Upstart Crow (2016–…): Season 3, Episode 6 - Go On and I Will Follow - full transcript

Oh, Hamnet, you do look
lovely. Every heart will melt.

Oh, Nan!

A proper little English gentleman on
the most important day of his life.

Most important, Mum? Really?

It's his confirmation, Will.

He's to be welcomed into the Church.

And if you go spoiling it
with your bloomin' scepticism,

I shall never forgive you.

How can you suggest such a thing, Anne?

I will treat the spectacle of our
corrupt and drunken old sot of a vicar

taking a large wodge of my cash

to induct Hamnet into his
mob of murderers, inquisitors,

hypocrites and perverts
with due solemnity.

Now, just you look
here, Will Shakespeare.

I know there's plenty of
wrong 'uns in the clergy,

but Hamnet ain't being welcomed by them.

Not in my mind.

He's being welcomed by God and the
love that surpasseth all understanding.

Hm, well, you've got that right.

A love that consists principally
of torturing and burning people

who believe in exactly
the same God as you

but use slightly more candles and wear
slightly sillier hats while doing it

is pretty hard to get your head round.

Don't do this, Will, I'm warning you.

Hamnet's confirmation means a lot to me,

and you absolutely
promised you'd be there.

I know that, wife, and I will.

Although I can't imagine
God's bothered either way.

What would you know
about what bothers God?

I don't think you even believe in him!

For the avoidance of being
burned alive, Mum, I do.

We have so much to be thankful for!

One in three kids dies
before they're 11, you know.

Ours have all made it.

I'm aware of the child
mortality rates, Anne.

Another aspect of God's love that
definitely surpasseth all understanding.

Life's a mystery, Will, and
you may have a very big brain,

but there are more
things in heaven and earth

than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

In faith, she may be an illiterate
milking-slap but she can coin a phrase!

That was a corker!

Discreetly will I jot it down.

Anne's right. It's time
you counted your blessings.

You're richer than your dad ever was,
and he's been thieving all his life.

Not thieving, love, not any more.

Common people are thieves,

and I am a gentleman now.

So it's just creative accounting.

And the more you do of it, the
more likely you'll get a knighthood.

Oh! Husband, such a giddy prospect!

Do you think you could steal
enough to earn a knighthood?

As an English gentleman,
it is my duty to try.

Dad, you've got a letter
off the London coach.

Oh, thank you, Judith.
Wonder what this could be.

Oh, my giddy, goody godlingtons!

There's to be London theatre awards!

What's that when it's at home?

A glittering, star-studded evening
in which the cream of London's theatre

will compete for curiously
shaped statuettes.

There's to be awards for best
play, best comedy, best revival,

and I am nominated in all categories!

This is absolutely brilliant.
I shall win the lot.

Well, how can you be so sure?

Because I'm the greatest
writer that ever lived.

But also because the last plague forced
most of London's companies on the road.

There's scarcely been any
shows in town but mine all year.

I'll sweep the board.

The ceremony's on the second Tuesday
after Michael-Maundy Thursday.

That's the date of
Hamnet's confirmation.

You'll have to change it.

Change it? Will, this
isn't a bloomin' tea party.

Actually, it is a tea party, Mum.

You've invited all the
aunties round for cake.

Snotty, stuck-up bitchingtons.

My sisters are not snotty,
stuck-up bitchingtons.

Gran, they so are!

They are not!

They are as down-to-earth
and as approachable as I am.

Exactly!

Hamnet has an appointment with God,
and you promised you'd be there.

What could be more important
than his spiritual wellbeing?

The London bloomin'
Theatre Awards, that's what!

And, quite frankly,
if God considers that

Hamnet's soul will be of
greater spiritual value

because you've dressed him up in a ruffle
and invited the aunties round for cake,

then, for an omniscient deity,
I fear he lacks self-confidence.

I'm going to my bloomin' awards night,

and so if you want me
at Hamnet's confirmation

you'll just have to go to
the vicar and change the date!

You're a selfish man, Will
Shakespeare! A horrible, selfish man!

But, wife, a horrible, selfish man who's
been nominated in several categories

at the London Theatre Awards.

Happy in my own skin.

Well, this is most unexpected.

A summons from the Master
of the Inns of Court

to give a private
Sunday-night performance.

Oh, what's the play?

A revival of Robert Greene's
Friar Bacon And Friar Bungay.

Oh, dear God, no.

Oh, worst play ever. Even I can't
make it work, and I'm a genius.

Yes, 'tis a very mystery why
anyone would wish to revive it.

I'm not interested. Nor me.

The money's good and
a fine dinner promised.

I'll do it. Me too.

So dispiriting!

I've been standing
in the market all day,

and not a single mark
be made upon my petition.

Petition, Kate? Yes.

I plan to appeal to the municipal
authorities to ban bear-baiting.

Why would you want to ban
bear-baiting? It's a laugh.

Get a bear, you tie an enraged
and distressed ape to its back,

tether it in an arena and then set
a pack of half-starved dogs on it.

I mean, what's not to like?

That it's sickeningly cruel
and disgustingly savage!

As I say, what's not to like?

Come on, Kate, it's funny.

Watching the big old bear
swatting and clawing at the dogs

as they tear lumps out of its flesh.

Life's brutal and hard,
Kate. Man needs his sport.

Yes, I do understand that,

which is why I'm trying to
promote a meat-free alternative.

Meat-free
bear-baiting?

Pear-baiting!

BOTH GROAN

Take a ripe pear, impale a
juicy raspberry upon its stalk

and set a pack of reasonably
hungry gerbils on it.

All will be merry as the furry creatures
nibble ferociously at the juicy fruit.

How long till the pear be eaten?

Who will get the biggest chunk?

It ain't gonna happen, Kate. Man
is cruel. It's a fact of life.

But slowly he improves.

Why, in Roman times, 'twas not animals

but humans who were savaged
to death for entertainment,

so there has been progress.

Which reminds me.

They're disembowelling Catholics
at Tyburn this afternoon, Bottom.

Thought I might mooch along.

Love it!

Amazing how long them
Catholics stay alive.

I mean, even after
they've been disembowelled

and had their privy parts struck

from their bodies and placed
within their screaming mouths.

I'm like, "Come on, just
die, it's getting boring!"

We could take a picnic.

Oh, except... Damn, I keep
forgetting! I'm in hiding.

Zounds! I really wish I'd
thought this plan through.

Being dead really
limits your social life.

Bottom! Bring ale, bring
pie! Your master is returned.

"Please" might be nice.
Manners cost nothing.

You, on the other hand, cost a penny
a week, so get my bloomin' ale and pie.

Did you have a good
journey, Mr Shakespeare?

No, Kate. The natural
order remains intact.

Night follows day, the
Queen sits upon the throne,

and I had a truly crapsome journey.

Jam-packed and reeking!

I thought you'd decided to pay
the ha'penny weekend upgrade

to sit on the posh bench,

so, despite the coach being packed,
you'd still have space and comfort.

I did, Bottom, but mark this.

When the coach was packed, those
who had not paid the ha'penny upgrade

to sit on the posh bench simply
thrust themselves upon it anyway.

But did not the coach guard inspect
each ticket with stern, unflinching gaze

and order those with standard tickets
to vacate the posh bench at once

or suffer a heavy fine?

Yes, Kate, he absolutely did.

Except, hang on, no, he didn't.

He sat atop his distant perch

muttering a series of
semi-comprehensible remarks

about not stopping at Watford,

whilst beneath him all order
was forsaken and chaos ruled.

Funny how when the coach be but
half-filled with blameless gentlefolk,

the guard is ever-diligent,

forcing sweet old ladies to
fossick deep in their satchels

and nursing mothers to lay
aside their suckling infants

that they may reach the
pockets of their gowns.

But when the coach is ram-packed
with strutting hooligans

and their gobbly,
over-entitled tarting-slaps,

this same knight of the
road be nowhere to be seen.

Thus did I end up paying an upgrade
to be forced flat against a window

by three snotsome teenage grotlings

who I knew had not paid the upgrade,

but for 27 hours I had not
the gutlings to challenge them!

Harrowing story, master.

You should tell it to a
leper or a plaguey some time.

Might help them take their
minds off their running sores.

You need to count your blessings.

Yes, Bottom, like having a servant
to put my problems into perspective.

So much handier than having
one that can cook an edible pie.

However, I shan't allow anything

to dent my mood today
because, guess what,

I am returned with amazing news.

There's to be a theatre awards night!

And since my plays are
currently the only ones running,

I'm bound to scoop the lot!

Goodness! Congratulations,
Mr Shakespeare!

All but one award, actually,
because, believe it or not,

they're going to honour
you, Kit, posthumously,

which, ironically, I also win
because I wrote all your plays.

Clean sweep for me. Amazing!

Me? Nominated at an awards ceremony!

Such larks!

Yet I can't go, cos I'm dead.

Curse this ruse of mine.

I wonder who they'll get to collect it.

Oh, they'll try and get in touch with
some member of your family, I suppose.

No luck there. All
gone to hell years ago.

Unless...

Unless...

Gadzungles! I begin to see
a way out of my current fix

and enter society once more!

Will Mrs Shakespeare be accompanying
you to the ceremony, Mr Shakespeare?

I'm sure she'd be thrilled.

Well, I-I know I should ask her, but,

well, these awards will be London's
most glamorous night in years.

Sophisticated men, beautiful women...

Are you saying you don't think
your wife would be fitting company

for such an occasion?

Duh! She's a milkmaid.

Mr Shakespeare, she is
your loyal and loving wife!

I cannot believe that you would

not want her on your arm
at your moment of triumph

but would instead seek out
some young tarting-slap.

Have you no decency?

No loyalty?

Come on, Kate, this
is a work night for me,

a chance to get in with the pamperloins

who despise me as an
upstart country bum-shankle.

Having a bit of beautiful, refined
and intelligent young totty on my arm

would really help.

So, what I was wondering, Kate, is...

Oh, my goodly godlingtons!

Yes, yes, yes, yes!

Of course I'll be your tarting-slap!

I can't believe it. Me
going to the theatre awards

with London's leading playwright!

You-You didn't let
me finish, Kate. I...

I was wondering if you'd take a
letter of invitation to Emelia Lanier.

Oh-oh, watch out. He's back
on the gorgeous, sultry Emelia.

The "dark lady" of his smutty poems.

They were not smutty!

Excuse me.

"Wilt thou, whose will
is large and spacious,

"not once vouchsafe to
hide my will in thine?"

Eh? We all know what you meant.

Yes. Although I still can't believe
you thought a girl would be flattered

to be told she has a large
and spacious lady grotto.

And I also can't believe you want
me to take your invitation round!

Just thought it was a bit
classier than sending Bottom.

I mean, you shouldn't be inviting
a woman other than your wife.

Unless, it seems, that
woman happens to be you.

Yes. Because you don't want
to hide your will in mine,

but you are on record as wanting
to hide it in Emelia Lanier's...

(WHISPERS) ...large and spacious one.

I thought you were over
this "dark lady", master.

Only by necessity, Botsky.

She hinted that I desired her in vain.

You mean she told you she
wouldn't want to be seen dead

with a fartsome old baldy-boots
from the Midlands like you.

Yes. That's right.

But she might be prepared
to be seen with me

at the most glamorous night
of London's social calendar.

Right, I'm off to Lucy's
for a celebratory quaff.

Wish I could invite you, Kit, but...

Yes. I know. I'm dead.

But watch this space, i' faith,

because I've been nominated
for a posthumous theatre award.

This bad boy's back in the game.

Mr Burbage not here, Miss Lucy?

Nor Condell or Kempe?

They rarely miss their
Sunday-night quaff.

They have a gig, Mr Shakespeare.
Private function at the Inns of Court.

Oh, I see. Some spoilt
little girl's 21st, no doubt,

and doting Daddy has
booked the big London stars

to do the arse-kicking
routine at midnight.

Personally, I think that sort
of gig is totally selling out.

You mean, being the writer,

nobody ever pays you a
fortune to do a celebrity gig

and you are eaten up with
resentment and jealousy.

Yes, that's it, exactly.

Anyway, ale, if you
please, Miss Lucy, and pie.

I'm celebrating being nominated in all
categories at the London Theatre Awards,

which I'm certain to win, as there
appear to be no rival contenders.

Ah-ah-eh-eh.
No rivals?

Ha! Where is the fun in that?

In my village, the winner of any contest

was expected to cut off the head of
his rival and boil the brains for soup.

Goodness, Lucy. Can
such savagery be true?

Ah, of course not. I make up
that stuff for the tourists.

It is actually customary for
the victor to say to the rival,

"No, really, you should have
won, you were much better.

"I was just lucky, really."

Hm. I can see that is a
less interesting anecdote.

Can't believe Emelia's actually coming!

First time I've met her

since the unfortunate misunderstanding
over sonnet number 130.

When you mentioned her eyes
were dull, her hair like wire,

her skin a dullish grey
and her breath reeked?

Yes. And, amazingly, she failed to spot

that I was satirising
traditional romantic poetry.

You've asked her round pretty early.

The awards aren't for hours.

Are you hoping to grab a chance
to hide your will in hers?

No! I... I'm taking her
to supper at Lucy's.

What a night!

Dinner with a beautiful,
sophisticated girl,

then showing her off during my triumph
at a star-studded awards ceremony.

It does not get any better than this!

Mr Shakespeare, I really think you need
to remember that you are a married man!

Look, I'm just taking her to dinner.

You can tell yourself that
if you like, Mr Shakespeare,

but you and I both know that, given
half the chance, you'd be in there

like the eager rodent up
the proverbial piping drain!

KNOCK AT DOOR

Oh, God, she's here! This is it!

I'm actually going to take Emelia
Lanier on a glamorous night out.

Master...

Madam, this is the
greatest moment of my life.

Well, that's nice, love, because
I have made a bit of an effort.

Anne!

You're in London?

Yes.

Well, I was sorry that I've been
so cross about your big night,

and when you made me change the
date of Hamnet's confirmation

I decided I'd come and support you.

Like you said, it's the
greatest moment of your life.

What?

Oh, yes, of course. Yeah.

In fact, it's almost like
you were expecting somebody.

Are you expecting somebody, Will?

No! Of course not.

KNOCK AT DOOR

Who's that, then?

Nobody! Kate, run and tell Bottom to
make sure there's nobody at the door,

and if there is, tell
them I've got the plague.

You stay right where you are, Kate!

If there's nobody there, then it won't
matter if we find out who it is, will it?

Master... It-It... It's...

ITALIAN ACCENT: Mr Shakespeare!

I'm so looking forward to
coming to the award ceremony.

Oh, my God, it's that tart you
wrote them smutty poems for!

I beg your pardon?!

William?

Who is this oikish milking-slap?

It's Mr Shakespeare's wife, Emelia.

No doubt come to accompany
him to tonight's awards.

Perhaps you and Mrs S would like
to join me and Emelia for dinner.

Kit Marlowe!

Ahhh! I thought you were dead!

The resemblance is shocking,
I know, but not Kit.

Kurt.

His ravishing blond twin

invited to the award ceremony
to collect Kit's award,

which was why I asked Will
to invite you on my behalf.

You meant so much to Kit, after all.

Well, yes. I remember his poem.

"Emelia, Emelia, by God,
I'd like to feel ya."

So much better than Mr
Shakespeare's disgusting sonnet

about putting his will in my...

Well, exactly.

Will and I were hoping that you
would be my date in memory of Kit.

Isn't that right, Will? Yes, absolutely.

I'd thought to go alone, but now
you are here, my darling Anne,

things couldn't be merrier.

Ooh, I'm having a lovely time quaffing
ale and gorging pie in a London tavern!

Who'd have thought it, eh?

Me, a common milk-slap from Stratford?

Woohoo!

D'you know, I think I'll spend some
more time with you in town, Will,

now that the kids are getting older.

Won't that be wonderful?

Yes, my love.

Wonderful.

Ah, Will and... Good God, it's a ghost!

No ghost, Mr Burbage.

I'm Kit's brother, Kurt, come
to collect his posthumous award.

Well, you've certainly
got the better hair.

Well...

Welcome, Kurt, and an exciting
night of awards ahead, I think.

Hm. Exciting? Ha-ha, don't think so.

Not Italian, is it?
It's just London, so...

Shut up, Kempe.

Are you nervous, Mr Shakespeare?

Like the tired antelope who thought
his wife nodded at a leafy glade

and said, "Lie down there,"

only to discover she
said, "Lion down there."

'Tis I who am the lion
tonight, Miss Lucy.

All the other companies left
town during the last plague

and are still touring.

I can't see that there's actually going
to be any other nominations at all.

Can you think of any
recent productions, Burbage?

Any one-off
Sunday-night revivals?

Er...

Mrs Shakespeare!

So glad I caught you.

I'm afraid a letter has
followed you from Stratford.

Nothing serious, it says, but Susanna
and Judith are both a bit feverish.

Your mother-in-law
says not to worry

but that she'd feel better
if you were to come home.

Oh, dear.

Oh, how disappointing!

Who'd be a mum, eh?

Oh, I'm sorry, Will.

I so wanted to support you on
your big night, but good luck.

And don't forget Hamnet's confirmation,
and you come home just as soon as you can.

Of course, wife.

Burdened down by many an interestingly
shaped statuette, no doubt.

Well, now, very sorry to see her go.

Very sorry indeed.

But it occurs to me, Emelia,

that it does mean that you can
now be my guest, as planned.

Hm...

I kind of think I'll stick where I am.

Oh, right.

So, Mr Shakespeare...

One spare ticket, eh?

If you were in need of
some highly attractive

and sophisticated young totty...

Yes, I am, Kate. Do you know any?

I mean me!

Oh. Yes, right. Of course.

Yeah, all right, hello.

Welcome to the famous Red Lion Theatre
for the first annual London Theatre Awards.

I'm Will Kempe, yeah?

I'm brilliant, by the
way. Hm! Just saying.

HE CHUCKLES Oh, look at you all!

All thinking, "Ooh,
I really hope I win!"

What for? For being rubbish at acting?

LAUGHTER

What's the difference between
you lot and Mary Queen of Scots?

She only died horribly in
front of a large crowd once.

LAUGHTER

I see Sir Francis Drake's just been
buried at sea off Cadiz in full armour.

I bet he went down better
than most of you lot.

LAUGHTER

I think he's misjudged
the mood of the room.

I think he's brilliant. So dry.

So edgy.

He's just being rude.

Anyway, lovely to be here.

Well, what I mean is,
lovely to be paid to be here.

I can't think of any other reason.

Unless you're some
desperate old luvvie-kissie

who'll go anywhere for a free
drink, like most of you lot.

LAUGHTER

Why are they laughing? He's
saying they're all desperate.

He's just so out there.

Just doesn't care. Such a cooling dude.

He's just being arrogant and unpleasant.

He's just so dry and edgy.

He's not dry and edgy.

He's just slagging everyone off
for being a pampered luvvie-kissie,

even though beneath the thin veneer
of post-Renaissance ironic cool,

he's the biggest pampered
luvvie-kissie of the lot.

And if there's one thing more irritating
than being a pampered luvvie-kissie

attending a gala evening
for pampered luvvie-kissies,

being slagged off by a
pampered luvvie-kissie,

it's having all the other
pampered luvvie-kissies in the room

pretending to be wryly
amused and in on the joke

in the desperate hope that it'll make them
look less like pampered luvvie-kissies.

Well, I like being a
pampered luvvie-kissie.

I amuse people for a living
and never killed anyone,

and when I win all my interestingly
shaped statuettes tonight,

I'm not going to pretend that I think
that everyone else is as good as me,

because I don't.

And I'm not going to bang on
about suffering and poverty,

because it's neither my fault
nor in my power to change!

I'm going to whoop and cheer and
possibly do a little victory dance,

because I'm bloomin'
best and I want a prize.

So... first bit of pointless
self-congratulation -

sorry, I meant award -

is the best revival.

And to present it, we've got an actor

who has done a lot to
stop starvation. Yeah?

By eating all the pies!

LAUGHTER

Please welcome Dickie Burbage.

Ah!

And the nominations
for best revival are...

..Richard III, by Will
Shakespeare, currently enjoying

its fifth triumphant
season in London repertory.

Oh, God, I so didn't expect to win this,

I haven't prepared a speech at all.

And Friar Bacon And Friar
Bungay by Robert Greene,

performed for one night only at
the refectory in the Inns of Court.

What?!

And the winner is...

..Robert Greene, Friar
Bacon And Friar Bungay!

So sorry, Mr Shakespeare. I
know you wanted to win so much.

Nonsense. Like it matters. As
if. It's all crappage anyway.

Besides, that was only for a
revival. I'll win everything else.

The nominations for best tragedy are...

..Julius Caesar, by Will Shakespeare...

And the winner is...

..Robert Greene, Friar
Bacon And Friar Bungay.

..Nominations for best comedy, Much Ado
About Nothing, by Will Shakespeare...

The winner is...

..Robert Greene, Friar
Bacon And Friar Bungay.

..Best actor in a male role...

..Richard Burbage

for Friar Bacon in Robert Greene's
Friar Bacon And Friar Bungay.

..Will Kempe as Ralph Simnel in
Robert Greene's Friar Bacon...

..And I intend to make an absolute
beast of myself at the afterparty

in his honour!

LAUGHTER

..Henry Condell for the
Fair Maid of Fressingfield

in Robert Greene's Friar
Bacon And Friar Bungay!

As an actor who plays female roles,

I would like to accept this on behalf
of all actors who play female roles.

Their courage, their
strength, their passion.

We need more and better roles
for actors who play female roles.

We are not just the totty.

We are not just eccentric old ladies.

We are strong, we are passionate,

and we demand an equal
voice in this industry.

Be angry, be fierce.

Dare to dream!

Thank you.

Yes, it's me.

I'm home, and, no, since you ask,
I did not have a good journey.

My coach was massively delayed
out of Long Compton because of,

and I quote, "the late arrival
of the incoming service".

And this, mark you, was
offered as an excuse,

as if somehow that made
everything all right.

"The incoming service was late.

"Whoopee! We're off the hook.

"All guilt be absolved."

Except, hang on, who exactly was
running this incoming service?

Genghis Khan, the
Bishop of Bath and Wells,

the recently encountered
Cherokee and Mohawk tribes

of the North American Seaboard?

No! The same people who are
running my outgoing coach.

Two late coaches does
not make it better.

Imagine if I tried that in the theatre.

"Sorry, no play tonight,
I haven't written it.

"But don't worry, I haven't
written the previous one either."

Well, hello to you lot,
too, thanks very much.

And since you asked, no,
I didn't win any prizes,

because Robert Greene got all his
Oxbridge mates to vote for him.

Well, Bolingbrokes to the lot of them!

I am returned, as promised, for
Hamnet's confirmation, so let us...

Dad...

Daughter?

Hamnet's dead.

Dead?

Plague, husband.

Our one in three.

I thank a merciful God that he left us
Susanna and Judith to be our comfort.

Merciful God?

Merciful God?

Don't, husband.

Don't hate God nor, worse, deny him.

I owe God nothing.

Our son is lost to us!

Not lost, never lost.

Just gone before.

I have to believe that, Will,
and that God is merciful.

Otherwise I can't...

I can't...

He didn't suffer long, William.

A single night.

It began... just before sunset.

And he left us as the sun rose.

He said he'd see you in heaven, Dad.

But that you weren't to rush,
cos he knew how busy you are.

He said we could have
his confirmation then.

So just you tell me
you believe, husband.

Tell me you believe we'll see him again,

that God took him for a purpose
and that one day we'll be reunited!

You're the clever one.

You always know the answers,
so tell me you believe!

Yes, Anne.

Yes, of course I believe.

Such a light as shone in our son
couldn't be extinguished in an instant.

It shines bright and clear in heaven.

We'll see it in the stars tonight.

And they will guide us to him

when our own time comes.

Yes.

Yes, they will.

In the meantime, in the morning
there'll be the cow to milk

and maize to grind and fires to set.

There isn't a family in England that
hasn't got empty places at the table.

And we have only one.

Like I said, God is merciful.

Do you, Dad?

Daughter?

Do you really believe that
Hamnet's light still shines?

Yes, Sue.

In you, in Judith, in his
mother's heart, and in mine.

In... In every thought we
have and breath we take,

as long as we live.

But in heaven, Dad?

Do you believe we'll see him again?

To hold him and kiss him, to
shout at him and scold him?

No, daughter, I don't.

But your mother does.

And for all that she
says I'm the clever one,

in my experience, she's
right about most things.

Grief fills the room
up of my absent child

Lies in his bed Walks
up and down with me

Puts on his pretty
looks Repeats his words

Remembers me of all his gracious parts

Stuffs out his vacant
garments with his form

Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?