, I don't.

- For decent people.

It's supposed

to be charming.

"Pick-pockets, dead bodies,

prisons, urinals..."

You don't want to

add a flower shop

- or an art museum?

- No, I don't.

A pretty place

of some kind?

I hate flowers.

You could cut

the second half

of the second paragraph,

by the way.

You already

repeat it later.

Okay.

(BELL RINGS)

(FOOTSTEPS APPROACHING)

(TYPEWRITER CLACKING)

(PAINTBRUSH SCRAPING)

(PAINTBRUSH SCRAPING)

(BONES CRACKING)

(SOFT PIANO MUSIC PLAYING)

(BONES CRACK)

(GRUNTS SOFTLY)

(PAINTBRUSH CLATTERS)

(SHOOS)

(PAINTBRUSH SCRAPING)

(BELL RINGS)

(CHAIN CLINKING)

(SNAPS FINGERS)

(LOCK CLICKS)

BERENSEN: We take as the

subject of tonight's lecture,

the great painter

at the vanguard

and heart of the French

Splatter-school Action-group,

Mr. Moses Rosenthaler.

Widely celebrated,

as you know,

for the bold

dramatic style,

and colossal scale

of his middle-period,

in particular,

of course,

the polyptych-tableaux

known as...

Ten Reinforced Cement

Aggregate Load-Bearing Murals.

He remains, in my opinion,

the most eloquent

and certainly,

the loudest artistic voice

of his rowdy generation.

How does this pivotal

piece come to find its way

into its unique position as

a permanent installation here

at the Clampette Collection?

The story begins

in a mess hall.

(BELL RINGS)

The exhibition, Ashtrays,

Pots, and Macrame,

a group show of handicrafts

by amateur artisans

incarcerated in

the lunatic section

of the Ennui Prison-Asylum,

might, perhaps,

have been omitted

from the annals

of art history,

had it not been

for the inclusion

in its number

of a small painting

by Mr. Rosenthaler,

who was, at that time,

serving a 50-year sentence

for the crime of

double homicide,

and the observation of that

work by a fellow inmate,

the Levantine art dealer

Mr. Julian Cadazio,

who, by fateful coincidence,

happened to be imprisoned

in the adjoining annex

on a charge

of second-degree

sales tax evasion.

Guard.

Who painted this picture?

GUARD: Citizen 7524.

I believe that unit

designates maximum security

for the demented

and deranged.

Are you able to

provide me an escort

and a Friendly Visit Stamp

for immediate use?

(GUARD CHEWING LOUDLY)

Simone, Naked.

Cell Block J. Hobby Room.

I wanna buy it.

Why?

Because I like it.

It's not for sale.

Yes, it is.

- No, it isn't.

- Yes, it is.

- No, it isn't.

- Yes, it is.

- No, it isn't.

- It is, yes. It is.

All artists sell

all their work.

It's what makes you

an artist.

Selling it. If you don't wish

to sell it, don't paint it.

Question is,

what's your price?

50 cigarettes.

Actually, make it 75.

Why do you keep

looking at that guard?

She's Simone.

Ah.

I don't want to buy this

important piece for 50 cigarettes.

- ROSENTHALER: 75.

- Or 75 of prison currency.

I want to pay you

250,000 francs

in legal French tender.

Do we agree on the sale?

Uh-huh.

I can only offer

a deposit of, uh...

83 centimes,

one candied chestnut,

and four cigarettes.

Everything I have at this

present moment in time.

However, if you'll accept my

signatory voucher, I assure you

a check for

the outstanding balance

will be remitted to your

account within 90 days.

Where do you bank?

Never mind.

(SPITS)

How'd you learn to

do it, by the way?

Paint this kind of picture.

Also, who'd you murder,

and how crazy are you, really?

I need background

information

so that we can do

a book about you.

It makes you

more important.

Who are you...

Moses Rosenthaler?

Born rich,

the son of a Jewish-Mexican

horse rancher,

Miguel Sebastian Maria

Moises de Rosenthaler

trained at

the Ecole des Antiquites

at significant

family expense.

But, by the end

of his youth,

he had shed

all the luxuries

of his comfortable background

and replaced them with...

Squalor.

(OLD-TIMEY SONG PLAYING)

Hunger.

Loneliness.

Physical danger.

(GUNS FIRING)

Mental illness.

And, of course...

- (CLATTERING)

- (INDISTINCT CHATTER)

Criminal violence.

(CHATTERING IN FRENCH)

- (GLASS RATTLES)

- (MEN QUARELLING)

(GROWLING)

- (PUNCHES LANDING)

- (MAN SCREAMS)

- (BLADE SLASHING)

- (MAN SCREAMS)

BERENSEN: He did not

pick up a brush

during the first decade

of his long prison sentence.

(GATE OPENS)

(GATE OPENS)

(BELL RINGS)

ROSENTHALER: Permission to sign up

for activity privileges, gardienne.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

ROSENTHALER: (IN ENGLISH)

This thing?

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) Citizen 7524,

address the class.

What do you mean?

Tell the group

about yourself.

- I don't wanna do that.

- It's mandatory.

- They know me already.

- That's not the point.

- I haven't even prepared a speech.

- Say something.

Well, I've been here

3,647 days and nights.

Another 14,603 to go.

I drink 14 pints of

mouthwash rations per week.

At that rate,

I think I'm going to

poison myself to death

before I ever get to see

the world again,

which makes me feel

very sad.

I gotta change my program.

I gotta go in a new direction.

Anything I can do to keep

my hands busy, I'm gonna do.

Otherwise,

I think maybe it's

gonna be a suicide.

And that's why

I signed up

for clay pottery

and basket weaving.

My name is Moses.

Take a pew.

- (BONES CRUNCH)

- (MAN GROANS)

What's your name,

gardienne?

(MOUTHING) Simone.

BERENSEN: Certain women do

gravitate toward incarcerated men.

It's a recognized condition.

Something about

the captivity of others

enhances the experience

of their own freedom.

I assure you,

it's erotic.

Look at her,

by the way.

Born into

quasi-serfdom,

16 brothers

and sisters.

Illiterate until

she was 20.

Now, a woman of

considerable property.

- Radiant.

- (AUDIENCE GASPS)

Good God.

Wrong slide.

That's me.

Simone, of course,

refused all

Rosenthaler's

entreaties of marriage,

which, we are told,

were frequent

and marvelously

enthusiastic.

ROSENTHALER: I wanna say it

as simple as I can.

To try to shape it into words.

The feelings in my heart.

- I don't love you.

- I love you.

- What?

- I don't love you.

Already?

Already what?

Already how do

you know that?

How can you be sure?

It's so quick.

I'm sure.

Ouch.

That hurts me.

The cruelty of it.

The cold-bloodedness.

You said what

you wanted to say.

I tried to stop you.

That's it.

I said part of what

I wanted to say.

I was in the middle

of it. There's more.

No.

- No what? Will you...

- No.

- Will you marry me?

- No.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(SOFT PIANO MUSIC PLAYING)

(SWITCH CLICKS)

I'm gonna need art supplies.

Canvas, stretchers,

brushes, turpentine.

What do you want to paint?

The future.

Which is you.

Widely not considered

a great connoisseur,

Julian Cadazio, nevertheless,

had an eye for something,

and he did us all

a very good turn

when the hour he was

released from prison...

(CLOCK TICKING)

We're done with flowers

and fruit bowls.

We're finished with

beaches and seascapes.

We're getting out of armor,

rugs, and tapestries, too.

I found something new.

Modern art?

Modern art.

Our specialty, starting now.

- I don't get it.

- Of course you don't.

- Am I too old?

- Of course you are.

- Why is this good?

- It isn't good. Wrong idea.

That's no answer.

My point. You see

the girl in it?

BOTH: No.

Trust me,

she's there.

One way to tell if a modern artist

actually knows what he's doing

is to get him to

paint you a horse

or a flower or

a sinking battleship,

or something that's actually

supposed to look like

the thing that it's actually

supposed to look like.

Can he do it?

Look at this.

Drawn in 45 seconds right in front

of me with a burnt matchstick.

A perfect sparrow.

That's excellent.

May I keep it?

Don't be stupid.

Of course not.

The point is, he could paint

this beautifully if he wanted,

but he thinks

this is better.

And I think I sort of

agree with him.

Simone, Naked. Cell Block J.

Hobby Room is probably a masterpiece

worth a significant,

even exorbitant, sum of money.

But not yet.

Hmm. The desire

must be created.

Mmm.

How long is he in for?

(CHAIN CLINKING)

CHIEF MAGISTRATE:

Mr. Rosenthaler,

why should we put you

back on the street?

Because it was an

accident, Your Honor.

I didn't intend

to kill anybody.

You decapitated two

bartenders with a meat saw.

(WHISPERING INDISTINCTLY)

ROSENTHALER: The first

bartender was an accident.

The second one

was self-defense.

Well, be that as it may,

what demonstration

of genuine remorse,

or, at the very least,

regret can you offer

for beheading these men?

They had it coming.

- I beg your pardon?

- Forgive me. Uh...

Is there a part of this

ritual where you ask

if anybody has something

to say before it's too late?

Like, at a wedding.

- No.

- I'll be brief.

We all know this man

is a murderer.

Totally guilty of

first-degree homicide,

any way you slice it.

That's a given.

However, he's also that rare

once-in-a-generation guy

that you hear about,

but never get the chance

to discover for yourself.

An artistic genius.

Surely, there ought

to be a double standard

for this sort of

predicament.

Supposedly, he's a

psychotic, by the way.

That's not his fault.

Respectfully, I submit...

maybe we could think up some

other way to punish him?

BERENSEN: Rosenthaler's right

to petition for parole

was permanently revoked

for the duration

of his sentence.

(POPS LIPS)

No further questions.

Nevertheless,

Cadazio and his uncles

were unanimous

in their decision

to promote the artist

as his exclusive brokers

throughout the free world.

Simone travelled far and wide.

The Ennui Salon.

The Royal Exposition.

The International Pavilion at the

Liberty, Kansas State Fair,

which was very nearly

burned to the ground.

In short, the picture

was a sensation.

- (PEOPLE CLAMORING)

- (AUCTIONEER GAVEL BANGING)

Even the artist's all but

forgotten earlier work

inspired wildly robust sales

on the secondary market.

Meanwhile, Rosenthaler continued

to work in confinement.

Strikingly, the artist

favored raw materials sourced

exclusively from within

the prison-asylum domain.

Powdered eggs.

Pigeon blood.

Shackle grease.

Coal, cork, and dung.

Fire, of course.

Bright yellow scullery soap.

And fresh cream of millet

as a binding agent.

Simone liked to stand still.

Indeed, she was Olympian

in her ability to hold

extremely challenging

positions

for extended

periods of time.

She exhibited

very little vulnerability

to extremes of heat or cold.

After even the most adverse

forms of exposure,

her skin remained unburned,

unblemished, un-goose-pimpled.

Another tidbit.

She genuinely enjoyed

the smell of turpentine

and in later years

actually wore it

in the application

of her toilet.

She was more than a muse.

(KEYS JINGLE)

ROSENTHALER: Throw the switch.

(FOOTSTEPS APPROACHING)

Throw the switch,

you cocksucker.

What's wrong with you?

Go back to work.

I can't.

I won't. It's too hard.

It's torture.

I'm literally

a tortured artist.

Poor baby.

Get out.

(DOOR CLOSES)

- (ELECTRICITY CRACKLING)

- (GROANS)

- (GRUNTS)

- Is that what you want?

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH)

What's your problem?

I don't know what to paint.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(SNAPS FINGERS)

(SWITCH CLICKS)

(RATTLES)

The French Splatter-school

Action-group.

A dynamic, talented,

lusty, slovenly, alcoholic,

violent pack of

creative savages.

They inspired

and very often

personally attacked each other

for two decades and more.

I'll have my drink now.

(BOTTLE CLINKS)

Remember, in those days,

as you know,

it was much more

socially acceptable

for a painter or a sculptor

to hit another fellow with

a chair or even a brick

or walk around

with a black eye

or a broken tooth

and so on.

Indeed, I'm jumping ahead,

but in my own experience,

Rosenthaler could be quite

unpredictably impulsive.

Uh, meaning, I refer to

the, uh, pigment locker

beneath his studio in

the Boulevard des Plombiers,

on one occasion,

he grabbed me and put me in there,

and inappropriately,

sort of, tried to fuck me

against the wall in the

corner of that pigment locker.

He was crazy.

Officially certified.

The Cadazios, of course,

represented them all.

It's three years later.

We've made you the most

famous painter alive

based on one small,

scribbly, overrated picture.

You're an art school course.

You're an encyclopedia entry.

Even your disciples have won and

squandered multiple fortunes,

yet you refuse to show us

so much as a sketch or a study

for a single new piece during this

entire, protracted period.

How long are

we meant to wait?

Well, don't answer,

because we're not asking.

We already printed

the invitations.

We're coming in.

All of us. The collectors.

The critics.

Even your second-rate imitators

we represent who suck up to you

and smuggle you goodies and probably

turn out to be better than you are.

The bribes alone are

going to be outrageous,

as these guards

can assure you.

But we're gonna pay 'em.

So, finish it,

whatever it is.

The show is in two weeks.

(GROWLING)

She thinks it's ready,

by the way.

It's ready.

I could use another year.

(YELLS IN FRUSTRATION)

My employer,

at that time,

received the intriguing

summons

by rapid-priority wire.

I refer, of course,

to Upshur "Maw" Clampette.

Astute collector

of antiquities.

Great friend

to the avant-garde.

Her collection,

even in its infancy,

was well-known

and important,

as was her residence,

Ingo Steen's first

American commission

informally known as

the Doorstop House.

It was my duty,

and I may say,

my privilege

to catalogue,

archive, and advise,

although she did whatever

the hell she wanted,

no matter what you

told her, anyway.

Thus, we began

the long journey

from Liberty to Ennui.

JULIAN: My dear Mrs.

Clampette, Maw, if I may,

please join us

for the first display

of Mr. Moses Rosenthaler's

extremely exciting new work,

which I, myself, have not yet

been permitted to see.

In order to facilitate the

viewing in a timely fashion,

it may prove necessary for us

to surreptitiously gain

access to the facility

where the artist

currently resides.

Please rely on my operatives

to organize any

and all details

and preparations

for your visit.

Caution, do not bring

matches, lighters,

or sharp objects of any kind.

We await your confirmation

with cheerful anticipation.

Yours most truly,

Cadazio Uncles

and Nephew Galerie concern.

BERENSEN: The paddy wagon

collected us

directly after the night's final

round of working girls and revelers

were delivered

to the drunk tank at 3:00 a.m.

(SWITCH CLICKS)

JULIAN: Moses, are you here?

ROSENTHALER: Mmm-hmm.

JULIAN: Any words

of introduction?

Or perhaps, a welcome to our

wonderful guests, some of whom

have traveled a great distance

to come see your work, I hope?

Or, alternatively,

just, I don't know.

Hello?

(FINGERS SNAP)

(GASPS) Quiet, please!

Quiet, please!

I did it. It's good!

This is historic.

Open the champagne!

I did it.

Music!

(PLAYING UPBEAT MUSIC)

(CORK POPS)

Why are you sitting in a

wheelchair like an invalid?

You should be dancing on the tables!

It's a triumph!

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH)

Do you like it?

Do I like it?

Yes.

(WOMAN SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) Look at Maw,

she's mesmerized.

This here's a fresco,

t'weren't it?

Precisely. He's a Renaissance

master of the highest order.

He mines the same vein as Piperno

Pierluigi when he illuminated

The Christ Before God's

Heavenly Altar in 1565.

Maw, nobody has an eye for

things nobody has ever seen

like Maw Clampette

of Liberty, Kansas.

We should be ashamed to

even gather in her presence.

Why the fuck

did she say fresco?

(GLASS CLATTERS)

Are they painted

into the walls?

Oh, no. What has he done?

You fucking asshole.

Are you seeing this?

Look at this!

- Well, I think it's utterly wonderful.

- It's crucial!

It's probably a turning point in

the evolution of human pictography.

Scratched and plastered

into a reinforced cement

aggregate gymnasium.

He even painted

onto the radiators!

Maybe one of them

restoration fellers

out at the Fondazione

dell'Arte Classico

could figure a way to

rustle them pictures loose.

We're in a maximum-security

prison, Maw.

It's federal property.

Even to begin the bureaucratic

nightmare would require years

of negotiation with

a team of highly-paid,

arrogant,

obnoxious advocates.

I don't even know how you'd peel them off.

It's a fresco.

Hey! It's a fresco!

So what?

Can you even begin to

fathom the shit-ton of money

my uncles and I have squandered

to get to this point of no return?

Look at them!

You've ruined us!

Does it mean nothing to you?

I thought you liked it.

I think it stinks!

- (SHATTERS)

- Get out of that wheelchair!

I'm going to kick your ass

up and down this hobby room!

(GROWLING)

Don't growl at me,

you convicted murderer.

You homicidal, suicidal,

psychopathic,

no-talent drunk!

(MUSIC CONTINUES)

(SCREAMS)

- (ROSENTHALER GRUNTS)

- (CRASHING)

Why didn't you

tell me, gardienne?

Because you would've

stopped him.

We have to accept it.

His need to fail

is more powerful

than our strongest desires

to help him succeed.

I give up.

He's defeated us.

- He's defeated us.

- Sad, but there it is.

Anyway, at least,

he finished the motherfucker.

It is, perhaps,

the most interesting

contemplation of

peripheral vision

I've ever seen.

Well done, Moses.

Well done, Moses.

This has a greatness to it.

If you plastered it

deep enough, it may last.

We'll come and see it

again one day.

God willing.

You'll already still

be here, of course.

It's all Simone.

(SOFT PIANO MUSIC PLAYING)

BERENSEN: At that moment,

they were both aware

of Simone's intention

to leave her position

at the Ennui Prison-Asylum

the following day,

endowed with funds

provided by the Cadazios

as compensation for her work

as Rosenthaler's model

and muse.

She was reunited with

the estranged child to whom

she had given birth

in her youth,

and the two never again

lived apart.

She and Rosenthaler maintained

a regular correspondence

for the rest

of the artist's life.

Mrs. Clampette would like

to put the piece on hold.

The half-sticker?

Yes, please.

Should she choose

to finalize the sale,

will this amount be acceptable

to you and your uncles?

Can we get a deposit?

Maw? An advance against

the total sum?

Tell them stingy Frenchmen

I ain't making no promises.

BERENSEN:

Ten Reinforced Cement

Aggregate Load-Bearing Murals

was to remain on hold under

the name Upshur Clampette

for the subsequent 20 years.

MAN: Monsieur Cadazio?

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH)

Which prisoners?

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

JULIAN: (IN ENGLISH) Tell them

we don't bribe

rapists and pickpockets.

It's unethical.

Besides, I didn't bring an additional

6,000,000 francs in small bills.

How'd you get out there?

What do we do?

Lock the door.

(PRISONERS YELLING)

BERENSEN: In the aftermath,

72 prisoners

and six members of

the French Splatter-school

lay dead or mortally wounded.

Moses Rosenthaler,

for acts of extreme valor,

which saved the lives

of nine guards,

22 distinguished visitors,

and the Ministers

of Culture and Urbanity,

received his freedom

with probation for life.

And was decorated in

the Order of the Caged Lion.

(GROWLING)

(PRISONERS SHOUTING)

BERENSEN: One score later,

as per Maw Clampette's

detailed instructions,

Cadazio and his own nephews

arranged for the entirety

of the hobby room

to be relocated onboard

a Goliath aviation

12-engine artillery transport

directly from

Ennui to Liberty.

In this form,

the avant-garde assumed its place

upon the plains

of Central Kansas.

"Pencils, pens,

erasers, thumbtacks,

"pushpins, typewriter

repairman."

Why am I paying for a

hotel room at a beach club

on the North Atlantic coast?

BERENSEN: Because I had

to go there to write it.

"Breakfast, lunch, dinner,

laundry, nightcap, midnight snack."

What is wrong

with the desk

right here

in your office?

Courtesy of

this magazine.

BERENSEN: Don't ask me

to be indiscreet

about what happened

between me and Moses

at a seaside inn 20 years ago.

We were lovers.

I went back

to remember.

On my dime.

BERENSEN: Yes, please.

Add it up.

- (WHISTLE BLOWS)

- (GUNS FIRING)

(TYPEWRITER CLACKING)

KREMENTZ: March 1st.

Negotiations between

undergraduates

and the university

administration

break down abruptly

in early morning hours

after clamorous debate,

angry name-calling

and, finally,

outright gambling over

the right of free access

to the girls' dormitory

for all male students.

The protest which

ended in a stalemate...

(BOTH SPEAKING FRENCH)

KREMENTZ: ...gave the superficial

appearance of a vanity exercise

for the pimple-cream

and wet-dream contingent.

(CLOCK TICKING)

But, in fact, the sexes were

equally represented.

Young lady,

shoes!

And all participants emphasized

the basis of their frustration,

a desire, more,

a biological need

for freedom. Full stop.

(TUTTING)

It has exploded into symbolism

and everybody's

talking about it.

(ALL CLAMORING)

KREMENTZ: March 5th.

Late supper at the B's.

Eldest boy, 19, not home

since yesterday morning.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

KREMENTZ: (IN ENGLISH) Father

chanced upon him midday,

marching alongside

his comrades.

Their slogan...

"The children are grumpy."

Thank you.

An additional dinner guest,

thus far, fails to appear.

For this, I am grateful.

Had not been informed of

his invitation in first place.

We didn't mean

to offend you.

- We're sorry.

- (SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) We thought you

might decline the invitation

if we warned you.

- You were right.

- Yeah.

KREMENTZ: Local news reports

aggressive crowd-control methods...

- (GUNFIRE)

- ...in use on street today. Quote...

Just give him

a chance.

He's very intelligent.

(SPEAKS FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) So, how long has

it been since what's-his-name?

I know you mean well.

"It begins with a prickly

tingling of the exposed skin."

(MR. AND MRS. B.

CLEAR THROATS)

I'm not an old maid.

- We don't think that.

- (SPEAKS FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH)

Of course you're not.

KREMENTZ: "Then, a reddening and

swelling of the orbital muscles."

Take me at my word.

I live by myself on purpose.

I prefer relationships

that end.

I deliberately choose to have

neither husband nor children.

The two greatest deterrents

to any woman's attempt

to live by and for writing.

Why are we crying?

- Because it's sad.

- (SPEAKS FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) We don't

want you to be alone.

Loneliness

is a kind of poverty.

I'm not sad.

My eyes hurt.

There's something wrong

- with your apartment.

- (EXPLOSION IN DISTANCE)

"Finally, a barrage of searing pain

as snot pours from the nostrils

"and the throat spasms

and constricts."

- (ALL COUGHING)

- MR. B.: Don't breathe.

(SIGHS)

(WATER SLOSHING)

(YELPS)

I'm naked,

Mrs. Krementz.

I can see that.

- Why are you crying?

- Tear gas.

Also,

I suppose I'm sad.

Please turn away.

I feel shy about my new muscles.

Go tell your parents you're home.

They're worried.

ZEFFIRELLI: I'm expected

back on the barricades.

I didn't see any barricades.

Well, we're still

constructing them.

KREMENTZ: Uh-huh.

What are you writing?

A manifesto.

I told them not to

invite Paul, by the way.

Maybe you're sad,

but you don't seem lonely to me.

Exactly!

I saw you at the protest on

top of a bookcase taking notes.

Is there a story in us?

For the people of Kansas.

Maybe.

Then you should study

our resolutions.

Or, anyway,

will you proofread it?

My parents think

you're a good writer.

Give it to me.

(WATER SPLASHES)

It's a little damp.

Physically

or metaphorically?

Both. Based on the cover

and the first four sentences.

Don't criticize

my manifesto.

Oh, you don't want remarks?

I don't need remarks,

do I?

I only asked you to proofread

it 'cause I thought you'd be

even more impressed

by how good it already is.

Let's start with the typos.

MAN: Can the faculty succeed

if the students fail?

- (FOOTSTEPS APPROACH)

- It remains to be seen.

- MR. B.: Ah. Paul Duval.

- Lucinda Krementz.

PAUL: How do you do?

Your beard

is scratching me.

Unexpected guest finally

arrives. Looks like hell.

Describes odyssey across city.

Stalled trains, stalled buses,

broken windows, paving stones

flying in all directions.

(CHUCKLING)

Anyway, we're here.

The famous Lucinda.

Hello.

I did not know you were

coming. They did not tell me.

This is not

an official meeting.

ZEFFIRELLI: Good evening.

KREMENTZ:

Start without me.

(GUNFIRE OUTSIDE)

(DOOR CLOSES)

(BEDSPRINGS SQUEAKING)

KREMENTZ: March 10th.

City services at a halt,

one week and counting.

Public transportation,

suspended.

Piles of garbage, uncollected.

Schools on strike.

- No mail, no milk.

- (TV PLAYING INDISTINCTLY)

It's me again.

KREMENTZ:

What will normal reality be?

Next week, next month,

whenever, if ever,

we get the chance

to experience it again.

Anyone's guess.

What's this part?

I added an appendix.

- You're joking.

- No, I'm not.

You finished my manifesto

without me.

I made it sound

like you, I think.

Just more clear,

more concise,

a bit less poetic.

Put it this way, this isn't the

first manifesto I've proofread.

(DOORBELL RINGS)

Impossible to imagine

these students,

exhilarated, naive,

brave in the extreme...

(DOOR OPENS)

...returning to their

obedient classrooms.

(MUFFLED CONVERSATION)

(DOOR CLOSES)

Who was that?

- Your mother.

- My mother.

My mother?

What did she want?

Did you tell her I was here?

- Yes.

- Why?

Because she asked.

I don't lie.

Was she upset?

I don't think so.

- What did she say?

- She nodded.

What did you say?

I told her I was working on an

article about you and your friends.

So, you are.

I've already written

1,000 words.

I asked to interview her.

- Did she agree?

- Yes, of course.

(SHOUTS) Well, I am upset!

I don't know how to feel.

Am I in trouble? Why would

my mother be so calm?

Is this proper?

This is all off-the-record.

Everything. My whole life.

(CLICKS TONGUE)

What am I supposed

to do now?

I should maintain

journalistic neutrality.

Ooh.

I like how

ruthless you are.

It's part of

your beauty, I think.

So, you've got

1,000 words already, huh?

KREMENTZ: The kids did this.

Obliterated 1,000 years

of Republican authority

in less than a fortnight.

How and why?

Before it began,

where did it begin?

(TYPEWRITER DINGS)

ZEFFIRELLI: It was another time.

It was another Ennui.

Must be nearly six months ago, I guess.

My sisters were still 12, anyway.

(UPBEAT FRENCH SONG PLAYING)

You danced to the Craze

and the Lait Chaud.

You wore your hairdo

in the Pompidou,

the Crouton,

or the Fruits-de-Mer.

Your slang mixed

bits of Latin

with philosophy jargon

and manual signaling.

Devil's advocates bickered and

debated perpetually, ad nauseam,

only for the sake of argument.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

ZEFFIRELLI: (IN ENGLISH)

Every clique had a rival.

The Nuts had the Bolts.

The Sticks had the Stones.

The Jocks had us,

the Bookworms,

until Mitch-Mitch failed

the baccalaureate

and got sent down

to National Duty-obligation.

Three months

in the Mustard Region.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) He was sent

to the Mustard Region

for National Duty-obligation.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

- (IN ENGLISH) I'm sorry?

- (SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) How dare you?

Who gave you permission

to besmirch our friend?

Does it occur to you he's very

probably somewhere marching

in the middle of

the night right now,

carrying a 50-pound sack of

gunpowder and peeling stale potatoes

while he digs a latrine trench

in the rain with a tin cup?

He doesn't want

to be in the military.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(GIRLS GASP)

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH)

Easy for you to say

from the comfort

of the Sans Blague.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(MAN SCOFFS)

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) Mitch-Mitch,

what are you doing here?

You're supposed to be

in the Mustard Region

for another two months.

KREMENTZ: Five years later,

I, myself, translated

Mitch-Mitch Simca's

poetic interpretation

of his National

Duty-obligation service.

(APPLAUSE)

The flashback scene in Act Two of

Goodbye, Zeffirelli.

In North Africa,

I caught a bullet in the tail.

In South America,

I caught a chunk of

high-explosive shrapnel

in the left wing.

In East Asia,

I picked up a rare,

microbial,

infectious gut-parasite

in the lower

abdominal cavity,

and I've got them

all with me right now,

still in my body,

but I don't regret my

choice to wear this uniform.

And in 16 years,

I'll get my pension.

Well, that's your bedtime

story, ladies. Lights out!

- CADETS: Hup! Ho! Hut!

- Lights out!

Covers tucked! Blankets on!

- MAN: Pray your prayers!

- CADET: Sir!

(CADETS WHISPERING PRAYERS)

CADETS: Amen. Amen. Amen.

CADET: Psst.

Psst, Mitch-Mitch. Psst.

Psst, Mitch-Mitch.

What do you wanna be?

MITCH-MITCH: What?

What do you want

to be, Mitch-Mitch?

With my grades,

I'll be an assistant pharmacist.

Will that make you

be satisfied?

It won't depress me.

I should have studied harder.

And you, Robouchon?

Oh, I have no choice.

I'll work for my father's

glass factory.

- Someone has to take over.

- CADET: It's normal.

Vaugirard.

What's your plan?

I suppose I'll continue

to be an attractive wastrel

like my cousins on

both sides of the family.

- Your cousins are the best.

- I love your cousins.

- Yeah.

- What about you, Morisot?

Morisot, what do

you want to be?

MORISOT: A protestor.

- What'd he say?

- He said, "A protestor."

- What does he mean?

- I don't know.

I thought Morisot

was supposed to be

a professor of

geological chemistry.

Morisot's crying.

- Shh!

- Who said "shh"?

MORISOT: I won't do it.

It's only eight more weeks,

Morisot,

before we complete

the program.

I don't mean the program.

I mean from when we go home

until retirement age.

That 48-year period

of my life, I mean.

That's what I won't do.

I can no longer

envision myself

as a grown-up man

in our parents' world.

- (WINDOW OPENS)

- (WIND WHOOSHING)

(THUDS)

Morisot! He went

out the window!

- Is he dead?

- I don't know.

How far did he fall?

Five floors

with high ceilings.

It rained last night.

Maybe the mud's still soft.

He's not moving.

He's still not moving.

He's still not moving.

He's still not moving.

He's still not moving.

He's still not moving.

He's still not moving.

(SIREN BLARING IN DISTANCE)

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(LIGHTER CLOSES)

ZEFFIRELLI: (IN ENGLISH)

The next morning,

Mitch-Mitch was arrested

for Desertion and Desecration,

and the Sans Blague

became headquarters

for the Movement

of Young Idealists

for the Revolutionary

Overthrow

of Reactionary

Neo-liberal Society.

What are you doing?

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH)

They can live together.

Tip-top with Charvet.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(CLICKING)

(MUSIC PLAYING ON JUKEBOX)

KREMENTZ: There followed, a

brisk, unpredictable tit-for-tat.

between Ennui's elders

and its youngers.

August.

Community Whisper Campaign

denounces student movement.

September.

Sans Blague coffee license

revoked by official decree.

October.

Propaganda Committee

erects pirate radio tower

on Physics Department rooftop.

November.

Meal plan blockade of

the undergraduate cafeteria.

December.

Check-out protest at

the Bibliotheque Principale.

Entire library circulation

legally removed

until five minutes before incur

of massive overdue book fines.

January.

Mitch-Mitch released

to parental custody.

February.

The girls' dormitory uprising.

It all, in the end,

leads to...

March.

The chessboard revolution.

(MAN SPEAKS FRENCH

ON SPEAKERS)

(SPEAKS FRENCH)

(REPLIES IN FRENCH)

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH)

What page you on?

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) I think so.

By definition.

(SPEAKS FRENCH)

(READING UNDERBREATH)

KREMENTZ: (IN ENGLISH) In spite

of the purity of their cause,

to create a free, borderless,

utopian civilization,

the students, nevertheless,

split into factions before

fully uniting in first place.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(READING UNDERBREATH)

KREMENTZ: (IN ENGLISH) One

thing is now finally clear,

they are answering

their parents.

What do they want?

To defend their illusions.

A luminous abstraction.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(READING UNDERBREATH)

KREMENTZ: (IN ENGLISH) I am convinced

they are better than we were.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) Mrs. Krementz suggested

it, actually. The appendix.

(SPEAKS FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) Polished it.

Certain passages.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH)

I inscribed it to you.

Oh.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

KREMENTZ: (IN ENGLISH)

Remind myself,

"You are a guest

at this manifestation.

"Not my fight. Stay out of it, Lucinda.

Keep your mouth shut."

I have to say something.

You're a very

bright girl, Juliette.

If you put away your powder

puff for one minute, forgive me,

and think for yourself

for one minute, forgive me,

you might realize

you're all in this together.

Even the riot police.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(MAN SPEAKS FRENCH

ON SPEAKERS)

(IN ENGLISH) Our move.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH)

That was impolite. Of me.

I withdraw the remark.

(SPEAKS FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH)

I beg your pardon.

(SPEAKS FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) I'm sorry.

(SPEAKS FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) Thank you.

You're sure?

(SPEAKS FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH)

Sure you're not a child?

(SPEAKS FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) Then learn to accept

an apology. That's important.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) Grown-ups.

(MAN SPEAKS FRENCH

ON SPEAKERS)

(IN ENGLISH) Our move.

The mayor's waiting.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH)

Kindly leave me my dignity.

She's not an old maid.

She's not in love with me.

She's our friend.

I'm her friend.

She's confused.

She wants to help us.

She's angry.

She's a very good writer.

It's a lonely life,

isn't it?

Sometimes.

It's true. I should maintain

journalistic neutrality,

if it exists.

(CLICKS TONGUE)

(IN ENGLISH) Please excuse me,

Mrs. Krementz.

(WOMAN SPEAKING FRENCH)

(SIGHS)

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(MAN SPEAKS FRENCH

ON SPEAKERS)

(WHISTLE BLOWS)

(FIREWORKS BURSTING)

(INDISTINCT SHOUTING)

(IN ENGLISH)

It's just fireworks.

She's the best of them.

Stop bickering.

Go make love.

(SPEAKS FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) Me, too.

Except for Mrs. Krementz.

I thought so.

(FIREWORKS CONTINUE)

(PEOPLE CLAMORING)

KREMENTZ: March 15th.

Discover on flyleaf of my

composition book a hasty paragraph.

Not sure when Zeffirelli

had the chance to write it.

Late that night while I slept?

Poetic, not necessarily

in a bad way.

Reads as follows...

ZEFFIRELLI: Post script

to a burst appendix.

An invincible comet speeds

on its guided arc

toward the outer reaches of the

galaxy in cosmic space-time.

What was our cause?

Recollection of two memories.

You. Soap scent of

drugstore shampoo,

ashtray of stale cigarettes,

burnt toast.

Her. Perfume of

cheap gasoline,

coffee on the breath, too much

sugar, cocoa butter skin.

Where does she

spend her summers?

They say it's the smells

you finally don't forget.

The brain works that way.

I've never read

my mother's books.

I'm told my father was really quite

remarkable during the last war.

Best parents I know.

The girls' dormitory.

First time I've come inside,

except to vandalize it

during demonstrations.

I said, "Don't criticize

my manifesto." She said...

(JULIETTE SPEAKS FRENCH)

ZEFFIRELLI: (IN ENGLISH) I

feel shy about my new muscles.

Her large, stupid eyes

watched me pee.

A thousand kisses later,

will she still remember the taste

of my tool on the tip of her tongue?

Apologies, Mrs. Krementz.

I know you despise crude language.

KREMENTZ: Additional sentence

at bottom of page

completely indecipherable

due to poor penmanship.

(MUSIC PLAYING)

"Revisions to a Manifesto.

Page four, asterisk one.

- "The promotion of..."

- (MUSIC STOPS)

- (ELECTRICITY CRACKLING)

- (WHIMPERS)

(CHATTERING IN FRENCH)

(STATIC ON RADIO)

(IN ENGLISH)

I'll be right back.

Zeffirelli!

(SHOUTING IN FRENCH)

(MUSIC RESUMES)

KREMENTZ: (IN ENGLISH)

He is not an invincible comet

speeding on its guided arc

toward the outer reaches of the

galaxy in cosmic space-time.

Rather, he is a boy

who will die young.

He will drown on this planet

in the steady current of the

deep, dirty, magnificent river

that flows night and day

through the veins and arteries

of his own ancient city.

His parents will receive

a telephone call at midnight,

dress briskly, mechanically,

and hold hands

in the silent taxi

as they go to identify

the body of their cold son.

His likeness, mass-produced

and shrink-wrap packaged,

will be sold like bubblegum

to the hero-inspired

who hope to see

themselves like this.

The touching narcissism

of the young.

March 30th.

Across the street,

a glaring metaphor.

Bell rings,

pupils scamper inside

back to their

obedient classrooms.

(MUSIC PLAYING IN DISTANCE)

A creaky swing sways

in the deserted schoolyard.

(TYPEWRITER CLACKING)

(KNOCK AT DOOR)

KREMENTZ: Come in!

(TYPEWRITER

CONTINUES CLACKING)

(TYPEWRITER CLACKING)

(ROEBUCK CLEARS THROAT)

(BEEPING)

(BEEPING STOPS)

Someone told me you have

a photographic memory.

- Is that true?

- That is false.

I have

a typographic memory.

I recollect

the written word

with considerable

accuracy and detail.

In other spheres,

my powers of retention

are distinctly

impressionistic.

I'm known to my intimates

as a most forgetful man.

Yet you remember

- every word you ever wrote.

- Hmm.

The novels, the essays,

the poems, the plays...

The unrequited valentines.

Sadly, I do.

May I test you?

If you must.

Unless we try the patience

of your viewership,

or the esteemed spokesmen

for Gemini tooth powder?

My favorite piece

is the one about the cook,

where the kidnappers

get poisoned.

"Do students of the table

dream in flavors?

"That was the first of the questions

a reporter for this magazine

"had diligently prepared

in advance of his encounter

"with Lieutenant Nescaffier,

"ranking chef at District Headquarters

on the narrow river-peninsula

"known as

the Rognure d'Ongle.

"All such queries

were to remain unanswered

"in the course of

that eventful evening."

Shall I carry on?

Please.

ROEBUCK: I'd arrived

insufficiently early.

Though the suite of rooms

on the penultimate floor

of the grand edifice was

hypothetically indicated on a floorplan

provided on the back

of the carte de degustation...

it was nigh impossible

to locate,

at least for this reporter.

A weakness in cartography.

The curse of the homosexual.

Monsieur Nescaffier made

his name and reputation.

He is fanatically celebrated among

cooks, cops, and capitaines,

not to mention squealers,

stoolies, and snitches,

as the great exemplar

of the mode of cuisine

known as

Gastronomie Gendarmique.

(INDISTINCT CHATTER)

"Police cooking" began

with the stake-out picnic

and paddy-wagon snack,

but has evolved and codified

into something refined,

intensely nourishing,

and, if executed properly,

marvelously flavorful.

Fundamentals...

highly portable,

rich in protein,

eaten with the non-dominant

hand only,

the other being reserved

for firearms and paperwork.

(BELL RINGS)

(GUNS FIRING)

Most dishes are served

pre-cut. Nothing crunchy.

Quiet food.

(MAN SPEAKING INDISTINCTLY

ON RADIO)

Sauces are dehydrated and ground

to a powder to avoid spillage

and the risk of the

tainting of a crime scene.

Diners are expected to provide

their own fourchettes de poche,

often engraved with

the arcane mottoes

and off-color sayings of

their respective precincts.

(THUNDER RUMBLING)

(RAIN PATTERING OUTSIDE)

How are you planning

to kill me?

I believe this to be

a case of mistaken identity.

Have you been in the chicken

coop for a very long while?

(SWITCH CLICKS)

(THUNDER RUMBLING)

I beg your pardon.

(FOOTSTEPS RECEDING)

Monsieur Nescaffier,

even during his apprenticeship

in a provincial

fire department,

aspired to a lofty perch,

and there can be no higher

position in the metier than that of

Chef Cuisinier

for the private dining room

of the Commissaire

de la Police Municipale.

(CLOCK TICKING)

Forgive my tardiness.

No, not at all.

Not at all.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(IN ENGLISH) Mr. Wright,

may I present my mother

Louise de la Villatte.

You can call her Maman.

- We all do.

- Bonsoir, monsieur.

THE COMMISSAIRE: This is my oldest

friend, Chou-fleur.

When I met him,

he was a girlish little schoolboy

with ringlets

and a full set of teeth.

- Now, he looks like a corpse.

- (CHUCKLES)

In the corner,

Patrolman Maupassant.

He'll be serving.

- Cocktails.

- Oui, monsieur.

THE COMMISSAIRE:

And this is my son, Gigi,

in the crime-lab smock.

What are you stealing

from my personal records?

Unsolved cases.

THE COMMISSAIRE:

Well, say hello to Mr. Wright.

Hello, Mr. Wright.

Hello, Gigi.

Full name,

Isadore Sharif de la Villatte.

The Commissaire

and his only son,

widowered and motherless,

left the colony where the boy was born,

cemented together

by their shared grief.

Gigi was six.

- (SIREN BLARING)

- His schoolrooms

were the station house

and the squad car.

He was educated

by forensic tutors

in the traditions

of law enforcement.

His first drawings

were facial composites

based on eyewitness testimony.

- His first words were in Morse code.

- (BEEPING)

It was, I suppose,

wonderfully obvious.

He was brought up to succeed

the Commissaire himself.

Yes, I've read you.

In the magazine.

To your satisfaction?

Of course. Of course.

Good writer.

I trust you are already

familiar with this genius.

At least by reputation.

Lieutenant Nescaffier.

I surely am.

The drink, a milky,

purplish aperitif,

ferociously fragrant,

overtly medicinal,

ever so faintly anesthetizing

and cooled to a glacial

viscosity in a miniature version

of the type of vacuum-flask

normally associated with

campsites and schoolrooms,

cast a spell,

which, during the subsequent

60-second interval,

was to be mortally broken.

On three overlapping

dramatic timelines,

the following events

came to pass.

(TICKING)

One.

Monsieur Nescaffier began

his mysterious ritual.

I can neither comprehend

nor describe

what occurs behind

a kitchen door.

I have always been content

to enjoy the issue

of an artist's talent without

unveiling the secrets of the chisel

or the turpentine.

Two.

(BEEPING)

Patrolman Maupassant,

responding to an infrequently

illuminated signal,

delivered a telephone

to his superior.

Go ahead.

(OPERATOR SPEAKING FRENCH

OVER PHONE)

(LINE BEEPS)

(MAN SPEAKING FRENCH

OVER PHONE)

MAN 2: (IN ENGLISH)

As you know by now,

we have kidnapped your son

and absconded

to a secure location

which you will never discover.

Release or execute the Abacus

and the little boy will be

safely returned to your custody.

Failure to do so by sun-up will

result in your son's violent death.

(LINE DISCONNECTS)

ROEBUCK: Three.

The skylight window

of the makeshift nursery

which occupies the attic

quarters jimmied ajar.

(GUN CLICKS)

(THUDS)

- (GIGI STRUGGLING)

- (OBJECTS CLATTERING)

ROEBUCK: The getaway and eventual

motor pursuit was rendered vividly,

if, perhaps, a bit fancifully,

in a comic strip

published the following week.

(CAR ENGINE STOPS)

(DOG BARKING IN DISTANCE)

Though the infamous

Ennui gang war

"Winter Crimewave"

had eradicated

a healthy number of

thugs and hooligans,

it had also claimed the lives

of a disgraceful proportion

of innocent citizens.

Due to the surprise capture

of the racketeering accountant

Albert "the Abacus",

in possession of a valise

containing payroll stubs

for all three of

the city's major syndicates,

the law-abiding community's hopes

for an accelerated resolution

- to the crisis had been renewed.

- (WHISTLE BLOWS)

(SIREN BLARING)

However, this turn of events

had forcefully rattled the cages

of the denizens

of the criminal underworld.

(GUNFIRE)

For myself, I had failed

to recognize the Abacus,

but as it happened,

I knew the chicken coop.

This is not in the article,

by the way.

If I refer to Mr. Howitzer,

do you know who I mean?

Of course.

Arthur Howitzer, Jr.

Founder and editor

of The French Dispatch.

It was my first week in Ennui

when I suffered the misfortune

of being arrested in

a drinking establishment

on the fringes of

the Flop Quarter

along with a number of

newly-found companions.

What was the charge?

Love.

You see, people may or may

not be mildly threatened

by your anger,

your hatred, your pride,

but love the wrong way

and you will find yourself

in great jeopardy.

In this case, a chicken coop

jail cell for six days straight.

I had no one who cared to rescue me,

and no one who cared to scold me.

And the only local number committed

to my typographic memory was

Printer's District 9-2211.

ARTHUR: While I regret

we are unable

to publish either

of these specific pieces,

I would be very pleased to consider

other submissions in the future.

Or if you find yourself

in Ennui...

ROEBUCK: I'd never

met the man.

I knew how to reach him

only because I wanted a job.

ARTHUR: Let's see here.

High school newspaper,

poetry club, drama society.

Wrote the school song.

Words and music.

Junior researcher, cub

reporter, assistant editor.

Fires and murders.

That's how I started.

My father owned

the paper, of course.

Bit of sports, bit of crime,

bit of politics.

Shortlisted twice,

Best Essays.

Deep South, Midwest,

East Coast.

Vast country.

Haven't been there

in 20 years.

Not now. I'm conducting

a job interview.

Your writing samples are good.

I re-read them in the taxi.

Have you ever done

any book reviews?

Never.

You're gonna be in there another few

hours before they process you out.

Read this.

Give me 300 words.

I'll pay you 500 francs minus

the 250 I advanced for your bail,

but I'll re-advance that

against cost of living.

Bring me a first draft

tomorrow morning

and however you go

about it, Mr. Wright,

try to make it sound like you

wrote it that way on purpose.

Thank you.

No crying.

It came to be known as the

"Night of a Thousand Slugs."

I'm reciting again.

How the Commissaire and his elite

team of experts and analysts

succeeded so swiftly in determining

the location of the kidnappers' lair...

Well...

I just don't know.

The tools of the trade,

I suppose.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

ROEBUCK: (IN ENGLISH)

But succeed they did.

(INSTRUMENTAL MUSIC PLAYING)

(TRAIN PASSING BY)

Who were they?

It was later revealed.

A hired crew of

bandits and gunmen

imported by the ranking bosses

of the Ennui rackets

and their network

of underworld middlemen.

Chauffeur Joe Lefevre,

a once almost promising instrumentalist.

Stetson, Spinster,

and Hieronymus Von Altman,

Dutch masterminds.

Marconi Brutelli,

the Mediterranean anarchist.

A pair of hooligans,

estranged cousins.

A trio of showgirls,

all junkies.

Plus one small,

resourceful prisoner,

determined to free himself

and reduce taxpayer expense.

(TAPPING ON METAL)

What's that noise?

(COIN CLATTERS)

Uh, air bubbles in the radiator pipes.

It's pressurized.

Sounds like Morse code.

Vaguely, maybe.

I'm Gigi, by the way.

What's your name?

I'm not gonna tell you that.

This is a felony.

You're not a criminal.

You're just a mixed-up showgirl.

- Ha.

- Ha, yourself.

Shut up.

What color eyes

do you have?

Blue?

Hello.

Hello.

Sing me a lullaby.

I'm scared.

(SINGING IN FRENCH)

(BOTH SINGING)

(IN ENGLISH)

Are you asleep?

GIGI: Uh-huh.

ROEBUCK: The Commissaire adored

Gigi with all his voluminous heart.

However, his mind,

that exceptional machine

for the detection

and investigation

of criminal activity,

had been whirring

since dinnertime.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

- Diner.

- Diner.

ROEBUCK: (IN ENGLISH) And he was in a

condition of dire calorific depletion.

Nescaffier, back in the field

for the first time

in six years,

came prepared to dazzle.

Diner.

ROEBUCK: (IN ENGLISH)

The change was instantaneous.

(INHALES) Mmm.

Nescaffier.

ROEBUCK: Even as

the faintest hints

of the aromas of

the great chef's kitchen

ribboned into

the Commissaire's nostrils,

he began to

envision and formulate

a multi-pronged battle-plan.

To start...

Deviled eggs of

the precinct canary

served in shells of

its own meringue.

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

ROEBUCK: (IN ENGLISH) Next...

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

ROEBUCK: (IN ENGLISH) Kidneys.

Poached with plums from

the mayor's rooftop arbor.

(THE COMMISSAIRE

SPEAKING FRENCH)

ROEBUCK: (IN ENGLISH) Then...

minced lamb bon-bons

in pastry wrappers.

(THE COMMISSAIRE

SPEAKING FRENCH)

ROEBUCK: (IN ENGLISH)

Blase oyster soup.

(THE COMMISSAIRE

SPEAKING FRENCH)

ROEBUCK: A magnificent

city-park pigeon hash.

Finally...

(THE COMMISSAIRE

SPEAKING FRENCH)

ROEBUCK: ...tabac pudding

with quadruple cream.

(THE COMMISSAIRE

SPEAKING FRENCH)

(PHONE RINGING)

(IN ENGLISH) May I

interrupt with a question?

- Please.

- Forgive me.

Just permit me to dog-ear

the page. Mentally.

I beg your pardon.

You've written about

the American negro,

the French intellectual,

- the Southern romantic...

- And the anti-negro.

The anti-negro.

Scripture, mythology,

folklore,

true crime, false crime,

the ghost story, the

picaresque, the bildungsroman.

But more than anything,

over all these years,

you've written about food.

Why?

Who? What? Where? When?

How? Valid questions,

but I learned

as a cub stringer,

never, under any circumstance,

if it is remotely within your

power to resist the impulse,

never ask a man why.

It... It tightens a fellow up.

I apologize,

but I'm gonna

- hold you to it...

- Torture.

...if you'll agree.

Self-reflection is a vice best

conducted in private or not at all.

Well,

I'll answer your question

out of sheer weariness,

but I truly don't know

what I'm about to say.

There is a particular

sad beauty

well-known to the

companionless foreigner

as he walks the

streets of his adopted,

preferably moonlit, city.

In my case, Ennui, France.

I have so often...

I have so often shared the day's

glittering discoveries with

no one at all.

But always, somewhere along

the avenue or the boulevard,

there was a table

set for me.

A cook, a waiter, a bottle,

a glass, a fire.

I chose this life.

It is the solitary feast that has

been very much like a comrade,

my great comfort

and fortification.

TALK SHOW HOST: Do you remember

where you placed the bookmark?

Of course, silly goose.

"Meanwhile."

"Meanwhile,

across the street..."

(MALE OFFICER OVER RADIO

IN FRENCH)

(SWEARS IN FRENCH)

(SPEAKING FRENCH)

(SWEARS IN FRENCH)

(COCKS GUN)

(GUNS FIRING)

Hold your fire!

Hold your fire!

(GUNSHOT)

(TAPPING CONTINUES)

ROEBUCK: During a lull in the

skirmish, an ancient concierge,

veteran of two wars,

limped across the street

to deliver

an enigmatic message.

(FEEDBACK WHINES)

I'm speaking to the leader of the

gang of kidnappers on the top floor.

Do you have a working

kitchen in your lair?

My son needs a snack.

Allow us to send in

our precinct cook

along with some supplies

and provisions.

He will prepare a supper

of sufficient proportions

to feed you

and all your accomplices.

We already ate.

(ALL MURMURING)

THE CHAUFFEUR:

Is it an underling

or Nescaffier himself?

Blackbird pie.

(THE CHAUFFEUR GRUNTS)

ROEBUCK: Required, of course,

to sample each item,

the chef ate

the deathly poison.

(LOW INDISTINCT CHATTER)

For the little boy.

Stop.

Write down the recipe.

(EXPLOSION)

(WEAKLY) Help...

ROEBUCK:

But Nescaffier survived,

thanks to

the extreme fortitude,

bolstered and braced,

season upon season,

by the richest,

most potent plates,

pans, and sauce pots

of his almost

superhuman stomach.

He knew well, of course,

Gigi loathed and despised

the radish in all its forms

with a deep,

unbridled passion,

and had never

so much as touched one

or even spoken the word,

during his entire

young lifetime.

However, as it happened,

the chauffeur

hated radishes, too.

(CAR ENGINE STARTS)

- (GUNFIRE)

- (TIRES SCREECHING)

(SIREN BLARING)

(TIRES SCREECHING)

(CATS MEOWING)

(DOGS BARKING)

(HISSING)

(SIREN BLARING)

(TIRES SCREECH)

Take the wheel!

ROEBUCK: Perhaps the most

stirring and startling phenomenon

witnessed over the trajectory of that

protracted dinner date was this...

(BOTH LAUGHING)

- (GIGI SNIFFLES)

- (SOBBING)

ROEBUCK: A delicious irony.

Monsieur Albert,

accountant to the demi-monde

and remote cause of the entire

spectacular contretemps,

had been forgotten

in the chicken coop

from Thursday dinner

to Monday breakfast

and had very nearly

starved in his cell.

It was only the convalescent

Monsieur Nescaffier himself

who retained

the presence of mind

to prepare the prisoner

an omelette a la policier,

which he delivered warm,

wrapped in a day-old

search warrant.

The Abacus ate well

that morning.

A word from

Gemini tooth powder.

(MUNCHING)

It was supposed to be an

article about a great chef.

ROEBUCK: It is in part.

For the Tastes

and Smells section...

ROEBUCK: I understand.

The assignment was perfectly clear.

Perhaps,

you fail to grasp

that I was shot at and

hand-grenaded against my will.

I only asked to be fed,

and was, marvelously,

as I described in some detail.

Nescaffier only gets

one line of dialogue.

Well, I did cut something he told me.

It made me too sad.

I could stick it

back in, if you like.

What did he say?

(MUNCHING CONTINUES)

(GRUNTS)

- (LOW INDISTINCT CHATTER)

- MAN: Martin... Martin...

Guillaume Martin.

(SOFTLY) They had a flavor.

I beg your pardon?

The toxic salts

in the radishes...

they had a flavor.

Totally unfamiliar to me.

Like a bitter,

moldy, peppery,

spicy, oily kind of

earth.

I never tasted

that taste in my life.

Not entirely pleasant,

extremely poisonous,

but still, a new flavor.

That's a rare thing

at my age.

I admire your bravery,

Lieutenant.

I'm not brave.

I just wasn't

in the mood to be

a disappointment

to everybody.

I'm a foreigner, you know.

This city is full

of us, isn't it?

I'm one myself.

Seeking something missing.

Missing something

left behind.

Maybe with good luck,

we'll find

what eluded us

in the places

we once called home.

(MUNCHING CONTINUES)

That's the best part

of the whole thing.

That's the reason

for it to be written.

I couldn't agree less.

Well, anyway,

don't cut it.

(DOOR OPENS)

(DOOR CLOSES)

Are we all here?

I guess you know.

It was a heart attack.

(SIGHS)

Excusez-moi.

(CRYING)

No crying.

Is somebody coming

to take him away?

There's a strike

at the morgue.

Who was with him?

He was alone.

- Reading birthday telegrams.

- (LIGHTER CLICKS)

Psst.

Don't light the candles.

He's dead.

I'll have a slice.

Me, too.

We need to draft something.

Who wants it?

We've got a file.

I'm working on the art.

SAZERAC: That's him.

Let's write it together.

- Hmm, write what?

- ALL: The obituary.

Arthur Howitzer, Jr.

Born in North Kansas,

10 miles from the geographical

center of the United States.

Mother died

when he was five.

Son of a newspaper publisher,

founder of this magazine.

The French Dispatch,

previously known as Picnic.

A largely unread

Sunday supplement

to the Liberty,

Kansas Evening Sun.

It began as a holiday.

Is that true?

Sort of.

What happens next?

(OVERLAPPING CHATTER)