The Man Who Invented Christmas (2017) - full transcript
The journey that led to Charles Dickens' creation of "A Christmas Carol," a timeless tale that would redefine Christmas.
Oh, hurry up, Mr. Dickens!
Hey, I paid 50 cents for this!
- Come on, Dickens!
- Come on, Charley!
We want Charles!
I want to see Charles!
Where is Dickens?
My dear Forster,
how can I give you the faintest notion
of my reception here in America?
Five minutes. Five minutes.
Of the crowds that pour in and out the whole day,
of the people that line the streets when I go out.
Places, please. Places!
Hello, Charley.
Of the balls, dinners,
speeches, parties, assemblies without end.
There never was a king or emperor upon the earth so cheered.
Tonight, live on stage...
Ready?
- the great magician of our time...
- Ready.
whose wand is a book!
The Shakespeare of the novel.
The people's author.
The great and marvelous Boz!
Ladies and gentlemen,
Mr. Charles Dickens!
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!
Thank you! Thank you!
Look, it's him! It's really him!
- Hey there, Boz!
- Whoo!
Dear friends! Dear friends!
You have welcomed me to your country with such open arms that I fear I...
Americans are friendly,
earnest, hospitable,
kind, frank, accomplished,
warm-hearted, fervent,
and... enthusiastic.
I can't wait to get home.
Mrs. Fisk, I have told you repeatedly
not to disturb me when I am working.
Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. Only, Mr. Forster is here.
Forster. Yes, of course.
As you can see, Mr. Forster,
we're having all-new wallpaper put in, French,
new doors, new door knocker,
new roller blinds for the windows,
new bookcases in the library, a new chandelier,
all chosen by Charles, of course.
And the staircase is to be painted green.
- Though not too dull a green, Signor Mazzini.
- Ma certo. Sì. Capisce.
You know how Charles is.
- Only the best for Mr. Dickens.
- Yes.
Mr. Forster, if you'll allow me,
how do things stand between you and Miss Wigmore?
Oh, splendid, Mrs. Dickens.
In fact, I intend to ask her to bestow upon me
the greatest happiness a man can ever know.
Well, to marry me.
Oh, I'm very glad to hear that.
Forster! Forster, Forster, Forster. So sorry!
I completely lost track of the time.
- Shall we?
- Charles.
- You need to pay Signor Mazzini.
- Hmm?
For the parlor mantle.
- How much?
- Seventy-five pounds.
Seventy-five? What's it made of, gold?
Carrara marble, Signor. Finest quality.
No gentleman would accept less.
No? Well, quite.
Well, I will have the money for you when I return, Signor Mazzini.
Good day, Mrs. Dickens.
Good day, Mr. Forster.
Ah! Come in!
Good-bye, little strangers!
Bye!
- Say good-bye to Mr. Forster, children!
- Bye!
- I'll hail us a cab.
- What? No, it's a waste of money. We'll walk.
It's damned expensive being a gentleman.
Forster, this meeting...
- Aye! I know my job.
- Good.
- And the money?
- Leave the publishers to me.
Good.
Slow down! What's the hurry?
Charles Bloody Dickens, huh?
The best-selling bloody author in the history of English bloody literature.
Three of his books you have published in the last year and a half. Three!
So where's the money?
Mr. Forster, like you, we are as puzzled as the Egyptians in their fog.
- How's that?
- Martin Chuzzlewit.
A masterpiece of the picaresque genre, and yet...
Barnaby Rudge. A fine book. An important subject.
But, alas...
And the travel book, American Notes.
Perhaps a little too candid for our American cousins.
No joke. I heard they were burning copies of it in the streets.
Well, they're mad as snakes, the Yanks.
But what about this 50 pound a month you're withholding from his royalties?
What is the explanation for that?
You may remember that when Mr. Dickens approached us about the tour to America,
we were pleased to provide him with an interest-free loan.
With the provision that, in the unlikely case of profits
being inadequate to certain repayments...
What? So he's had a couple of flops?
Well, who hasn't? Huh?
Your publishing house wouldn't exist without this man.
What about an advance?
- On?
- A new book.
You have a new book in mind?
Yes. Of course he does.
Well, in that case, I mean we'd obviously love to consider it.
- Consider?
- That is to say, if we like it.
- If?
- I'm sure that we will.
Gentlemen, I bid you good day.
Mr. Forster, please, we had no intention of causing offense.
Well, he's in a fettle now.
I'll give him a day to calm down.
And then... It's most awkward.
He was in last week,
in some difficulty.
Again.
No, that's not possible. He's in the countryside.
He's under strict instructions to remain there.
What is it this time?
"I need money immediately or productive of fatal consequences,
I beseech you to do the needful..."
He's been offering Mr. Dickens's autographs for sale in the newspapers.
- How much did you give him?
- Forty-five, all told.
Forty-five?
Well, I'll pay it all back.
But not a word of this to Charles, do you hear?
"What's the secret?" they say.
There is no secret. I sit down...
- Charles. What are you doing here?
- I'm hiding from Thackeray.
They absolutely come pouring out of me.
He'll no doubt want to commiserate me on my Chuzzlewit reviews,
which he will quote by heart.
Come on.
I am clammin' for some scran.
Where's Robertson?
Why do we come here, hmm?
The service is terrible. The food is inedible.
The fees keep going up.
It's full of...
Gentlemen.
You're not Robertson.
The name is Marley, sir.
- Marley? Marley with an "E"?
- Yes, sir.
Uh, oh, don't worry. He collects names.
We'll have some oysters and a bottle of champagne.
Very good, sir.
- Champagne?
- We're celebrating.
- Celebrating?
- Hello, Thackeray.
- How are you?
- Tolerable.
I thank ye.
Charles, I must say I am relieved to see you out and about.
Relieved?
You know, after those vile things they wrote about Chuzzlewit.
I won't even call them reviews.
- No matter. I never read them.
- Quite right.
Scandalous what one is allowed to print nowadays.
Go on. What did they say?
"Dull, vapid, and vulgar.
Not a single character capable of exciting the reader's sympathies."
I certainly didn't think it was vulgar.
Oh, look. There's Macready.
Poor thing. His Macbeth was absolutely shredded in the Times.
I must go and give him my condolences.
I'm sick of London.
It's overcrowded, overpriced...
- You love this town.
- No place for a man without money.
Not to mention the bloody fog.
But it's your inspiration, your what-do-you-call-it... your magic lamp.
I tell you, Forster, my lamp's gone out.
I've run out of ideas.
I feel old.
Old? You're a puppy.
You're exhausted, that's all. Too many speeches.
I've got another one tomorrow for the Children's Refuge.
Well, you have to learn to say no.
How can I say no if I can be useful, if I can lighten the burden of another?
Well, you have to, what with your new commission to think about.
Forster, I just told you that... sorry.
New commission?
It's from Chapman and Hall, for your new book.
I've told them you'll have the first chapter done by the end of the year.
You like a deadline.
- Do you mind telling me what it's about?
- I'll leave that up to you.
And on Christmas Eve, they say,
the fairy mounds open wide
and the fire spirits pour into the night.
And then the Lord of the Dead
leads all of the spirits into a wild hunt.
And he calls to them...
- Do we have a new housemaid?
- What?
Uh, yes. Tara.
She's Irish. Charley adores her.
What are you doing?
- It was only a stub.
- Another hour in that.
- Oh, really, Charles.
- If you carry on like this, we'll end up in the poor house.
- You're funny.
- I'm not joking.
Charles!
You give money to every and any beggar in the street.
You insist we move to a bigger house and order in all new fixtures,
and then you complain about a new candle.
Debt is an ogre, Kate.
If you're not careful, it can eat you up.
Are we in trouble?
No, of course not.
Then what?
Nothing.
I'm just sick of writing tooth and nail for bread, that's all.
- Should've become a journalist.
- You hate the press.
- Or a lawyer.
- "The law is an ass."
I believe you wrote that.
A hairdresser, then, in the Burlington Arcade.
Do you know what I should have liked to be?
An explorer,
paddling a canoe somewhere in the wilds of Canada
in a pair of buckskin breeches,
all on my own.
No nappies to change.
By the way, dear,
I... I saw the doctor today.
Not another... little stranger.
Are you pleased?
Well, of course.
- Well, that's splendid.
- Yes.
I am a necromancer.
Behold.
And now...
Charley.
Charley, it's all right.
I'm here.
Mistress Chickenstalker!
Mistress Chickenstalker, what has happened to your pinnie?
You look as if you've been caught in a cyclone.
That's much better.
Master Corporal Skittles, sir.
On your feet, sir!
Ah, Lucifer Box.
Would you do me the honor?
Good.
Ah, the Snodgering Blee. We meet at last.
What's this?
You have forgotten to wash behind your ear.
Cor!
Now you must be... don't... don't tell me.
- Who is that?
- Tara.
Tara. Of course.
I see you've made a conquest.
What was that wonderful story I overheard you telling
about fairy mounds and the fire spirits?
Only a story my gran used to tell us, sir, back home in Ireland.
She used to say that on Christmas Eve
the veils between this world and the next thin out,
and that's when the spirits cross over and walk among us.
Do they indeed?
Well, well, well.
Christmas Eve.
Thank you so much for coming.
- It was such an interesting speech.
- Thank you very much.
- Your hat, sir.
- Thank you.
Oh, Mr. Dickens, it's such an honor to meet you.
- We just adore your books.
- No, we don't.
- Well, I love them.
- Nonsense. You just like a good cry.
What is it you particularly object to in my books?
Pickpockets, streetwalkers, charity boys.
Those people don't belong in books.
"Those people"? You mean, the poor?
Look here, Mr. Dickens. I'm a self-made man.
Pulled myself up by my own bootstraps.
Never asked for anything from anyone that I wasn't willing to pay for.
- Really? No help from anyone?
- None.
Well, Papa did give us a very small cotton mill when we were married.
What do you suggest we do with "those people"? Hmm?
Are there no workhouses?
Do you know how many people would rather die than go there?
Then they'd better do it
and reduce the surplus population.
Can you spare a bob, please?
Care to buy, sir? Hard workers.
Fit any chimney.
You f...
Quick! Come on! In here!
Down here now!
- Come on!
- No!
I lift mine eyes unto the hills
from whence cometh my help.
My help cometh even from the Lord,
who hath made heaven and earth...
All right, all right. I'm not paying you by the hour.
Skip to the end.
Rest eternal, grant to him, O Lord.
Let light perpetual shine upon him.
- Amen. Amen.
- Amen.
Shame, innit?
All that money and no one here to mourn him except Old Scratch there.
- Who's that?
- His business partner.
The meanest cur on two legs, so they say.
Aye, right. Come on.
Ah... humbug.
"Humbug."
"Are there no workhouses?
Well, then they'd better do it
and decrease the surplus population."
"Old Scratch. All that money. Shame."
Good evening, sir.
Yes, it is, Mrs. Fisk.
- Charles?
- Humbug! Humbug!
Humbug! Ha-ha!
It's about a businessman. Or a factory owner. A miser.
His partner dies. He doesn't shed a tear.
Thinks only of the money.
And on Christmas Eve...
On Christmas Eve, he meets some kind of... of...
of supernatural guides, or spirits, possibly,
who in the course of one night
teach him what a miserable, loathsome, selfish toad he is.
It's a short book. Short and sharp.
A hammer blow to the heart
of this smug, self-satisfied age.
It's a comedy.
Brilliant.
- Does it have a title?
- Yes.
Humbug: A Miser's Lament.
A Christmas Ghost Story... Christmas Song...
Christmas Ballad. Something like that.
Intriguing, really. Ah, just one question.
Why Christmas?
- Well, why not?
- Does anybody really celebrate it anymore?
Apart from our clerk, who never misses an opportunity
to take a day off... with pay.
More or less an opportunity for picking a man's pocket every 25th of December.
What we mean to say, Mr. Dickens, is,
not much of a market for Christmas books, what?
It is a Christmas book because Christmas is, or ought to be, the one time of year
when men and women open their shut-up hearts
and think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave
and not another race of creatures altogether.
We are already halfway through October.
Even if you had already written it, we couldn't possibly get it illustrated,
typeset, printed and bound, advertised and distributed to shops
in only six weeks.
Well...
thank you for your opinion.
Mr. Dickens!
Tie it off now. That's it.
Scaly-headed vultures. Money-grubbing, scum-sucking...
- But, Charles...
- I'll do it myself.
- What?
- I'll pay for it myself... all of it.
Illustrations, everything. I'll distribute it myself.
But, Charles, this is madness. Think of your finances, huh?
Come on. We'll go back. We'll renegotiate.
No shame in it. It's just business.
Why throw everything away for a minor holiday?
No, I've never felt so strongly about anything in my life, John.
You can help me or not, as you wish.
- Where are you off to?
- Going to raise some capital.
One thing I've learned from my father...
people will believe anything if you're properly dressed.
Mr. Trabb! Your finest cravats!
Nothing like the air of the metropolis
to put color in your cheeks, eh, Mother?
There you are, sir. Best quality. A-1 condition.
And look inside.
Autographed by the author.
"To Papa. Love, Charles."
Five bob.
Hello, old dog.
Perhaps we could, um, strike a bargain.
- Hello.
- Good with children, is it?
Too much?
Aha! Mr. Dickens and Mr. Forster.
How do you?
Very well, thank you, Mr. Haddock.
Mittens.
You are a bad boy.
Now, how may I be of service to you?
Well, sir, it's about the loan.
There was something I wanted to tell you.
What was it?
It was some rather good news, if I recall correctly.
What, uh...
Biscuit?
Well... thank you.
Now, what was I, uh... what...
Uh, you said something about good news?
Possibly about the lawsuit?
Ah, the lawsuit.
Yes, the copyright infringement.
Oliver Twisted. "As re-originated from the original."
Yes! Ha! I have it here.
Good news indeed. We won.
The fine was set at £2,200.
The bad news is, the defendants have no money.
- Ah.
- Bankrupt.
Disappointing, I know.
But we'll have them arrested, throw them into debtor's prison.
No. No, no.
No?
As you wish.
In the meantime,
if you would be so good...
here's my bill.
No rush. Next week will be fine.
Tell you what. Why don't we defer this until... January?
And while we're at it, perhaps you might add a little bit more.
I'll make it worth your while.
More?
You wish to borrow more?
Not very much. Just...
£300... till January.
I think we can increase your loan
at, shall we say, 25 percent?
God's teeth!
Thank you.
Charles. Charles.
- Are you all right?
- Yeah.
Never better.
Now find me an illustrator.
He was a tight-fisted, hand to the grindstone
old... scratch.
Scrounger.
He was a...
covetous old sinner.
Name!
Shh.
Screwpull! Scrabbly.
Name! Ah!
Well, go on. He won't bite.
Screwpull.
Scrimple!
You're... What are you doing in here?
I've just come to see to the fire, sir.
I'm not to be interrupted under any circumstances! Do you hear?
I beg your pardon, sir. It won't happen again.
Wait. What's that in your pocket?
Varney the Vampire, or The Feast of Blood.
You won't tell Mrs. Fisk, will ya? She'll think I was shirkin'.
- Where did you learn to read?
- My mum taught me.
But then she died
and I had to go to the Grubber.
The workhouse?
- Is it any good?
- Well, yes, sir. Thrilling.
Tell you what. I'll make you a trade.
Varney the Vampire for...
Uh, where is it?
Aladdin and His Magic Lamp.
Oh, my.
Read it. Let me know what you think.
Thank you, sir.
Who is Scrimple?
Hmm? Scrimple?
- When I come in, you were saying...
- Oh!
It's just a name for a story I'm concocting.
Get the name right and then, if you're lucky, the character will appear.
He's not here yet.
Scrantish?
Scrarmer.
Come on.
Scrunge.
Aw, come on!
Come on, you old sinner!
Scrooge!
Shut the window! Do you think I'm made of money?
Mr. Scrooge.
- How delightful to meet you, sir.
- Sorry I can't say the same.
Come now. Don't be standoffish.
We ought to be friends.
- Don't have friends. Don't need 'em.
- Ah.
Naturally.
- I know. Let's play a game.
- Don't like games.
Well, humor me.
What do you think of when I say the word... "darkness"?
Cheap.
Love. - Swindle.
- Money.
- Security.
- Children.
- Useless.
- Workhouse.
- Useful.
Christmas.
Christmas?
That's right.
Help! Help! Get it away!
Away!
What is going on?
Get it away, the filthy thing.
Come on, Grip, old chap. Back in the cage.
- Father?
- Ah. Charles.
- Good day.
- What are you doing here?
Well, we were in the neighborhood
and we thought we'd drop by with a present for the children.
His name is Grip. He talks!
- Can we keep him?
- Hello, old girl.
It's bad luck, a bird in the house.
It means death.
- Hello!
- Father, in here.
Of course.
Charles? Charles?
What are you doing back in London?
My dear Charles.
I will not disguise from you that this is not the ardor
with which a loving father might be expected...
You are supposed to be in Devon.
Banishment!
Be merciful and say "death,"
for exile has more terror in its look.
Father, we had an agreement.
I bought you a house.
I gave you an allowance.
For which I am very grateful.
As for me, I'm happy wherever the weather.
But your mother is of a more delicate sensibility.
Charles, the mere sight of cows
causes her actual physical pain.
Father.
And I have research to do in the London Library.
- Research?
- Oh, yes.
Yeah.
I have a commission from The Spectator
to write a feature on the Bank Charter Act.
The editor was very impressed
with my series on marine insurance.
Good for you, Father. I do hope that you and Mother will stay here with us.
The children and I will so enjoy having some company in the evenings.
The Spectator. Well, that's, um...
That's most impressive.
Thank you, dear boy.
Oh, by the way,
you couldn't lend me a tenner, could you?
That blighter took my last farthing for the cage.
It was the bird, sir. It flew upstairs.
Oh, um, I'll see that it's all cleared up.
Please, can we keep him?
Well, I, um...
Come on, Walter.
"This is not the ardor with which a loving father..."
Humbug!
- What is?
- Christmas.
What about it?
Well, what is it but an excuse
for picking a man's pocket every 25th of December?
Yes. Keep going.
A time for paying bills without money.
A time for finding yourself a year older and not an hour richer.
If I could work my will,
every idiot who goes about with "Merry Christmas" on his lips
should be boiled in his own plum pudding
and buried with a stake of holly through his heart, he should.
Oh, Mr. Scrooge, you and I are going to do wonderful things together.
Oh, but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge.
A squeezing, wrenching,
grasping, scraping,
clutching, covetous old sinner.
Charles?
Hard at work?
What can I help you with, Father?
Well, I was wondering if we might have an extra candlestick for our room.
- Of course.
- Oh!
Cigars. Oh, yes.
I must confess,
I have acquired an irrepressible habit of smoking whilst I write.
Dreadful habit, I know, but...
Oh, yes.
Thank you.
Hmm. Going well?
I won't detain you.
Don't do that. D-Don't.
Why not?
Too late.
Who is it?
Who is it?
Bunsby?
Clennam?
Heep? Hexam?
- Oh, stop, stop!
- Magwitch?
No.
Marley.
Is that you, Jacob?
- You know him?
- My business partner.
Last time I saw him he was dead as a doornail.
How do you, Jacob?
Business, business.
Mankind was my business.
The common welfare was my business.
Charity...
mercy...
forbearance, and benevolence
were all my business.
He was never one for a straight answer.
And yet I practiced none of them!
Come in.
Come in, please.
You are fettered. Why?
I wear the chain I forged in life.
I made it...
link by link,
yard by yard.
And of my own free will, I girded it about me.
Of my own free will,
I wore it.
Do you know the weight and length of the chain you bear yourself?
You mean him, surely.
You, Charley.
Your chains, all around you.
Past and present...
and what is to come.
Hail to thee, blithe turkey,
whose exquisite odors
now perfume the circumambient air.
And let this day be fragrant
with the love we bear one another.
And may God bless us, every one.
Every one.
Mr. John Dickens.
You're under arrest for a debt of 42 pounds.
- Father!
- Charley.
Father, tell them to stop!
Take everything that shines, boys.
It's all right, Charley.
- Tell them to stop, Father!
- It's all right.
Please, Charley, don't worry.
What about Leech for the illustrations?
Leech? He's so prickly.
- And he's by no means the cheapest.
- I don't want the cheapest.
Oh, Charles, for God's sake, slow down.
You move at railway speed.
I don't want the cheapest. I want the best.
- It's going well then?
- What?
- The book.
- It's brilliant. Best thing I've ever written.
- What, so you...
- I've got 11 pages.
Eleven? - Well, if it weren't for constant interruptions.
We've got my father staying with us.
He could not have come at a worse time.
Miss Wigmore.
Come.
Come along.
Who was that?
- Charlotte.
- Who?
My fiancée. I told you.
Fiancée?
- She's a canny lass, is she not?
- Indeed. Most amiable.
Amiable?
Why, man, she's an angel, a sylph.
She's a goddess on a...
Whatever is the matter?
Charlotte and I have come to a parting of the ways.
- I thought you said you were engaged.
- We were.
But then her father had no intention for her to marry the son of a butcher.
Here.
Perhaps it's for the best, eh?
The life matrimonial, it's not for everyone, old stick.
Aye. Aye, no doubt.
So... Leech.
That's the ticket.
Four wood cuts, four etchings.
The cover in red. Hand-colored.
The title in rustic, spectral writing.
The end papers to be green and all three edges to be gilded.
Gilded? It'll cost you.
Well, it must be exquisite. That's why we came to you.
You'll have to sell every copy to make your money back.
That is my intention.
You brought the manuscript?
I'll have something for you in a week.
- A week?
- Mmm.
That leaves only four weeks to do all the illustrations
and get it to the printer in time for Christmas.
- Can you do it?
- Mr. Dickens, I'm not a hired hand.
I am an artist.
What you are asking is impossible.
Impossible for an ordinary man.
But you are no ordinary man, Mr. Leech.
You are a genius.
Fifty pounds.
Paid in advance.
Plus more for the plates.
Done. Thank you, Mr. Leech.
Look, Charles, I don't want to be the voice of doom,
but before we lay out money for illustrations,
we should consider what happens if you don't finish on time.
I will finish on time.
Quite.
Mr. Dickens. I fix the chandelier. See?
Yes. Good. Grazie, Signor Mazzini.
Is no problem.
Only 12 guineas extra.
12...
I thought my father was off to the British Library.
Your sister's here, sir.
Come from Manchester with her little boy.
- My dear sister! Ha-ha!
- Charley.
Henry, how are you?
Very well, grace be to God.
This cannot be young Master Henry.
I barely recognize you.
- How old are you now?
- Nine, if you please, sir.
Nine? I shall soon run out of fingers.
Excuse me, sir.
The children are having their tea in the dining room.
Come on then, young 'un. Up!
Mind your head.
There goes my heart.
What did the doctor say?
He says we have to wait and see.
Won't you let us help?
- We'll manage.
- At least until Henry finds a new position.
Something will come up. I'm sure of it.
You sound just like Father.
How is the old reprobate?
"This morning I had 25 shillings in my hand.
And now, observe the vacancy."
He means no harm.
It's not enough.
He bobs around like a cork on the surface of life.
- Not a thought for the future.
- Oh, Charley.
Let it go, can't you?
Come on, me army! Me landlubbers, me lovelies!
Oh! Up we go. Ha-ha! Me landlubbers!
Come aboard my ship! Here we go! Let's set sail!
Brail your capstan bar! Come here, Walter.
- Brail your capstan bar!
- No one is useless in this world...
Who lightens the burden of another. I know.
For all his faults, you won't find a kinder man.
How long he is growing up to be one.
Here we go! Full sail ahead!
Why are you here?
You'd better come and see who's just turned up.
Charles?
Just a bit of indigestion. Go back to sleep.
Tell him who you are.
I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.
Follow.
Not bloody likely.
- Why not?
- Mucking around in the past? What's the point?
You might learn something.
Well, I already know everything I need to know.
- Uh, take him, why don't you?
- Me?
- Yes, if you're so keen.
- It's not about me!
Well, you're the author, aren't you?
Follow.
Don't cry. We'll be back when the debt's paid.
- Why can't I stay with you?
- You're a big boy, Charley.
You're the breadwinner now.
You'll see. It'll be an adventure.
You'll hardly think of us at all.
Time to go!
Now, sir, enough of that.
Stand up tall.
Blood of iron, heart of ice.
And remember!
You're the son of John Dickens!
A gentleman!
You be sure and tell them that!
Well, come on then!
Blood of iron,
heart of ice.
Good morning. - What? Oh.
You were tossing and turning all night, you know.
Yes. Bad dreams.
What about?
I don't know. Shadows.
a little daylight will cure you.
Now, Constable,
shall we ask Mr. Punch where the baby's daddy's gone?
I bet he knows.
- Oh! Where's the baby's daddy gone?
- Where's he gone, Mr. Punch?
Daddy's off to prison!
Off to prison? Oh-ho!
Come on. We're wasting time.
Let's get to work.
I am working.
- Here?
- Yes. Gathering inspiration.
Gathering what?
- What do you see when you look around?
- Well, it's a market, you idiot.
What else?
Hot pies! Eel, beef or mutton pies!
- Buyers and sellers.
- What else?
Never say die. Have a look, sir.
Thieves and ruffians.
Highly interesting murder, gentlemen!
Hold! Hold!
Clear the way! Clear the way, lads!
Mr. Fezziwig!
Life, Mr. Scrooge.
It's London. The great theater of the world.
- It's all here.
- Bah. Humbug!
I'm a man of facts, of calculations.
Realities, not fancy.
What the devil is that?
Here you go, sir.
- Must go.
- Where to?
It's time to write.
- Come along.
- Good night, children!
Bye! Shoo!
Well, looks as though Charles won't be joining us.
Again.
- We may as well start.
- Oh.
Ah, the parties.
We used to keep such hours.
Balls, dinners, champagne.
First-rate capon, Mrs. Fisk.
Oh, thank you, sir. I'll let the cook know.
And the chairs had turned legs,
with green squabs to match the curtains.
What was that story, Mother?
Oh, I was just telling Kate about the dining room set we used to have.
Rosewood. In the most approved taste.
You mean the one we pawned?
Charles! You are a satirical monster.
- Is that a joke, Charles?
- Not a very amusing one.
Is that a new waistcoat, Father?
What? Oh, yes. It's Persian crimson.
A little more expensive.
But as I always say, people will believe anything
if you are properly dressed.
Kate, will you ask Tara to bring a tray up with something on it?
- I'll bring it up.
- No. I need Tara to do it.
I'll get her, sir. Tara!
That's the spirit, my boy. Hmm?
Procrastination is the thief of time, eh, Charles?
Collar him!
We must not disturb the poet
when the divine frenzy is upon him.
Know the place?
Was I apprenticed here?
Clear the way, lads!
Clear the way. It's Friday night.
Why, it's old Fezziwig.
Who is it?
It's Tara, sir, with your dinner.
Tara. Come in. Come in.
Close the door.
Sit. I want to read you something.
Oh... oh, I... I don't think Mrs. Fisk would...
Ah! Skittleshins to Mrs. Fisk.
Come. Sit.
Now, since you like ghost stories,
see if this can rival Varney the Vampire.
"With cherry-cheeked apples,
juicy oranges, luscious pears,
immense Twelfth cakes and seething bowls of punch
that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam.
In easy state, upon this couch, there sat a jolly giant..."
- The second ghost.
- The second ghost.
I am the Ghost of Christmas Present.
These are the gifts of abundance, goodwill,
and of generosity.
Of course, you wouldn't understand much about that, would you?
Unlike these good people.
My dear Mrs. Cratchit, you have outdone yourself this year.
Oh, everyone pitched in. Even Tim.
- I set the table.
- Yes, you did.
I didn't know Cratchit had a crippled son.
Didn't you ever think to ask?
A merry Christmas to us all, my dears.
- And may God bless us.
- God bless us, every one.
He's my clerk.
I don't pay him to tell me about his personal life.
- You hardly pay him at all.
- Fifteen shillings a week.
For a man with a family, not to mention a sick child?
That's the market rate.
Do you really believe that every inch of existence
is a bargain across the counter?
Observe this family.
They don't have much, but they're happy, grateful, contented with their lot.
Whereas you are miserable and content with nothing.
Never heard such folly.
Heed well what I've said.
Farewell.
And... intermission!
- Thrilling performance.
- That's very kind. Thank you.
And that is as far as I've got.
- Tara.
- Hmm?
- How do you do that, sir?
- Do what?
Make a world come alive.
I could almost see and hear them people.
Especially that Tiny Tim.
Poor mite.
Um... A word in your ear.
- About what?
- The scene.
- It's very one-sided.
- What? One-sided?
Well, my character doesn't get to explain his side of things.
- So I've taken the liberty of writing a short speech.
- No.
Something about the rational self-interest...
and the natural tendencies of free markets...
No. No. And no.
Well, what sort of book is this anyway?
No! It's too... ew. It's too gloomy.
The Ghost of Christmas Present should be wonderful.
Warm, jolly!
- Jolly?
- Yes!
A jolly ghost?
That's it.
- What's this?
- Find another artist.
We don't want another artist.
A jolly Christmas ghost? What's that mean?
I can't draw what I don't understand.
Well, it is everything that's best about Christmas.
He's the soul of kindness and generosity.
He's...
Well, he's Forster.
With a beard.
Come on. Jolly.
In shops by Christmas?
That'll be a miracle.
Go away.
Three flops in a row.
Up to your eyeballs in debt.
I'd think you'd be glad of some advice.
So, you've had a few flops.
What of it?
You're still young.
It's not as if you're an old man.
You've still got lots of time to be...
Are we in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?
- Why doesn't he speak?
- Shh!
You are here to show us the shadows of the things that have not been,
but will happen, in the time before us.
Is that so?
Where does it want us to go?
I think I know.
I have a bad feeling about this.
I...
And then they entered poor Bob Cratchit's house
and found the mother and the children round the fire.
It's okay. It's okay.
Then Bob came in the door.
You went today then, Robert?
To the cemetery?
Yes, my dear.
I wish you could have gone to see how green a place it is.
But you'll see it often.
I promised him that I would take a walk there on a Sunday.
My little child.
- My little, little child.
- "...little child."
- No!
- Uh, rude!
- Is Tiny Tim dead?
- Well, of course he is. Imbecile.
He was very ill.
You can't save every child in London.
And the family has no money for a doctor.
Then Scrooge must save him!
Me?
- But he wouldn't...
- Why?
- Well, he's too selfish.
- He can change.
There's good in him somewhere, I know it!
People don't change.
He's been this way for a long time.
I'm not sure he can change.
Of course he can. He's not a monster.
I thought this was a ghost story, not a fairy tale.
He wouldn't let Tiny Tim die, Mr. Dickens.
He has a heart, doesn't he?
It would be too wicked...
even for him.
'Tis now the very witching time of night...
Hush!
when graveyards yawn and hell...
Aha, Shakespeare.
There's a man who could write.
I doubt he ever had a blockage.
Self-preservation... first law of nature.
And that's just a fact.
Oh, Charles! Good evening.
We'll get him straight into bed, Charles.
We were up the river to Kew, and I think perhaps it was too long a day.
- Kew.
- Kew?
- What about your newspaper article?
- Article?
Yes, the one you're writing. It's been over a month.
No, the, um...
The editor felt that due to pecuniary complications
of a most complicated nature,
he felt he could not proceed with the commission.
So, no newspaper article.
No. However, I rejoice in saying
I have every hope something will turn up.
I think it's time you went back to Devon, Father.
- Indeed.
- As soon as possible.
Of course, dear boy.
We shall catch the afternoon train tomorrow.
No, sweet.
I can manage from here.
Thank you.
Good night, Charles.
Ride on, ride on,
over all obstacles
and win the race.
Don't be unkind, Charley.
You don't know what he's been through.
He feels it all, you know.
He would never tell you, but he feels it all.
That's it. Blood of iron, heart of ice.
Now perhaps we can finish this little book.
"Are these the shadows of the things that will be,
or are they shadows of the things that may be only?"
That is as far as I've got.
It's brilliant.
- Are you pulling my leg?
- No. No, of course not.
Well, now... that's encouraging.
My... my one criticism...
Yes?
- Tiny Tim.
- Go on.
- Are you really going to let him die?
- Aw, not you as well.
It's a Christmas book. Shouldn't it be hopeful?
I mean, isn't that what... what... what Christmas is all about?
The hope that in the end, our better natures will prevail?
You were the one who persuaded me to kill off Little Nell.
Yeah. Well, I stand by that decision.
John, my readers implored me...
But this is different.
If Tiny Tim dies, then what's the point?
- Thank you, John.
- You're welcome.
For reminding me why I never ask your opinion on my work.
Your services are no longer required.
- You cannot sack me.
- Why not?
Because I don't work for you.
I do what I do as a friend.
John, please leave.
See you on Friday.
Last chapter's due at the printers.
Right. Let's run it again from the scene with Scrooge's debtors.
- Oh, what's the point?
- The point?
We keep stopping at the same place.
Yes, because I'm working out the ending.
- Admit it, you're blocked!
- I'm not blocked.
Now, if you take my advice...
- I'm the author here.
- Allegedly.
I'm going out.
- Alone!
- Aw.
Forster. I need your help.
- What is it? The children?
- No. The children are fine.
What's this?
"Candle-scandal, flirt-hurt, Charlotte-poor heart."
Is that a poem? That's atrocious.
What has got into you?
You look terrible. What's the matter?
It's the book. I'm struggling with one of the characters.
- Quite a few of them, actually.
- What exactly is the problem?
The problem is, could a man as mean-spirited as Scrooge, as evil as Scrooge...
Could he become a different person overnight?
What is so evil about him?
- Well, he's a miser.
- Well, that doesn't make him evil.
- It just makes him cheap.
- He worships money.
- It's the only thing that matters to him.
- Why?
He has nothing else.
No friends? No family?
No one he trusts.
Why?
Because he's afraid.
Of?
Being found out.
Hello, chaps. - Thackeray.
Charles, I haven't seen anything of yours in print for ages.
Don't tell me you've had a blockage.
Not in the least.
I'm neck and heels into a Christmas book.
- What the deuce is that?
- A story about Christmas.
For Christmas.
A story... about...?
How amusing.
Well, best of luck with it.
Oh, dear, my last book has come out in a Railway edition.
Sold 10,000 copies, in a week.
"There's gold in them thar hills,"
as your American friends would say.
Come on. Let's go somewhere else, get a real drink.
She's a big lass, and a bonny lass, and she likes her beer.
And I call her Cushie Butterfield, and I wish she was here.
What language is that?
That's Geordie, man. We're gods.
- Where are we?
- Oh, it's Hungerford Stairs.
Oi, I smell the river.
What's that?
It's a graveyard.
Ah, it's the old Warren's Factory.
They moved from there years ago.
I wonder they've not pulled it down yet.
Yeah. Or burnt it down.
Might do it myself one day.
Why? What have you got against boot blacking?
Charles.
What is it?
I just have this recurring nightmare.
Oh, nightmares, aye.
I've got one where I'm being chased by a giant badger.
What's yours?
Never mind.
Well, come on. It's time to go home.
I'll see you at the printers.
Friday morning, nine o'clock.
- I can't.
- Well, why not?
It's the book.
I can't... the characters won't do what I want.
And I'm afraid.
Of what?
If I can't finish it, I'll never write again.
Oh, come on, man, come on.
Have some sleep, hear?
I can't.
The wrong fire is burning in my head.
Oh, don't be daft.
Now, come on, your wife will be worried sick.
Who? Kate? She doesn't understand me.
I've got news for you, Charles.
None of us understand you.
You're... you're a freak of nature.
I'm exhausted spending two hours in your company.
Come on, go home. It's cold tonight, yeah?
I'll see you Friday.
Here. Bye.
Put that one over there!
Boys!
This here is Charley Dickens.
And what was you just telling me, lad?
About your dad?
My father is a gentleman.
Where is he then?
- Dining with the queen?
- I heard he's been sent to prison.
Hush, you lot. Get back to work!
Master Dickens.
No shirkin' here.
You're no better than us, cocker, and you'd best learn that.
You. What are you doing?
Hello, Charley, old boy.
Father? What are you doing here?
Oh, I had some business that I had to attend to, so I thought...
You just left town.
What business could you possibly have?
- Oh, I...
- What's that?
You're going to sell this?
Well, it's no good to you, is it?
Is that what you've been doing?
Going through the rubbish like a tramp, selling bits and pieces of me.
Is this your business?
- Aren't you ashamed?
- What?
I bought you a house. I gave you an allowance.
What more can you possibly need?
Need? Oh, reason not the need.
- You see me here, you gods?
- No. No. Shh. No.
- A poor old man!
- No! Shh! Stop it.
Charley, you don't know what it's like to be poor, to be nothing.
At 11 years old I was made to know.
Working 12 hours a day,
going hungry, alone and afraid
because your father, who is supposed to care for you,
is so utterly thriftless!
No, please. I beg you.
No, you are not the victim here.
This is about me and your family and all of us
who've lived our whole lives in the shadow of your recklessness.
Charley...
Go away. I am sickened at the sight of you.
You are nothing but a drag and chain upon my life.
I owe you nothing. Go!
Ah, Charley.
- Who's that then?
- Nobody.
- The author.
- Huh.
No wonder he looks so depressed.
Right. That's enough. Back to work.
God bless us, every one.
Why are you so miserable?
What else can I be, when I live in such a world of fools as this?
- You mean-spirited, cynical...
- Oh, yes?
Well, you look in the mirror sometime.
"Is that a new candle, Kate?"
"Your services are no longer required."
Ah, a hypocrite.
- What?
- Pardon me, sir.
- Mrs. Dickens just wanted me to ask...
- This is intolerable.
- Mrs. Fisk! Mrs. Fisk!
- Yes, sir?
Take this child away from here and see that she never disturbs me ever again. Do you hear?
Yes, sir. Come with me, girl.
Oh, yes. Banish her. Banish them all.
- Quiet!
- Humanity's great benefactor.
- Humbug!
- Shut it.
Or I'll make you bald, with bad teeth.
Oh, yeah, go ahead. It won't change a thing.
You still won't have an ending.
This is ridiculous.
You're all being ridiculous.
If you be a man!
Come on then, coward!
Fight me!
You miserable old fool!
Fight me! Come on!
Tara.
Tara!
Has anybody seen Tara?
- She's gone.
- You asked Mrs. Fisk to send her away.
Well, go and search for her. Find her.
Rehire her at once.
An Irish orphan in London?
That would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Come on, out. Come on, children, off you go.
Quick sticks. That's it.
Why didn't you stop her?
How was I to know you didn't mean it?
You said...
I say a lot of things that are nonsense when I'm working.
- Charles...
- You know how ideas take possession of me.
- You knew what I was like when you married me.
- Yes. I did.
But you have no idea what it's like to live with you.
Always walking on eggshells,
trying to guess your mood,
to know which of your commands are a whim and which are in earnest.
You know, sometimes I...
I feel your characters matter more to you
than your own flesh and blood.
I am who I am.
And who is that?
It's as if there are two of you.
One who's kind and gentle,
and a secret self
that no one is allowed to know or question.
This here is Charley Dickens.
What was it you was telling me, lad, about your dad?
My father is a gentleman.
Where is he then? Dining with the queen?
I heard he's been sent to prison!
Hush, you lot! Where's your manners?
Get back to work.
Master Dickens.
Got a present for the young gentleman,
seeing as it's Christmas.
Blood of iron, heart of ice.
You're no better than us, cocker!
Hello, Charley.
So, this is your miserable secret.
The famous author, the inimitable Charles Dickens,
was once a scabby little factory boy.
Leave me be.
A common bit of riffraff, a squalid wretch.
No use to anyone!
Look for yourself. What do you see, huh?
A nothing. A nobody. A debtor's son.
Who could ever care for you?
Certainly not your father. He abandoned you.
Enough of that. Stand up tall.
Blood of iron, heart of ice.
He failed you again and again.
You said so yourself.
Nothing but a drag and chain upon your life.
Who are you? Huh?
You know me, Charley.
I'm hunger. I'm cold.
I'm darkness.
I'm the shadow on your thoughts, the crack in your heart,
and the stain upon your soul.
And I will never, ever leave you.
Go away.
Why? We're having such fun.
People don't change, Charley.
Look around you. You're still the same scabby boy.
Useless, just like your father.
No.
"No one is useless in this world who lightens the burden of another."
My father taught me that.
Which grave is that?
- There's no name on it.
- Well, why should there be?
The man to whom this grave belongs
never made himself useful to anyone but himself.
No friends.
No family.
Never felt love or joy.
Never took any kind of pleasure in life.
And now it's too late.
It's time, Mr. Scrooge.
We've come to the end.
I don't want to die.
Not like this...
alone,
unloved, forgotten.
It's too late.
No, it's never too late.
It's never... it's never too late.
I will honor Christmas in my heart
and try to keep it all the year.
I will live in the past, the present, and the future.
The spirits of all three will strive within me.
I will not shut out the lessons that they teach.
Oh, please. I beg you.
Let me do some good...
before I die.
So we come to the final chapter.
Oh, I told you we'd do great things together, Mr. Scrooge.
Stave five.
"The End of It."
Yes. And the bedpost was his own,
the bed was his own, the room was his own.
Best and happiest of all, the time before him was his own to make amends in.
Scrooge was better than his word.
He did it all and infinitely more.
And to Tiny Tim, who did not die,
he was a second father.
And so, as Tiny Tim observed,
"God bless us, every one."
The end.
The end.
- Charles?
- What?
- There is someone here to see you.
- Not now, Kate, please.
I have to get this to the printer by nine o'clock.
Tara.
Thank you for the loan.
Well, thank you.
It's good, isn't it?
Oh, yes, sir. It was fizzing.
Fizzing? That's delightful.
Tara.
I am very sorry that I sent you away.
That was a mistake.
And I was...
And you were right about Tiny Tim.
He doesn't die.
Scrooge helps him to get better.
And does he help Scrooge get better too?
Yes.
Yes, he does.
- Where did that come from?
- A gift.
For the children. From your father.
My father was here?
You can still catch him, if...
Kate.
I know. You don't deserve me.
Go. Go.
- Cab!
- Whoa!
- Paddington Station!
- Right-o, governor.
- As fast as you can!
- Oi! Oi!
Turn it around. And wait for me here!
Oi! Stop!
- Hey!
- Stop! Police!
Wait!
Wait, wait, please! Where do you think you're going?
- What?
- Oh, please, dear.
- Don't make a scene. We're going away.
- No, you're not. Please.
Police! Get out of my way!
Clear the way! Let me through!
Oh. What have I done now?
No, it's... it's what you haven't done.
- What do you mean?
- Well, who's going to carve the turkey?
And who's going to make the Christmas pudding?
It won't be the same without you.
The pudding! The secret is to warm the treacle first.
There, you... you see, my dear?
I told you something would turn up.
Oh, my son. Oh.
Gotcha!
You're that Charles Dickens, aren't you?
Uh, guilty.
That last one. Chuzzlewit.
Wept like a baby, I did.
Well, that's... that's very kind.
What's your name, Constable?
My name? Copperfield, sir.
Copperfield.
Any chance of a new book soon?
New book. New book!
Wait. New book.
Merry Christmas!
I'm his father.
Santa bells for sale!
Shoe Lane! As fast as you can go.
- Charles, where have you been?
- It's all right. I've got it!
Mr. Grub! Mr. Grub. We're here.
I have it. I have the ending.
You can finish it now.
It's too late. - What?
Oh, come on.
You've already printed the other four chapters, and it's just one more.
Get the whole book finished today.
- I can't guarantee anything.
- Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Grub!
Thank you.
I didn't say I could do it.
Well, I'll see what I can do.
Oh, come on, man. Don't prolong the agony.
It's exactly as I'd imagined it.
Hello, gents. Extraordinary weather, isn't it?
Looks like snow.
- Hello, Thackeray.
- Oh, what's this I have?
Yes. It's a proof copy of your new book.
I'm going to review it for The Spectator.
I'm told you wrote it in only six weeks, Charles.
What a prodigy you are.
Did you bring that all the way from Italy?
Sì. Venezia.
And now...
And now the beautiful mermaid floats through the sea.
Hello, old girl!
Oh, my goodness. That is beautiful.
Isn't it? The Germans call it a Tannenbaum.
It's a tree for Christmas.
A Christmas tree, I suppose.
Now the royal family have got one, it'll be all the rage.
- Hello.
- Miss Wigmore!
Papa had a change of heart.
So he did. Oh, I'm so pleased! Congratulations.
Charles, uh, I think you're going to want to hear this.
- It's by Thackeray.
- Not now.
No, please. Everyone, gather round.
"It was a blessed inspiration
that put such a book into the head of Charles Dickens.
A happy inspiration of the heart
that warms every page.
It is impossible to read without a glowing bosom and burning cheeks,
between love and shame of our kind."
- Aw.
- Bravo, Charles.
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls.
And those on the way.
A toast.
I wish you all many, many happy Christmases
and friendships, and great accumulation of cheerful recollections
and heaven at last for all of us.
In the season of hope, we will shut out nothing from our firesides
and everyone will be welcome.
Welcome what has been and what is
and what we hope may be,
to this shelter underneath the holly.
Merry, merry Christmas to one and all.
Merry Christmas!
Thank you.
Hey, I paid 50 cents for this!
- Come on, Dickens!
- Come on, Charley!
We want Charles!
I want to see Charles!
Where is Dickens?
My dear Forster,
how can I give you the faintest notion
of my reception here in America?
Five minutes. Five minutes.
Of the crowds that pour in and out the whole day,
of the people that line the streets when I go out.
Places, please. Places!
Hello, Charley.
Of the balls, dinners,
speeches, parties, assemblies without end.
There never was a king or emperor upon the earth so cheered.
Tonight, live on stage...
Ready?
- the great magician of our time...
- Ready.
whose wand is a book!
The Shakespeare of the novel.
The people's author.
The great and marvelous Boz!
Ladies and gentlemen,
Mr. Charles Dickens!
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!
Thank you! Thank you!
Look, it's him! It's really him!
- Hey there, Boz!
- Whoo!
Dear friends! Dear friends!
You have welcomed me to your country with such open arms that I fear I...
Americans are friendly,
earnest, hospitable,
kind, frank, accomplished,
warm-hearted, fervent,
and... enthusiastic.
I can't wait to get home.
Mrs. Fisk, I have told you repeatedly
not to disturb me when I am working.
Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. Only, Mr. Forster is here.
Forster. Yes, of course.
As you can see, Mr. Forster,
we're having all-new wallpaper put in, French,
new doors, new door knocker,
new roller blinds for the windows,
new bookcases in the library, a new chandelier,
all chosen by Charles, of course.
And the staircase is to be painted green.
- Though not too dull a green, Signor Mazzini.
- Ma certo. Sì. Capisce.
You know how Charles is.
- Only the best for Mr. Dickens.
- Yes.
Mr. Forster, if you'll allow me,
how do things stand between you and Miss Wigmore?
Oh, splendid, Mrs. Dickens.
In fact, I intend to ask her to bestow upon me
the greatest happiness a man can ever know.
Well, to marry me.
Oh, I'm very glad to hear that.
Forster! Forster, Forster, Forster. So sorry!
I completely lost track of the time.
- Shall we?
- Charles.
- You need to pay Signor Mazzini.
- Hmm?
For the parlor mantle.
- How much?
- Seventy-five pounds.
Seventy-five? What's it made of, gold?
Carrara marble, Signor. Finest quality.
No gentleman would accept less.
No? Well, quite.
Well, I will have the money for you when I return, Signor Mazzini.
Good day, Mrs. Dickens.
Good day, Mr. Forster.
Ah! Come in!
Good-bye, little strangers!
Bye!
- Say good-bye to Mr. Forster, children!
- Bye!
- I'll hail us a cab.
- What? No, it's a waste of money. We'll walk.
It's damned expensive being a gentleman.
Forster, this meeting...
- Aye! I know my job.
- Good.
- And the money?
- Leave the publishers to me.
Good.
Slow down! What's the hurry?
Charles Bloody Dickens, huh?
The best-selling bloody author in the history of English bloody literature.
Three of his books you have published in the last year and a half. Three!
So where's the money?
Mr. Forster, like you, we are as puzzled as the Egyptians in their fog.
- How's that?
- Martin Chuzzlewit.
A masterpiece of the picaresque genre, and yet...
Barnaby Rudge. A fine book. An important subject.
But, alas...
And the travel book, American Notes.
Perhaps a little too candid for our American cousins.
No joke. I heard they were burning copies of it in the streets.
Well, they're mad as snakes, the Yanks.
But what about this 50 pound a month you're withholding from his royalties?
What is the explanation for that?
You may remember that when Mr. Dickens approached us about the tour to America,
we were pleased to provide him with an interest-free loan.
With the provision that, in the unlikely case of profits
being inadequate to certain repayments...
What? So he's had a couple of flops?
Well, who hasn't? Huh?
Your publishing house wouldn't exist without this man.
What about an advance?
- On?
- A new book.
You have a new book in mind?
Yes. Of course he does.
Well, in that case, I mean we'd obviously love to consider it.
- Consider?
- That is to say, if we like it.
- If?
- I'm sure that we will.
Gentlemen, I bid you good day.
Mr. Forster, please, we had no intention of causing offense.
Well, he's in a fettle now.
I'll give him a day to calm down.
And then... It's most awkward.
He was in last week,
in some difficulty.
Again.
No, that's not possible. He's in the countryside.
He's under strict instructions to remain there.
What is it this time?
"I need money immediately or productive of fatal consequences,
I beseech you to do the needful..."
He's been offering Mr. Dickens's autographs for sale in the newspapers.
- How much did you give him?
- Forty-five, all told.
Forty-five?
Well, I'll pay it all back.
But not a word of this to Charles, do you hear?
"What's the secret?" they say.
There is no secret. I sit down...
- Charles. What are you doing here?
- I'm hiding from Thackeray.
They absolutely come pouring out of me.
He'll no doubt want to commiserate me on my Chuzzlewit reviews,
which he will quote by heart.
Come on.
I am clammin' for some scran.
Where's Robertson?
Why do we come here, hmm?
The service is terrible. The food is inedible.
The fees keep going up.
It's full of...
Gentlemen.
You're not Robertson.
The name is Marley, sir.
- Marley? Marley with an "E"?
- Yes, sir.
Uh, oh, don't worry. He collects names.
We'll have some oysters and a bottle of champagne.
Very good, sir.
- Champagne?
- We're celebrating.
- Celebrating?
- Hello, Thackeray.
- How are you?
- Tolerable.
I thank ye.
Charles, I must say I am relieved to see you out and about.
Relieved?
You know, after those vile things they wrote about Chuzzlewit.
I won't even call them reviews.
- No matter. I never read them.
- Quite right.
Scandalous what one is allowed to print nowadays.
Go on. What did they say?
"Dull, vapid, and vulgar.
Not a single character capable of exciting the reader's sympathies."
I certainly didn't think it was vulgar.
Oh, look. There's Macready.
Poor thing. His Macbeth was absolutely shredded in the Times.
I must go and give him my condolences.
I'm sick of London.
It's overcrowded, overpriced...
- You love this town.
- No place for a man without money.
Not to mention the bloody fog.
But it's your inspiration, your what-do-you-call-it... your magic lamp.
I tell you, Forster, my lamp's gone out.
I've run out of ideas.
I feel old.
Old? You're a puppy.
You're exhausted, that's all. Too many speeches.
I've got another one tomorrow for the Children's Refuge.
Well, you have to learn to say no.
How can I say no if I can be useful, if I can lighten the burden of another?
Well, you have to, what with your new commission to think about.
Forster, I just told you that... sorry.
New commission?
It's from Chapman and Hall, for your new book.
I've told them you'll have the first chapter done by the end of the year.
You like a deadline.
- Do you mind telling me what it's about?
- I'll leave that up to you.
And on Christmas Eve, they say,
the fairy mounds open wide
and the fire spirits pour into the night.
And then the Lord of the Dead
leads all of the spirits into a wild hunt.
And he calls to them...
- Do we have a new housemaid?
- What?
Uh, yes. Tara.
She's Irish. Charley adores her.
What are you doing?
- It was only a stub.
- Another hour in that.
- Oh, really, Charles.
- If you carry on like this, we'll end up in the poor house.
- You're funny.
- I'm not joking.
Charles!
You give money to every and any beggar in the street.
You insist we move to a bigger house and order in all new fixtures,
and then you complain about a new candle.
Debt is an ogre, Kate.
If you're not careful, it can eat you up.
Are we in trouble?
No, of course not.
Then what?
Nothing.
I'm just sick of writing tooth and nail for bread, that's all.
- Should've become a journalist.
- You hate the press.
- Or a lawyer.
- "The law is an ass."
I believe you wrote that.
A hairdresser, then, in the Burlington Arcade.
Do you know what I should have liked to be?
An explorer,
paddling a canoe somewhere in the wilds of Canada
in a pair of buckskin breeches,
all on my own.
No nappies to change.
By the way, dear,
I... I saw the doctor today.
Not another... little stranger.
Are you pleased?
Well, of course.
- Well, that's splendid.
- Yes.
I am a necromancer.
Behold.
And now...
Charley.
Charley, it's all right.
I'm here.
Mistress Chickenstalker!
Mistress Chickenstalker, what has happened to your pinnie?
You look as if you've been caught in a cyclone.
That's much better.
Master Corporal Skittles, sir.
On your feet, sir!
Ah, Lucifer Box.
Would you do me the honor?
Good.
Ah, the Snodgering Blee. We meet at last.
What's this?
You have forgotten to wash behind your ear.
Cor!
Now you must be... don't... don't tell me.
- Who is that?
- Tara.
Tara. Of course.
I see you've made a conquest.
What was that wonderful story I overheard you telling
about fairy mounds and the fire spirits?
Only a story my gran used to tell us, sir, back home in Ireland.
She used to say that on Christmas Eve
the veils between this world and the next thin out,
and that's when the spirits cross over and walk among us.
Do they indeed?
Well, well, well.
Christmas Eve.
Thank you so much for coming.
- It was such an interesting speech.
- Thank you very much.
- Your hat, sir.
- Thank you.
Oh, Mr. Dickens, it's such an honor to meet you.
- We just adore your books.
- No, we don't.
- Well, I love them.
- Nonsense. You just like a good cry.
What is it you particularly object to in my books?
Pickpockets, streetwalkers, charity boys.
Those people don't belong in books.
"Those people"? You mean, the poor?
Look here, Mr. Dickens. I'm a self-made man.
Pulled myself up by my own bootstraps.
Never asked for anything from anyone that I wasn't willing to pay for.
- Really? No help from anyone?
- None.
Well, Papa did give us a very small cotton mill when we were married.
What do you suggest we do with "those people"? Hmm?
Are there no workhouses?
Do you know how many people would rather die than go there?
Then they'd better do it
and reduce the surplus population.
Can you spare a bob, please?
Care to buy, sir? Hard workers.
Fit any chimney.
You f...
Quick! Come on! In here!
Down here now!
- Come on!
- No!
I lift mine eyes unto the hills
from whence cometh my help.
My help cometh even from the Lord,
who hath made heaven and earth...
All right, all right. I'm not paying you by the hour.
Skip to the end.
Rest eternal, grant to him, O Lord.
Let light perpetual shine upon him.
- Amen. Amen.
- Amen.
Shame, innit?
All that money and no one here to mourn him except Old Scratch there.
- Who's that?
- His business partner.
The meanest cur on two legs, so they say.
Aye, right. Come on.
Ah... humbug.
"Humbug."
"Are there no workhouses?
Well, then they'd better do it
and decrease the surplus population."
"Old Scratch. All that money. Shame."
Good evening, sir.
Yes, it is, Mrs. Fisk.
- Charles?
- Humbug! Humbug!
Humbug! Ha-ha!
It's about a businessman. Or a factory owner. A miser.
His partner dies. He doesn't shed a tear.
Thinks only of the money.
And on Christmas Eve...
On Christmas Eve, he meets some kind of... of...
of supernatural guides, or spirits, possibly,
who in the course of one night
teach him what a miserable, loathsome, selfish toad he is.
It's a short book. Short and sharp.
A hammer blow to the heart
of this smug, self-satisfied age.
It's a comedy.
Brilliant.
- Does it have a title?
- Yes.
Humbug: A Miser's Lament.
A Christmas Ghost Story... Christmas Song...
Christmas Ballad. Something like that.
Intriguing, really. Ah, just one question.
Why Christmas?
- Well, why not?
- Does anybody really celebrate it anymore?
Apart from our clerk, who never misses an opportunity
to take a day off... with pay.
More or less an opportunity for picking a man's pocket every 25th of December.
What we mean to say, Mr. Dickens, is,
not much of a market for Christmas books, what?
It is a Christmas book because Christmas is, or ought to be, the one time of year
when men and women open their shut-up hearts
and think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave
and not another race of creatures altogether.
We are already halfway through October.
Even if you had already written it, we couldn't possibly get it illustrated,
typeset, printed and bound, advertised and distributed to shops
in only six weeks.
Well...
thank you for your opinion.
Mr. Dickens!
Tie it off now. That's it.
Scaly-headed vultures. Money-grubbing, scum-sucking...
- But, Charles...
- I'll do it myself.
- What?
- I'll pay for it myself... all of it.
Illustrations, everything. I'll distribute it myself.
But, Charles, this is madness. Think of your finances, huh?
Come on. We'll go back. We'll renegotiate.
No shame in it. It's just business.
Why throw everything away for a minor holiday?
No, I've never felt so strongly about anything in my life, John.
You can help me or not, as you wish.
- Where are you off to?
- Going to raise some capital.
One thing I've learned from my father...
people will believe anything if you're properly dressed.
Mr. Trabb! Your finest cravats!
Nothing like the air of the metropolis
to put color in your cheeks, eh, Mother?
There you are, sir. Best quality. A-1 condition.
And look inside.
Autographed by the author.
"To Papa. Love, Charles."
Five bob.
Hello, old dog.
Perhaps we could, um, strike a bargain.
- Hello.
- Good with children, is it?
Too much?
Aha! Mr. Dickens and Mr. Forster.
How do you?
Very well, thank you, Mr. Haddock.
Mittens.
You are a bad boy.
Now, how may I be of service to you?
Well, sir, it's about the loan.
There was something I wanted to tell you.
What was it?
It was some rather good news, if I recall correctly.
What, uh...
Biscuit?
Well... thank you.
Now, what was I, uh... what...
Uh, you said something about good news?
Possibly about the lawsuit?
Ah, the lawsuit.
Yes, the copyright infringement.
Oliver Twisted. "As re-originated from the original."
Yes! Ha! I have it here.
Good news indeed. We won.
The fine was set at £2,200.
The bad news is, the defendants have no money.
- Ah.
- Bankrupt.
Disappointing, I know.
But we'll have them arrested, throw them into debtor's prison.
No. No, no.
No?
As you wish.
In the meantime,
if you would be so good...
here's my bill.
No rush. Next week will be fine.
Tell you what. Why don't we defer this until... January?
And while we're at it, perhaps you might add a little bit more.
I'll make it worth your while.
More?
You wish to borrow more?
Not very much. Just...
£300... till January.
I think we can increase your loan
at, shall we say, 25 percent?
God's teeth!
Thank you.
Charles. Charles.
- Are you all right?
- Yeah.
Never better.
Now find me an illustrator.
He was a tight-fisted, hand to the grindstone
old... scratch.
Scrounger.
He was a...
covetous old sinner.
Name!
Shh.
Screwpull! Scrabbly.
Name! Ah!
Well, go on. He won't bite.
Screwpull.
Scrimple!
You're... What are you doing in here?
I've just come to see to the fire, sir.
I'm not to be interrupted under any circumstances! Do you hear?
I beg your pardon, sir. It won't happen again.
Wait. What's that in your pocket?
Varney the Vampire, or The Feast of Blood.
You won't tell Mrs. Fisk, will ya? She'll think I was shirkin'.
- Where did you learn to read?
- My mum taught me.
But then she died
and I had to go to the Grubber.
The workhouse?
- Is it any good?
- Well, yes, sir. Thrilling.
Tell you what. I'll make you a trade.
Varney the Vampire for...
Uh, where is it?
Aladdin and His Magic Lamp.
Oh, my.
Read it. Let me know what you think.
Thank you, sir.
Who is Scrimple?
Hmm? Scrimple?
- When I come in, you were saying...
- Oh!
It's just a name for a story I'm concocting.
Get the name right and then, if you're lucky, the character will appear.
He's not here yet.
Scrantish?
Scrarmer.
Come on.
Scrunge.
Aw, come on!
Come on, you old sinner!
Scrooge!
Shut the window! Do you think I'm made of money?
Mr. Scrooge.
- How delightful to meet you, sir.
- Sorry I can't say the same.
Come now. Don't be standoffish.
We ought to be friends.
- Don't have friends. Don't need 'em.
- Ah.
Naturally.
- I know. Let's play a game.
- Don't like games.
Well, humor me.
What do you think of when I say the word... "darkness"?
Cheap.
Love. - Swindle.
- Money.
- Security.
- Children.
- Useless.
- Workhouse.
- Useful.
Christmas.
Christmas?
That's right.
Help! Help! Get it away!
Away!
What is going on?
Get it away, the filthy thing.
Come on, Grip, old chap. Back in the cage.
- Father?
- Ah. Charles.
- Good day.
- What are you doing here?
Well, we were in the neighborhood
and we thought we'd drop by with a present for the children.
His name is Grip. He talks!
- Can we keep him?
- Hello, old girl.
It's bad luck, a bird in the house.
It means death.
- Hello!
- Father, in here.
Of course.
Charles? Charles?
What are you doing back in London?
My dear Charles.
I will not disguise from you that this is not the ardor
with which a loving father might be expected...
You are supposed to be in Devon.
Banishment!
Be merciful and say "death,"
for exile has more terror in its look.
Father, we had an agreement.
I bought you a house.
I gave you an allowance.
For which I am very grateful.
As for me, I'm happy wherever the weather.
But your mother is of a more delicate sensibility.
Charles, the mere sight of cows
causes her actual physical pain.
Father.
And I have research to do in the London Library.
- Research?
- Oh, yes.
Yeah.
I have a commission from The Spectator
to write a feature on the Bank Charter Act.
The editor was very impressed
with my series on marine insurance.
Good for you, Father. I do hope that you and Mother will stay here with us.
The children and I will so enjoy having some company in the evenings.
The Spectator. Well, that's, um...
That's most impressive.
Thank you, dear boy.
Oh, by the way,
you couldn't lend me a tenner, could you?
That blighter took my last farthing for the cage.
It was the bird, sir. It flew upstairs.
Oh, um, I'll see that it's all cleared up.
Please, can we keep him?
Well, I, um...
Come on, Walter.
"This is not the ardor with which a loving father..."
Humbug!
- What is?
- Christmas.
What about it?
Well, what is it but an excuse
for picking a man's pocket every 25th of December?
Yes. Keep going.
A time for paying bills without money.
A time for finding yourself a year older and not an hour richer.
If I could work my will,
every idiot who goes about with "Merry Christmas" on his lips
should be boiled in his own plum pudding
and buried with a stake of holly through his heart, he should.
Oh, Mr. Scrooge, you and I are going to do wonderful things together.
Oh, but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge.
A squeezing, wrenching,
grasping, scraping,
clutching, covetous old sinner.
Charles?
Hard at work?
What can I help you with, Father?
Well, I was wondering if we might have an extra candlestick for our room.
- Of course.
- Oh!
Cigars. Oh, yes.
I must confess,
I have acquired an irrepressible habit of smoking whilst I write.
Dreadful habit, I know, but...
Oh, yes.
Thank you.
Hmm. Going well?
I won't detain you.
Don't do that. D-Don't.
Why not?
Too late.
Who is it?
Who is it?
Bunsby?
Clennam?
Heep? Hexam?
- Oh, stop, stop!
- Magwitch?
No.
Marley.
Is that you, Jacob?
- You know him?
- My business partner.
Last time I saw him he was dead as a doornail.
How do you, Jacob?
Business, business.
Mankind was my business.
The common welfare was my business.
Charity...
mercy...
forbearance, and benevolence
were all my business.
He was never one for a straight answer.
And yet I practiced none of them!
Come in.
Come in, please.
You are fettered. Why?
I wear the chain I forged in life.
I made it...
link by link,
yard by yard.
And of my own free will, I girded it about me.
Of my own free will,
I wore it.
Do you know the weight and length of the chain you bear yourself?
You mean him, surely.
You, Charley.
Your chains, all around you.
Past and present...
and what is to come.
Hail to thee, blithe turkey,
whose exquisite odors
now perfume the circumambient air.
And let this day be fragrant
with the love we bear one another.
And may God bless us, every one.
Every one.
Mr. John Dickens.
You're under arrest for a debt of 42 pounds.
- Father!
- Charley.
Father, tell them to stop!
Take everything that shines, boys.
It's all right, Charley.
- Tell them to stop, Father!
- It's all right.
Please, Charley, don't worry.
What about Leech for the illustrations?
Leech? He's so prickly.
- And he's by no means the cheapest.
- I don't want the cheapest.
Oh, Charles, for God's sake, slow down.
You move at railway speed.
I don't want the cheapest. I want the best.
- It's going well then?
- What?
- The book.
- It's brilliant. Best thing I've ever written.
- What, so you...
- I've got 11 pages.
Eleven? - Well, if it weren't for constant interruptions.
We've got my father staying with us.
He could not have come at a worse time.
Miss Wigmore.
Come.
Come along.
Who was that?
- Charlotte.
- Who?
My fiancée. I told you.
Fiancée?
- She's a canny lass, is she not?
- Indeed. Most amiable.
Amiable?
Why, man, she's an angel, a sylph.
She's a goddess on a...
Whatever is the matter?
Charlotte and I have come to a parting of the ways.
- I thought you said you were engaged.
- We were.
But then her father had no intention for her to marry the son of a butcher.
Here.
Perhaps it's for the best, eh?
The life matrimonial, it's not for everyone, old stick.
Aye. Aye, no doubt.
So... Leech.
That's the ticket.
Four wood cuts, four etchings.
The cover in red. Hand-colored.
The title in rustic, spectral writing.
The end papers to be green and all three edges to be gilded.
Gilded? It'll cost you.
Well, it must be exquisite. That's why we came to you.
You'll have to sell every copy to make your money back.
That is my intention.
You brought the manuscript?
I'll have something for you in a week.
- A week?
- Mmm.
That leaves only four weeks to do all the illustrations
and get it to the printer in time for Christmas.
- Can you do it?
- Mr. Dickens, I'm not a hired hand.
I am an artist.
What you are asking is impossible.
Impossible for an ordinary man.
But you are no ordinary man, Mr. Leech.
You are a genius.
Fifty pounds.
Paid in advance.
Plus more for the plates.
Done. Thank you, Mr. Leech.
Look, Charles, I don't want to be the voice of doom,
but before we lay out money for illustrations,
we should consider what happens if you don't finish on time.
I will finish on time.
Quite.
Mr. Dickens. I fix the chandelier. See?
Yes. Good. Grazie, Signor Mazzini.
Is no problem.
Only 12 guineas extra.
12...
I thought my father was off to the British Library.
Your sister's here, sir.
Come from Manchester with her little boy.
- My dear sister! Ha-ha!
- Charley.
Henry, how are you?
Very well, grace be to God.
This cannot be young Master Henry.
I barely recognize you.
- How old are you now?
- Nine, if you please, sir.
Nine? I shall soon run out of fingers.
Excuse me, sir.
The children are having their tea in the dining room.
Come on then, young 'un. Up!
Mind your head.
There goes my heart.
What did the doctor say?
He says we have to wait and see.
Won't you let us help?
- We'll manage.
- At least until Henry finds a new position.
Something will come up. I'm sure of it.
You sound just like Father.
How is the old reprobate?
"This morning I had 25 shillings in my hand.
And now, observe the vacancy."
He means no harm.
It's not enough.
He bobs around like a cork on the surface of life.
- Not a thought for the future.
- Oh, Charley.
Let it go, can't you?
Come on, me army! Me landlubbers, me lovelies!
Oh! Up we go. Ha-ha! Me landlubbers!
Come aboard my ship! Here we go! Let's set sail!
Brail your capstan bar! Come here, Walter.
- Brail your capstan bar!
- No one is useless in this world...
Who lightens the burden of another. I know.
For all his faults, you won't find a kinder man.
How long he is growing up to be one.
Here we go! Full sail ahead!
Why are you here?
You'd better come and see who's just turned up.
Charles?
Just a bit of indigestion. Go back to sleep.
Tell him who you are.
I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.
Follow.
Not bloody likely.
- Why not?
- Mucking around in the past? What's the point?
You might learn something.
Well, I already know everything I need to know.
- Uh, take him, why don't you?
- Me?
- Yes, if you're so keen.
- It's not about me!
Well, you're the author, aren't you?
Follow.
Don't cry. We'll be back when the debt's paid.
- Why can't I stay with you?
- You're a big boy, Charley.
You're the breadwinner now.
You'll see. It'll be an adventure.
You'll hardly think of us at all.
Time to go!
Now, sir, enough of that.
Stand up tall.
Blood of iron, heart of ice.
And remember!
You're the son of John Dickens!
A gentleman!
You be sure and tell them that!
Well, come on then!
Blood of iron,
heart of ice.
Good morning. - What? Oh.
You were tossing and turning all night, you know.
Yes. Bad dreams.
What about?
I don't know. Shadows.
a little daylight will cure you.
Now, Constable,
shall we ask Mr. Punch where the baby's daddy's gone?
I bet he knows.
- Oh! Where's the baby's daddy gone?
- Where's he gone, Mr. Punch?
Daddy's off to prison!
Off to prison? Oh-ho!
Come on. We're wasting time.
Let's get to work.
I am working.
- Here?
- Yes. Gathering inspiration.
Gathering what?
- What do you see when you look around?
- Well, it's a market, you idiot.
What else?
Hot pies! Eel, beef or mutton pies!
- Buyers and sellers.
- What else?
Never say die. Have a look, sir.
Thieves and ruffians.
Highly interesting murder, gentlemen!
Hold! Hold!
Clear the way! Clear the way, lads!
Mr. Fezziwig!
Life, Mr. Scrooge.
It's London. The great theater of the world.
- It's all here.
- Bah. Humbug!
I'm a man of facts, of calculations.
Realities, not fancy.
What the devil is that?
Here you go, sir.
- Must go.
- Where to?
It's time to write.
- Come along.
- Good night, children!
Bye! Shoo!
Well, looks as though Charles won't be joining us.
Again.
- We may as well start.
- Oh.
Ah, the parties.
We used to keep such hours.
Balls, dinners, champagne.
First-rate capon, Mrs. Fisk.
Oh, thank you, sir. I'll let the cook know.
And the chairs had turned legs,
with green squabs to match the curtains.
What was that story, Mother?
Oh, I was just telling Kate about the dining room set we used to have.
Rosewood. In the most approved taste.
You mean the one we pawned?
Charles! You are a satirical monster.
- Is that a joke, Charles?
- Not a very amusing one.
Is that a new waistcoat, Father?
What? Oh, yes. It's Persian crimson.
A little more expensive.
But as I always say, people will believe anything
if you are properly dressed.
Kate, will you ask Tara to bring a tray up with something on it?
- I'll bring it up.
- No. I need Tara to do it.
I'll get her, sir. Tara!
That's the spirit, my boy. Hmm?
Procrastination is the thief of time, eh, Charles?
Collar him!
We must not disturb the poet
when the divine frenzy is upon him.
Know the place?
Was I apprenticed here?
Clear the way, lads!
Clear the way. It's Friday night.
Why, it's old Fezziwig.
Who is it?
It's Tara, sir, with your dinner.
Tara. Come in. Come in.
Close the door.
Sit. I want to read you something.
Oh... oh, I... I don't think Mrs. Fisk would...
Ah! Skittleshins to Mrs. Fisk.
Come. Sit.
Now, since you like ghost stories,
see if this can rival Varney the Vampire.
"With cherry-cheeked apples,
juicy oranges, luscious pears,
immense Twelfth cakes and seething bowls of punch
that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam.
In easy state, upon this couch, there sat a jolly giant..."
- The second ghost.
- The second ghost.
I am the Ghost of Christmas Present.
These are the gifts of abundance, goodwill,
and of generosity.
Of course, you wouldn't understand much about that, would you?
Unlike these good people.
My dear Mrs. Cratchit, you have outdone yourself this year.
Oh, everyone pitched in. Even Tim.
- I set the table.
- Yes, you did.
I didn't know Cratchit had a crippled son.
Didn't you ever think to ask?
A merry Christmas to us all, my dears.
- And may God bless us.
- God bless us, every one.
He's my clerk.
I don't pay him to tell me about his personal life.
- You hardly pay him at all.
- Fifteen shillings a week.
For a man with a family, not to mention a sick child?
That's the market rate.
Do you really believe that every inch of existence
is a bargain across the counter?
Observe this family.
They don't have much, but they're happy, grateful, contented with their lot.
Whereas you are miserable and content with nothing.
Never heard such folly.
Heed well what I've said.
Farewell.
And... intermission!
- Thrilling performance.
- That's very kind. Thank you.
And that is as far as I've got.
- Tara.
- Hmm?
- How do you do that, sir?
- Do what?
Make a world come alive.
I could almost see and hear them people.
Especially that Tiny Tim.
Poor mite.
Um... A word in your ear.
- About what?
- The scene.
- It's very one-sided.
- What? One-sided?
Well, my character doesn't get to explain his side of things.
- So I've taken the liberty of writing a short speech.
- No.
Something about the rational self-interest...
and the natural tendencies of free markets...
No. No. And no.
Well, what sort of book is this anyway?
No! It's too... ew. It's too gloomy.
The Ghost of Christmas Present should be wonderful.
Warm, jolly!
- Jolly?
- Yes!
A jolly ghost?
That's it.
- What's this?
- Find another artist.
We don't want another artist.
A jolly Christmas ghost? What's that mean?
I can't draw what I don't understand.
Well, it is everything that's best about Christmas.
He's the soul of kindness and generosity.
He's...
Well, he's Forster.
With a beard.
Come on. Jolly.
In shops by Christmas?
That'll be a miracle.
Go away.
Three flops in a row.
Up to your eyeballs in debt.
I'd think you'd be glad of some advice.
So, you've had a few flops.
What of it?
You're still young.
It's not as if you're an old man.
You've still got lots of time to be...
Are we in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?
- Why doesn't he speak?
- Shh!
You are here to show us the shadows of the things that have not been,
but will happen, in the time before us.
Is that so?
Where does it want us to go?
I think I know.
I have a bad feeling about this.
I...
And then they entered poor Bob Cratchit's house
and found the mother and the children round the fire.
It's okay. It's okay.
Then Bob came in the door.
You went today then, Robert?
To the cemetery?
Yes, my dear.
I wish you could have gone to see how green a place it is.
But you'll see it often.
I promised him that I would take a walk there on a Sunday.
My little child.
- My little, little child.
- "...little child."
- No!
- Uh, rude!
- Is Tiny Tim dead?
- Well, of course he is. Imbecile.
He was very ill.
You can't save every child in London.
And the family has no money for a doctor.
Then Scrooge must save him!
Me?
- But he wouldn't...
- Why?
- Well, he's too selfish.
- He can change.
There's good in him somewhere, I know it!
People don't change.
He's been this way for a long time.
I'm not sure he can change.
Of course he can. He's not a monster.
I thought this was a ghost story, not a fairy tale.
He wouldn't let Tiny Tim die, Mr. Dickens.
He has a heart, doesn't he?
It would be too wicked...
even for him.
'Tis now the very witching time of night...
Hush!
when graveyards yawn and hell...
Aha, Shakespeare.
There's a man who could write.
I doubt he ever had a blockage.
Self-preservation... first law of nature.
And that's just a fact.
Oh, Charles! Good evening.
We'll get him straight into bed, Charles.
We were up the river to Kew, and I think perhaps it was too long a day.
- Kew.
- Kew?
- What about your newspaper article?
- Article?
Yes, the one you're writing. It's been over a month.
No, the, um...
The editor felt that due to pecuniary complications
of a most complicated nature,
he felt he could not proceed with the commission.
So, no newspaper article.
No. However, I rejoice in saying
I have every hope something will turn up.
I think it's time you went back to Devon, Father.
- Indeed.
- As soon as possible.
Of course, dear boy.
We shall catch the afternoon train tomorrow.
No, sweet.
I can manage from here.
Thank you.
Good night, Charles.
Ride on, ride on,
over all obstacles
and win the race.
Don't be unkind, Charley.
You don't know what he's been through.
He feels it all, you know.
He would never tell you, but he feels it all.
That's it. Blood of iron, heart of ice.
Now perhaps we can finish this little book.
"Are these the shadows of the things that will be,
or are they shadows of the things that may be only?"
That is as far as I've got.
It's brilliant.
- Are you pulling my leg?
- No. No, of course not.
Well, now... that's encouraging.
My... my one criticism...
Yes?
- Tiny Tim.
- Go on.
- Are you really going to let him die?
- Aw, not you as well.
It's a Christmas book. Shouldn't it be hopeful?
I mean, isn't that what... what... what Christmas is all about?
The hope that in the end, our better natures will prevail?
You were the one who persuaded me to kill off Little Nell.
Yeah. Well, I stand by that decision.
John, my readers implored me...
But this is different.
If Tiny Tim dies, then what's the point?
- Thank you, John.
- You're welcome.
For reminding me why I never ask your opinion on my work.
Your services are no longer required.
- You cannot sack me.
- Why not?
Because I don't work for you.
I do what I do as a friend.
John, please leave.
See you on Friday.
Last chapter's due at the printers.
Right. Let's run it again from the scene with Scrooge's debtors.
- Oh, what's the point?
- The point?
We keep stopping at the same place.
Yes, because I'm working out the ending.
- Admit it, you're blocked!
- I'm not blocked.
Now, if you take my advice...
- I'm the author here.
- Allegedly.
I'm going out.
- Alone!
- Aw.
Forster. I need your help.
- What is it? The children?
- No. The children are fine.
What's this?
"Candle-scandal, flirt-hurt, Charlotte-poor heart."
Is that a poem? That's atrocious.
What has got into you?
You look terrible. What's the matter?
It's the book. I'm struggling with one of the characters.
- Quite a few of them, actually.
- What exactly is the problem?
The problem is, could a man as mean-spirited as Scrooge, as evil as Scrooge...
Could he become a different person overnight?
What is so evil about him?
- Well, he's a miser.
- Well, that doesn't make him evil.
- It just makes him cheap.
- He worships money.
- It's the only thing that matters to him.
- Why?
He has nothing else.
No friends? No family?
No one he trusts.
Why?
Because he's afraid.
Of?
Being found out.
Hello, chaps. - Thackeray.
Charles, I haven't seen anything of yours in print for ages.
Don't tell me you've had a blockage.
Not in the least.
I'm neck and heels into a Christmas book.
- What the deuce is that?
- A story about Christmas.
For Christmas.
A story... about...?
How amusing.
Well, best of luck with it.
Oh, dear, my last book has come out in a Railway edition.
Sold 10,000 copies, in a week.
"There's gold in them thar hills,"
as your American friends would say.
Come on. Let's go somewhere else, get a real drink.
She's a big lass, and a bonny lass, and she likes her beer.
And I call her Cushie Butterfield, and I wish she was here.
What language is that?
That's Geordie, man. We're gods.
- Where are we?
- Oh, it's Hungerford Stairs.
Oi, I smell the river.
What's that?
It's a graveyard.
Ah, it's the old Warren's Factory.
They moved from there years ago.
I wonder they've not pulled it down yet.
Yeah. Or burnt it down.
Might do it myself one day.
Why? What have you got against boot blacking?
Charles.
What is it?
I just have this recurring nightmare.
Oh, nightmares, aye.
I've got one where I'm being chased by a giant badger.
What's yours?
Never mind.
Well, come on. It's time to go home.
I'll see you at the printers.
Friday morning, nine o'clock.
- I can't.
- Well, why not?
It's the book.
I can't... the characters won't do what I want.
And I'm afraid.
Of what?
If I can't finish it, I'll never write again.
Oh, come on, man, come on.
Have some sleep, hear?
I can't.
The wrong fire is burning in my head.
Oh, don't be daft.
Now, come on, your wife will be worried sick.
Who? Kate? She doesn't understand me.
I've got news for you, Charles.
None of us understand you.
You're... you're a freak of nature.
I'm exhausted spending two hours in your company.
Come on, go home. It's cold tonight, yeah?
I'll see you Friday.
Here. Bye.
Put that one over there!
Boys!
This here is Charley Dickens.
And what was you just telling me, lad?
About your dad?
My father is a gentleman.
Where is he then?
- Dining with the queen?
- I heard he's been sent to prison.
Hush, you lot. Get back to work!
Master Dickens.
No shirkin' here.
You're no better than us, cocker, and you'd best learn that.
You. What are you doing?
Hello, Charley, old boy.
Father? What are you doing here?
Oh, I had some business that I had to attend to, so I thought...
You just left town.
What business could you possibly have?
- Oh, I...
- What's that?
You're going to sell this?
Well, it's no good to you, is it?
Is that what you've been doing?
Going through the rubbish like a tramp, selling bits and pieces of me.
Is this your business?
- Aren't you ashamed?
- What?
I bought you a house. I gave you an allowance.
What more can you possibly need?
Need? Oh, reason not the need.
- You see me here, you gods?
- No. No. Shh. No.
- A poor old man!
- No! Shh! Stop it.
Charley, you don't know what it's like to be poor, to be nothing.
At 11 years old I was made to know.
Working 12 hours a day,
going hungry, alone and afraid
because your father, who is supposed to care for you,
is so utterly thriftless!
No, please. I beg you.
No, you are not the victim here.
This is about me and your family and all of us
who've lived our whole lives in the shadow of your recklessness.
Charley...
Go away. I am sickened at the sight of you.
You are nothing but a drag and chain upon my life.
I owe you nothing. Go!
Ah, Charley.
- Who's that then?
- Nobody.
- The author.
- Huh.
No wonder he looks so depressed.
Right. That's enough. Back to work.
God bless us, every one.
Why are you so miserable?
What else can I be, when I live in such a world of fools as this?
- You mean-spirited, cynical...
- Oh, yes?
Well, you look in the mirror sometime.
"Is that a new candle, Kate?"
"Your services are no longer required."
Ah, a hypocrite.
- What?
- Pardon me, sir.
- Mrs. Dickens just wanted me to ask...
- This is intolerable.
- Mrs. Fisk! Mrs. Fisk!
- Yes, sir?
Take this child away from here and see that she never disturbs me ever again. Do you hear?
Yes, sir. Come with me, girl.
Oh, yes. Banish her. Banish them all.
- Quiet!
- Humanity's great benefactor.
- Humbug!
- Shut it.
Or I'll make you bald, with bad teeth.
Oh, yeah, go ahead. It won't change a thing.
You still won't have an ending.
This is ridiculous.
You're all being ridiculous.
If you be a man!
Come on then, coward!
Fight me!
You miserable old fool!
Fight me! Come on!
Tara.
Tara!
Has anybody seen Tara?
- She's gone.
- You asked Mrs. Fisk to send her away.
Well, go and search for her. Find her.
Rehire her at once.
An Irish orphan in London?
That would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Come on, out. Come on, children, off you go.
Quick sticks. That's it.
Why didn't you stop her?
How was I to know you didn't mean it?
You said...
I say a lot of things that are nonsense when I'm working.
- Charles...
- You know how ideas take possession of me.
- You knew what I was like when you married me.
- Yes. I did.
But you have no idea what it's like to live with you.
Always walking on eggshells,
trying to guess your mood,
to know which of your commands are a whim and which are in earnest.
You know, sometimes I...
I feel your characters matter more to you
than your own flesh and blood.
I am who I am.
And who is that?
It's as if there are two of you.
One who's kind and gentle,
and a secret self
that no one is allowed to know or question.
This here is Charley Dickens.
What was it you was telling me, lad, about your dad?
My father is a gentleman.
Where is he then? Dining with the queen?
I heard he's been sent to prison!
Hush, you lot! Where's your manners?
Get back to work.
Master Dickens.
Got a present for the young gentleman,
seeing as it's Christmas.
Blood of iron, heart of ice.
You're no better than us, cocker!
Hello, Charley.
So, this is your miserable secret.
The famous author, the inimitable Charles Dickens,
was once a scabby little factory boy.
Leave me be.
A common bit of riffraff, a squalid wretch.
No use to anyone!
Look for yourself. What do you see, huh?
A nothing. A nobody. A debtor's son.
Who could ever care for you?
Certainly not your father. He abandoned you.
Enough of that. Stand up tall.
Blood of iron, heart of ice.
He failed you again and again.
You said so yourself.
Nothing but a drag and chain upon your life.
Who are you? Huh?
You know me, Charley.
I'm hunger. I'm cold.
I'm darkness.
I'm the shadow on your thoughts, the crack in your heart,
and the stain upon your soul.
And I will never, ever leave you.
Go away.
Why? We're having such fun.
People don't change, Charley.
Look around you. You're still the same scabby boy.
Useless, just like your father.
No.
"No one is useless in this world who lightens the burden of another."
My father taught me that.
Which grave is that?
- There's no name on it.
- Well, why should there be?
The man to whom this grave belongs
never made himself useful to anyone but himself.
No friends.
No family.
Never felt love or joy.
Never took any kind of pleasure in life.
And now it's too late.
It's time, Mr. Scrooge.
We've come to the end.
I don't want to die.
Not like this...
alone,
unloved, forgotten.
It's too late.
No, it's never too late.
It's never... it's never too late.
I will honor Christmas in my heart
and try to keep it all the year.
I will live in the past, the present, and the future.
The spirits of all three will strive within me.
I will not shut out the lessons that they teach.
Oh, please. I beg you.
Let me do some good...
before I die.
So we come to the final chapter.
Oh, I told you we'd do great things together, Mr. Scrooge.
Stave five.
"The End of It."
Yes. And the bedpost was his own,
the bed was his own, the room was his own.
Best and happiest of all, the time before him was his own to make amends in.
Scrooge was better than his word.
He did it all and infinitely more.
And to Tiny Tim, who did not die,
he was a second father.
And so, as Tiny Tim observed,
"God bless us, every one."
The end.
The end.
- Charles?
- What?
- There is someone here to see you.
- Not now, Kate, please.
I have to get this to the printer by nine o'clock.
Tara.
Thank you for the loan.
Well, thank you.
It's good, isn't it?
Oh, yes, sir. It was fizzing.
Fizzing? That's delightful.
Tara.
I am very sorry that I sent you away.
That was a mistake.
And I was...
And you were right about Tiny Tim.
He doesn't die.
Scrooge helps him to get better.
And does he help Scrooge get better too?
Yes.
Yes, he does.
- Where did that come from?
- A gift.
For the children. From your father.
My father was here?
You can still catch him, if...
Kate.
I know. You don't deserve me.
Go. Go.
- Cab!
- Whoa!
- Paddington Station!
- Right-o, governor.
- As fast as you can!
- Oi! Oi!
Turn it around. And wait for me here!
Oi! Stop!
- Hey!
- Stop! Police!
Wait!
Wait, wait, please! Where do you think you're going?
- What?
- Oh, please, dear.
- Don't make a scene. We're going away.
- No, you're not. Please.
Police! Get out of my way!
Clear the way! Let me through!
Oh. What have I done now?
No, it's... it's what you haven't done.
- What do you mean?
- Well, who's going to carve the turkey?
And who's going to make the Christmas pudding?
It won't be the same without you.
The pudding! The secret is to warm the treacle first.
There, you... you see, my dear?
I told you something would turn up.
Oh, my son. Oh.
Gotcha!
You're that Charles Dickens, aren't you?
Uh, guilty.
That last one. Chuzzlewit.
Wept like a baby, I did.
Well, that's... that's very kind.
What's your name, Constable?
My name? Copperfield, sir.
Copperfield.
Any chance of a new book soon?
New book. New book!
Wait. New book.
Merry Christmas!
I'm his father.
Santa bells for sale!
Shoe Lane! As fast as you can go.
- Charles, where have you been?
- It's all right. I've got it!
Mr. Grub! Mr. Grub. We're here.
I have it. I have the ending.
You can finish it now.
It's too late. - What?
Oh, come on.
You've already printed the other four chapters, and it's just one more.
Get the whole book finished today.
- I can't guarantee anything.
- Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Grub!
Thank you.
I didn't say I could do it.
Well, I'll see what I can do.
Oh, come on, man. Don't prolong the agony.
It's exactly as I'd imagined it.
Hello, gents. Extraordinary weather, isn't it?
Looks like snow.
- Hello, Thackeray.
- Oh, what's this I have?
Yes. It's a proof copy of your new book.
I'm going to review it for The Spectator.
I'm told you wrote it in only six weeks, Charles.
What a prodigy you are.
Did you bring that all the way from Italy?
Sì. Venezia.
And now...
And now the beautiful mermaid floats through the sea.
Hello, old girl!
Oh, my goodness. That is beautiful.
Isn't it? The Germans call it a Tannenbaum.
It's a tree for Christmas.
A Christmas tree, I suppose.
Now the royal family have got one, it'll be all the rage.
- Hello.
- Miss Wigmore!
Papa had a change of heart.
So he did. Oh, I'm so pleased! Congratulations.
Charles, uh, I think you're going to want to hear this.
- It's by Thackeray.
- Not now.
No, please. Everyone, gather round.
"It was a blessed inspiration
that put such a book into the head of Charles Dickens.
A happy inspiration of the heart
that warms every page.
It is impossible to read without a glowing bosom and burning cheeks,
between love and shame of our kind."
- Aw.
- Bravo, Charles.
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls.
And those on the way.
A toast.
I wish you all many, many happy Christmases
and friendships, and great accumulation of cheerful recollections
and heaven at last for all of us.
In the season of hope, we will shut out nothing from our firesides
and everyone will be welcome.
Welcome what has been and what is
and what we hope may be,
to this shelter underneath the holly.
Merry, merry Christmas to one and all.
Merry Christmas!
Thank you.