The Ray Bradbury Theater (1985–1992): Season 3, Episode 7 - The Wonderful Death of Dudley Stone - full transcript
At a book signing, celebrated author Dudley Stone is approached by a rival who announces his intention to murder him. Stone turns out to be surprisingly enthusiastic about the idea.
[music playing]
[theme music]
RAY BRADBURY
(VOICEOVER): People ask,
where do you get your ideas?
Well, right here.
All this is mine.
I'll never starve here.
I'm Ray Bradbury.
And this is--
I'm surrounded by file
after file of ideas,
stories, poems, and
fragments of novels,
put away over some 40 years.
I go through them constantly.
And whichever story, poem,
or play cries the loudest
to be born gets written.
But I've often wondered,
if someone said
to me, your stories
or your life,
would I save my
life or my stories?
And so "The Wonderful Death
of Dudley Stone" was born.
[applause]
Hope you enjoy it.
Thank you, Mr. Stone.
I hope you enjoy it.
Thank you, Mr. Stone.
Hope you enjoy it.
Thanks very much.
(WHISPERING) Dudley,
it's going very well.
Hubert, a toast.
Come on, Hubert, tell us.
I, as his publisher,
tell you that his new book
will be great.
But the next one, and we've
just signed the contract,
will be a masterpiece.
[applause]
Well, well, hello.
John Oatis Kendall, isn't
it, a fledgling writer?
Did you ever finish that--
was it a novel or
a book of poetry?
What would you like me to
write in my book for you?
Easily done.
Just give me a moment.
There you are.
Oh we finished, done?
Drinks then, drinks
for everyone.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, you are dead.
[music playing]
"The Last Sunrise"
was his best.
Oh, no.
"Contempt of Court."
Ah, balderdash.
"Old Lovers, Young Concerns."
Same arguments every year.
Thank goodness we
meet only once a year.
Everybody talks,
and nobody listens.
If I may cut across here.
Gentleman, a toast
to Dudley Stone,
one of the great
unfulfilled novelists,
short story writers, and
poets in American history.
Dudley Stone.
Dudley Stone.
Dudley Stone.
Wherever he is.
Dead, suicide.
No, car crash.
Drown.
No, rumor has it that he
was seen last year in Morocco
in the company of tall blonde.
Or a short Moroccan.
Think what he might
have done had he lived.
I know.
He died 20 years ago today.
Gentlemen, not only am I glad to
be here as your guest of honor
in what has been a
wonderful year for me,
I am happy that this year we are
here to celebrate his murder.
Murder?
Will you drink a toast to me,
who destroyed a living legend?
I myself, then.
I did it.
It's true.
I brought him to slaughter.
Dudley Stone, you
monster of perfection.
You sublime writer.
Damn your eyes that saw,
your soul that knew,
your hand that roped.
Shall I confess?
Shall I tell you how I
enticed him to destruction
and cut short a life?
I was 32, a hopeful
who had lost hope.
What could I do?
Go see Dudley Stone.
There you are.
I was afraid you
changed your mind.
Come in.
Just in time for my 40th
birthday, a day of decisions.
Come in.
Sara dear, this is Mr. Kendall.
Where are the children?
They are next door.
What shall I wish
for, Mr. Kendall?
You know why I'm here.
Well then, let's
see to your wish.
Vodka lemonade.
I don't--
Oh, but we'll need it.
Skoal.
Skoal.
Now, exactly what
is your wish for me?
To die.
Easily said.
Not so easily done
unless you believe it.
Lost faith?
Need courage?
It comes by the glass.
And exactly how do you
plan to eliminate me?
My god, how can you
sit there like that
when you know why I'm here?
I see no threat.
And I'm a writer, am I not?
The [inaudible] collector
of bright objects,
ideas, dialogue.
I mean, right now you're saying
things I've never heard before.
And I'm making notes
here, but continue.
Oh.
One solid steel metaphor
worth 10,000 words.
Is it loaded?
Then I better speak fast.
There is nothing
that you can say.
But there is.
Well you see, I've waited for
you to come here for years.
When I saw you at
the book launching,
I saw murder in your face.
And hear this.
I will now happily
let you kill me.
Go ahead.
Do it.
It's a bit hard now that
you've given me permission.
Why?
Why you?
Your motive for murdering me?
I have at list.
Read it.
You have written
too many books.
True.
All of them excellent.
Agreed.
How do I hate thee?
Novels, not only
novels but poetry.
Not only poetry, but essays.
Not content with
that, stage plays.
Now, what more?
Sure, why not?
Screenplays, lectures
on city planning,
transportation, architecture,
recordings, tapes.
Is there no end to you?
You are flood tide and upheaval,
an unnatural force of nature.
You shrink us all to
pygmies and pismire ants.
No more of it, no more!
Agreed, agreed.
What's wrong with you?
Genes, chromosomes.
I was born a pomegranate
full of seeds.
Yes.
And that is the final
reason why I hate you.
I was born a poor
beast with no seeds.
I have labored 18 hours
a day, seven days a week
for seven years to be,
to become, to achieve.
And became and achieved nothing.
My heart was high, but my
chemistry pathetically absent.
There can be no room for me in
a universe inhabited by you.
You're fame is my death.
Through your death,
I shall live.
Oh god, how I love you work.
But I hate you because
you write so well.
I can't bear it any longer.
So I am going to cut you off
before you reach you prime.
They say your next will
be your most brilliant.
They exaggerate.
My guess is that
they're right.
It's all right
dear, it's all right.
Are you quite done,
finished, and through?
Because all we've
heard are your reasons
for wanting to assassinate me.
Now you must hear my reasons for
letting you do bloody murder.
The grand tour, all the books
I've promised myself to read,
but I've never read.
All the symphonies
yet to be heard,
all the films as yet unseen,
spices waiting to snuffed.
Beef joints, ham hocks
waiting to be devoured.
Tapestries yet to be woven.
Sculptures to be
shaped, paintings
waiting to be painted.
Sons and daughters
to be my advised.
Grandchildren to be raised.
Far countries to be flown
over, to be walked through.
Hang gliding yet to be tried.
Tides yet unswum to be swum.
All of it around me, free
and vital beckoning, waiting.
My reasons for
letting you kill me.
But these are reasons
to live, not to die.
Wrong.
Reasons to die so that I might
be reincarnated to truly live.
Reincarnated?
And you will baptize
me with darkness
that I might awaken under light,
come alive to my children,
to my wife.
They're more important
to me than my writing.
I'm tired, tired
of being a champ.
You can help me.
Put aside your pistol.
Allow me to choose the weapons
that will truly kill me dead.
Here and here.
Stow your weapon.
This is not trick.
Here, grab hold.
A new book of essays,
new book of poetry,
new book of short
stories, and new novel.
New?
Collected letters, the
biography, new beginnings
for plays, a screenplay.
This way, Mr. Kendall.
Come, this way.
Careful, wouldn't want
to lose my executioner.
Well, here we are.
There it is, my future, my
tomorrow and beyond tomorrow.
Heave it over.
Heave it over?
You can't mean that.
Throw.
Toss, hurl.
Disperse like this.
Like tumbleweeds on the shore.
Like kites in the wind.
Go on!
Throw!
Page one, page two,
page three, page four.
My god in heaven, these
are the only copies?
In the whole world.
Kill.
Kill!
[laughing]
Die!
Dead?
I said, am I dead?
Dead.
Twenty years ago this very day.
Treacherous.
Impossible.
Hello.
Mr. Stone.
Mr. Stone?
My bloody murderer,
and 20 years to the day.
Your readers, your fans,
your literary society
is here, Mr. Stone.
Have you stayed dead, Mr. Stone?
I have written stories and
novels only in my head, sir.
Is your typewriter there?
Is there a paper beside it?
Yes.
When I hang up, start typing.
You give me permission?
Why?
No, no, don't tell.
Your novels are on the
Best Seller list now.
Yes.
Sit at your
typewriter, Mr. Stone.
[cheering in next room]
I don't know.
Do it, Mr. Stone.
Come alive.
Jump out of your grave.
Yes, Lazarus, come forth.
Grandma.
Are you still
there, Mr. Kendall?
Yes.
My death 20 years
ago, the terrible pain
you must've thought
that I endured,
let me share my secret
with you, Mr. Kendall.
Writing was never life to me.
It was mustard and gall weed.
Fidgeting words on paper,
experiencing vast depressions
of heart and soul.
I was spent, finished,
ready to fling the past.
The books that we destroyed
that day, they were bad.
And they would have got worse.
My writing would have killed
me deader than you ever could.
[laughing]
But you destroyed me, and
you've saved my secret.
The great literary
public would never know
that I was going down hill.
I got out in time, on
top, which is where
I guess you've got to now.
You're the world
champion at present.
How do you like it?
Do you enjoy the company?
Is there any challenger waiting
and training in the gymnasium?
Thank you, Mr. Kendall, for
delivering me into life.
I wish I could do
as much for you.
[phone hangs up]
This is damn strange.
In years I've never
seen anything like this.
[music playing]
OK, OK.
Everybody now make a wish.
Ready?
One, two.
[music playing]
[theme music]
[theme music]
RAY BRADBURY
(VOICEOVER): People ask,
where do you get your ideas?
Well, right here.
All this is mine.
I'll never starve here.
I'm Ray Bradbury.
And this is--
I'm surrounded by file
after file of ideas,
stories, poems, and
fragments of novels,
put away over some 40 years.
I go through them constantly.
And whichever story, poem,
or play cries the loudest
to be born gets written.
But I've often wondered,
if someone said
to me, your stories
or your life,
would I save my
life or my stories?
And so "The Wonderful Death
of Dudley Stone" was born.
[applause]
Hope you enjoy it.
Thank you, Mr. Stone.
I hope you enjoy it.
Thank you, Mr. Stone.
Hope you enjoy it.
Thanks very much.
(WHISPERING) Dudley,
it's going very well.
Hubert, a toast.
Come on, Hubert, tell us.
I, as his publisher,
tell you that his new book
will be great.
But the next one, and we've
just signed the contract,
will be a masterpiece.
[applause]
Well, well, hello.
John Oatis Kendall, isn't
it, a fledgling writer?
Did you ever finish that--
was it a novel or
a book of poetry?
What would you like me to
write in my book for you?
Easily done.
Just give me a moment.
There you are.
Oh we finished, done?
Drinks then, drinks
for everyone.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, you are dead.
[music playing]
"The Last Sunrise"
was his best.
Oh, no.
"Contempt of Court."
Ah, balderdash.
"Old Lovers, Young Concerns."
Same arguments every year.
Thank goodness we
meet only once a year.
Everybody talks,
and nobody listens.
If I may cut across here.
Gentleman, a toast
to Dudley Stone,
one of the great
unfulfilled novelists,
short story writers, and
poets in American history.
Dudley Stone.
Dudley Stone.
Dudley Stone.
Wherever he is.
Dead, suicide.
No, car crash.
Drown.
No, rumor has it that he
was seen last year in Morocco
in the company of tall blonde.
Or a short Moroccan.
Think what he might
have done had he lived.
I know.
He died 20 years ago today.
Gentlemen, not only am I glad to
be here as your guest of honor
in what has been a
wonderful year for me,
I am happy that this year we are
here to celebrate his murder.
Murder?
Will you drink a toast to me,
who destroyed a living legend?
I myself, then.
I did it.
It's true.
I brought him to slaughter.
Dudley Stone, you
monster of perfection.
You sublime writer.
Damn your eyes that saw,
your soul that knew,
your hand that roped.
Shall I confess?
Shall I tell you how I
enticed him to destruction
and cut short a life?
I was 32, a hopeful
who had lost hope.
What could I do?
Go see Dudley Stone.
There you are.
I was afraid you
changed your mind.
Come in.
Just in time for my 40th
birthday, a day of decisions.
Come in.
Sara dear, this is Mr. Kendall.
Where are the children?
They are next door.
What shall I wish
for, Mr. Kendall?
You know why I'm here.
Well then, let's
see to your wish.
Vodka lemonade.
I don't--
Oh, but we'll need it.
Skoal.
Skoal.
Now, exactly what
is your wish for me?
To die.
Easily said.
Not so easily done
unless you believe it.
Lost faith?
Need courage?
It comes by the glass.
And exactly how do you
plan to eliminate me?
My god, how can you
sit there like that
when you know why I'm here?
I see no threat.
And I'm a writer, am I not?
The [inaudible] collector
of bright objects,
ideas, dialogue.
I mean, right now you're saying
things I've never heard before.
And I'm making notes
here, but continue.
Oh.
One solid steel metaphor
worth 10,000 words.
Is it loaded?
Then I better speak fast.
There is nothing
that you can say.
But there is.
Well you see, I've waited for
you to come here for years.
When I saw you at
the book launching,
I saw murder in your face.
And hear this.
I will now happily
let you kill me.
Go ahead.
Do it.
It's a bit hard now that
you've given me permission.
Why?
Why you?
Your motive for murdering me?
I have at list.
Read it.
You have written
too many books.
True.
All of them excellent.
Agreed.
How do I hate thee?
Novels, not only
novels but poetry.
Not only poetry, but essays.
Not content with
that, stage plays.
Now, what more?
Sure, why not?
Screenplays, lectures
on city planning,
transportation, architecture,
recordings, tapes.
Is there no end to you?
You are flood tide and upheaval,
an unnatural force of nature.
You shrink us all to
pygmies and pismire ants.
No more of it, no more!
Agreed, agreed.
What's wrong with you?
Genes, chromosomes.
I was born a pomegranate
full of seeds.
Yes.
And that is the final
reason why I hate you.
I was born a poor
beast with no seeds.
I have labored 18 hours
a day, seven days a week
for seven years to be,
to become, to achieve.
And became and achieved nothing.
My heart was high, but my
chemistry pathetically absent.
There can be no room for me in
a universe inhabited by you.
You're fame is my death.
Through your death,
I shall live.
Oh god, how I love you work.
But I hate you because
you write so well.
I can't bear it any longer.
So I am going to cut you off
before you reach you prime.
They say your next will
be your most brilliant.
They exaggerate.
My guess is that
they're right.
It's all right
dear, it's all right.
Are you quite done,
finished, and through?
Because all we've
heard are your reasons
for wanting to assassinate me.
Now you must hear my reasons for
letting you do bloody murder.
The grand tour, all the books
I've promised myself to read,
but I've never read.
All the symphonies
yet to be heard,
all the films as yet unseen,
spices waiting to snuffed.
Beef joints, ham hocks
waiting to be devoured.
Tapestries yet to be woven.
Sculptures to be
shaped, paintings
waiting to be painted.
Sons and daughters
to be my advised.
Grandchildren to be raised.
Far countries to be flown
over, to be walked through.
Hang gliding yet to be tried.
Tides yet unswum to be swum.
All of it around me, free
and vital beckoning, waiting.
My reasons for
letting you kill me.
But these are reasons
to live, not to die.
Wrong.
Reasons to die so that I might
be reincarnated to truly live.
Reincarnated?
And you will baptize
me with darkness
that I might awaken under light,
come alive to my children,
to my wife.
They're more important
to me than my writing.
I'm tired, tired
of being a champ.
You can help me.
Put aside your pistol.
Allow me to choose the weapons
that will truly kill me dead.
Here and here.
Stow your weapon.
This is not trick.
Here, grab hold.
A new book of essays,
new book of poetry,
new book of short
stories, and new novel.
New?
Collected letters, the
biography, new beginnings
for plays, a screenplay.
This way, Mr. Kendall.
Come, this way.
Careful, wouldn't want
to lose my executioner.
Well, here we are.
There it is, my future, my
tomorrow and beyond tomorrow.
Heave it over.
Heave it over?
You can't mean that.
Throw.
Toss, hurl.
Disperse like this.
Like tumbleweeds on the shore.
Like kites in the wind.
Go on!
Throw!
Page one, page two,
page three, page four.
My god in heaven, these
are the only copies?
In the whole world.
Kill.
Kill!
[laughing]
Die!
Dead?
I said, am I dead?
Dead.
Twenty years ago this very day.
Treacherous.
Impossible.
Hello.
Mr. Stone.
Mr. Stone?
My bloody murderer,
and 20 years to the day.
Your readers, your fans,
your literary society
is here, Mr. Stone.
Have you stayed dead, Mr. Stone?
I have written stories and
novels only in my head, sir.
Is your typewriter there?
Is there a paper beside it?
Yes.
When I hang up, start typing.
You give me permission?
Why?
No, no, don't tell.
Your novels are on the
Best Seller list now.
Yes.
Sit at your
typewriter, Mr. Stone.
[cheering in next room]
I don't know.
Do it, Mr. Stone.
Come alive.
Jump out of your grave.
Yes, Lazarus, come forth.
Grandma.
Are you still
there, Mr. Kendall?
Yes.
My death 20 years
ago, the terrible pain
you must've thought
that I endured,
let me share my secret
with you, Mr. Kendall.
Writing was never life to me.
It was mustard and gall weed.
Fidgeting words on paper,
experiencing vast depressions
of heart and soul.
I was spent, finished,
ready to fling the past.
The books that we destroyed
that day, they were bad.
And they would have got worse.
My writing would have killed
me deader than you ever could.
[laughing]
But you destroyed me, and
you've saved my secret.
The great literary
public would never know
that I was going down hill.
I got out in time, on
top, which is where
I guess you've got to now.
You're the world
champion at present.
How do you like it?
Do you enjoy the company?
Is there any challenger waiting
and training in the gymnasium?
Thank you, Mr. Kendall, for
delivering me into life.
I wish I could do
as much for you.
[phone hangs up]
This is damn strange.
In years I've never
seen anything like this.
[music playing]
OK, OK.
Everybody now make a wish.
Ready?
One, two.
[music playing]
[theme music]