Will (2017): Season 1, Episode 1 - The Play's the Thing - full transcript

Who will want a play by
William Shakespeare?

I can't spend the rest of
my life making gloves.

We have three children.

A player is little better than a beggar.

They say in London, people
cry the names of players

as if they were kings.

I dream this for us.

No, Will, your dreams are your own.

Trust me, Ann.

Da?

Good morrow, Prince Hamnet.



Ma don't tell the stories proper.

Ah.

Then I will leave Queen Mab with thee.

What's she?

She is a fairy no bigger than a gnat,

and night by night, she
creeps into boys' ears

and tells stories of...

what?

Dragons?

Aye.

Dragons.

Can you be satisfied
with Mab 'til I return?

Hey.

None of this.



Go on.

One day, I'll buy us the
biggest house in Stratford.

I swear it.

I'm to feed them, am I?

I'll send money within the month.

Do. Or I'll turn them into the street.

You must bear this to London...
For your cousin Southwell.

Southwell's the most
hunted man in England.

Father Southwell's a true Catholic.

Aye, Will, and a true writer.

You'd do well to follow his example.

Put your words to the service of God.

I have no care for politics.

This is no politics...
This is your soul!

Never forget what those
Protestant devils

did to our family.

Remember, Will.

Remember.

Leave it with John Wilkes
at the Cross Keys tavern.

And your rosary.

Better to die righteous
than to burn for fear.

Pork here!

Pork here! Pork here!

- Get out!
- Don't!

Hey! Get off me!

Are you trying to steal from me?!

I'll cut your bloody arm off!

Let me go! Let me go!

Piss off, you fat bastard!

Get out, you poxy street rat!

Ohh!

Guide, Sir. New in town?

I-I'll show you all the sights, Sir...

Bowling alleys, card
dens, pistol shootin'...

Bears ripped apart by wild dogs...

Your horoscope read by a blind virgin!

With Presto as your guide,
London's your oyster!

"London's your oyster."

Why did you write my words, Sir?

Why, Sir? I didn't say no treason.

I hope not... a treasonous
oyster will run you through

quicker than a Spanish blade.

Ah. "Treasonous oyster"...
That's good, Sir.

Are you a poet, Sir?

You're a great poet. I can tell.

Perhaps you're in London
to make your fortune, Sir?

Aye. Which means now, I
have none, so farewell.

Sir, I want no money.

It makes me sick to hear you say it.

Where you heading, Sir?

No charge.

The theatre...?

You're a theatre poet!

I've hit it, haven't I?

The best theatre in
London's right 'ere, Sir.

Come on!

Come on, Sir.

Where?

Over here.

Come on, Sir!

- Right here, Sir!
- Where is it?

And it's free.

The best theatre in
London's right here, Sir.

- Hurry! This way!
- Almighty Father...

Come on, Sir!

Whose blessed son died

to destroy the works of the devil!

Catholic traitor!

- Catholic dog!
- Die, Catholic!

Go to hell, Catholic!

Hang, Catholic scum!

Watch, Will.

Watch these devils murder your uncle.

God have mercy on their souls.

God have mercy on their souls, Will.

Oi!

Kill you!

I'll kill you!

Catholic! Catholic!

Catholic!

O God...

who knows us to be

in the midst of so
many and great dangers

that by reason of the
frailty of our nature,

we cannot always stand upright.

Grant us such strength and protection

as may support us

and carry us through all temptations...

Where is Southwell?

Hail Mary...

Hail Mary full of grace...

Spare me your Popish idolatry.

I believe in the holy Catholic Church.

Yes.

But our gracious queen
and all who love her

believe in the one true Protestant faith

and will not rest until we wipe
the Catholic filth from England.

You will burn in Hell.

Perhaps.

But you will get there sooner.

Hmm?

For the love of thy only son,

our savior, Jesus Christ.

Amen.

I'm gonna die!

Be still down there, you hear?
It's slipping!

Sir, a pint for you? Please. Come on.

Thy brow is whiter than a dove, my love.

Brighter than all the stars
in the heavens above.

I am a mere maid...

"I am a mere maid."

I am a mere maid,

unused to the ways of men!

Stinking, vile pig's wallow!

This mere mortal
is stealing my fair maid!

I shall smite him with a
mighty clap from Heaven!

Come away with me, my love!

Boring!

- Away!
- Who wrote this?

- Come away with me, my love.
- Aaghhh! Rhythm!

Damn you, Richard! Rhythm!

Rhythm!!

- Your son is ruining my play!
- Who are you?

I'll bloody ruin you!

It's a disaster!

Oh, really? I thought it
was going quite well.

I told you to do no more Baxter plays!

Oh, the oracle speaks!

Ohhh!

He's here.

Get off the stage!

Waste of time!

Where is it?

You said it was finished!

I've been far too busy on Her
Majesty's secret service

to write.

Kit, please.

I need a Marlowe play.

Obviously.

But the unfortunate truth is,

I am now bound to Henslowe of the Rose.

Bound?

By exclusive contract.

Henslowe pays me not to write.

Not to write?!

It's very New Age.

New Age?

I paid you a fortune.

- But Henslowe...
- Stuff Henslowe!

This is the Theatre, and I built it!

Without me, there would
be no theatre in England,

and Christopher Marlowe

would be just another
arse-swiving nobody.

As I said... An exclusive contract.

We're leaving.

Burbage!

- Lord Hunsdon, leaving so soon?
- Burbage!

The Morris dance is yet to come.

Does your husband
forget that his license

rests on my patronage?

- Your Lordsh...
- Burbage!

Serve me something more
appetizing than this excrement,

or I shall find a company
more worthy of my name.

Poxy old prick.

Do something!

James, I don't...

I-I-I wa...

Kemp, get out there
and calm things down!

What?!

I said get out there
and calm things down!

Now! Get out there!

Jesus wept.

Yeah, let Kemp do it all.

Can't even get his end away

without being interrupted by
some cock-blocking bastard!

We paid for a play!

Oh, this is dumb, eh?

Hey!

Where's the play?!

- This is shit!
- Hey!

It's more like tragedy!

Give us a play!

Rubbish!

Yes, you! Now shove off!

Yeah?

All right! It's on!

Friends! Patrons!

Countrymen!

Lend me your ears!

A word! A word!

Tomorrow, there will
be a free performance

for one and all.

We don't want this shit again!

No, no! It will be a
magnificent new play.

Who's it by?

Ahh...

Let's torch the place!

The great Christopher Marlowe!

"Holler ye pamper'd jades of Asia"?

Ah, yes. "Holler ye
pamper'd jades of Asia"!

Ha ha!

But this new play is even greater

than the great "Tamburlaine the Great."

What's it called?

Uhh...

"Tamburlaine...

the Ghost"!

"Tamburlaine the Ghost"!

A ghost? Oh, Marlowe
would do that brilliant!

Now, leave us now and
come again tomorrow.

And free beer in the courtyard!

Uh, f-for the next half-hour!

What?

I would speak with Master James Burbage?

You're speaking with his son.

I have a letter of introduction

from Master Roland Gibbs, esquire.

Who?

He owned the theatre
troupe I played with.

Where did you play?

Warwickshire... mainly.

Warwickshire.

And I've also...

written.

Sir!

Prithee, good Sir!

Aye, fair maid?

Sorry. I-I thought...

I must speak with Master James Burbage.

Are you a debt collector?

No... I'm an actor.

Worse.

And I have a play.

Of any quality?

Yes.

I think so.

Then declaim.

What?

I would not waste my father's time.

Your father?

Yes.

Begin.

Uh...

"So, John of France..."

had you done at first as now you do,

how many civil towns had stood untouched

that now are turned to
ragged heaps of stones?

How many people's lives
might'st thou have saved,

"that are untimely"...

"sunk into their graves?"

Sir?

Uh, uh, fair maiden?

Who are you?

No one.

No one?

No one... yet.

Yet?

Seems this no one desires to be someone.

Come in.

But listen!

Tomorrow, the masses will expect

to see Marlowe's newest masterpiece.

Brilliant plan, James! Brilliant!

We're stuffed!

Shut up!

James!

James.

Leave me alone!

All right.

Baxter has written a new play.

Now, we can pass it off as Marlowe's.

No one'll believe his
dog's vomit is Marlowe!

How dare you...

I have a play!

Who are you?

Um... William Shakespeare.

Never heard of you.

Just listen to him, Father.

I'm an actor and... I'm
not hiring actors!

And my play's called "Edward the III."

Ohh! God! A history play?

I've written an enchanting pastoral.

Pastoral?! No, no!

It's shit like that got us
into this frigging mess

in the first place!

Mine's about a heroic English king!

Edward.

And his son, the Black Prince.

There's love, war, death, and betrayal.

Is there any comedy?

Um... the Scottish
characters are quite funny.

Yeah. Scots are funny.

What happens in the end?

The English king triumphs
over the deceitful French.

Well, everyone hates the French.

I'll play the Black Prince!

I'll do the funny Scot!

Not too many words.

Silence!

I...

Baxter, shut up!

It'd only take a second. I pro...

Mm. Yeah. Mm.

Maybe. Maybe.

Oh, no. No! No!

No!

No, no, no, no!

Will you please do that somewhere else?!

Yeah. Nnn. Nnn.

A piece of shit.

Ha ha! Da ha!

But we can make it work.

What?

You rewrite with Baxter
while we rehearse.

We have a play!

Our queen's life is in danger.

The Catholic priest and
poet Robert Southwell

continues to foment rebellion
with his propaganda,

printed on secret presses
right here in London.

Make no mistake...

Southwell's words are as
dangerous as any armada.

We cannot rule unless we
rule our subjects' minds.

Mr. Topcliffe, when will you find him?

When God allows it.

Which is why I must again
draw the council's attention

to these so-called theatres...

these snares set by the
devil to catch souls.

Always this. We are speaking
of the security of our realm.

God will grant us victory
only if we are righteous.

The theatres must be
destroyed once and for all.

You wrote a play at the
university, did you not,

Mr. Topcliffe? It was a
work of moral guidance.

But the theatregoer is deaf to morality.

Enough! Mr. Topcliffe, find
Southwell and find him now.

Get anything?

- A treasure.
- Give it.

You frog-mouthed little light-head!
What's this?

No!

Your regular's...

What's he doin' here?

He won't be staying.

My French fanny, he won't.

Get downstairs and get rid o' Rat Face

And you stink.

You won't need her soon.

This letter's Catholic.

I'll take it to Topcliffe himself.

Topcliffe.

They say that man's the Devil.

I cut him.

- Who?
- The Catholic.

Topcliffe will love me for that.

He'll pay gold for this treasure.

And then you can quit
this place, dear sis,

and not be so afflicted
of your tiredness.

You cut him?

I cut him deep.

Is he finished yet?

What happened to your hand?

Oh, I was... I was opening an oyster.

You need a scribe.

Yes, I am that most
useless of creatures...

An educated woman.

It seems that women are only good

for ruling the nation, rearing
children, and whoring.

I have yet to decide which
path I shall choose.

My father lets me be the company copyist

because it saves him a
great deal of money.

I am yours. Dictate.

All right. Um...

"Let me..."

have her...

likened...

- We need that scene now!
- "...to the sun"...

I've improved it!

"She doth"...

"She doth bedazzle gazers like the sun"?

Your schooling was
obviously very rustic.

"Bedazzle" is not a word.

The word is "dazzle"! Change it.

"Bedazzle" sounds better.

It fits the rhythm, and
the meaning's clear.

"To dazzle"... "bedazzle."

You can't just make up words!

Well, someone must!

Otherwise, we'd still be
grunting or speaking Latin.

Yes, educated people must,

not farmboys from Warwickshire.

Glovemaker's my trade.

Exactly!

Change... the... word!

No!

I like "bedazzle."

As senior poet, I insist that this...

Oh, for Christ's sake, Baxter!
Shut up and give me the pages!

Uhhh..

"Be... dazzled."

Yes, I liked "bedazzled," too, Richard.

How many civil towns had stood untouched

are now untimely sunk into their graves!

How many...

When he gets excited, he swords the air

like he's chopping wood.

I call him "The Carpenter."
He thinks it's a compliment.

With open blows like
the continual laboring.

For what men's acts...

The theatre?

Come to make his fortune, he said.

He was a Catholic, so I cut him.

Cut his hand deep.

You have served God well.

- Show him out!
- Stay, Sir!

I-I-I beg thee, Sir, for my pains, Sir,

s-some gold.

Gold?

Thou hast had thine meat.

What woulds't thou have with gold?

Well, I... M-my sister Sir, she...

She is virtuous? Yes Sir.

Virtue is its own reward.

But, Sir.

Sir! Your Lordship!

Your lordship!

No!!

It's not working!

What can we do?!

I'm sure our young genius
can think of something.

Invent some more words?

Uhh...

I...

Didn't think so. Now...

Oh, Christ!

I, William Shakespeare,
Catholic, do swear

to suffer all persecution,
imprisonment, and torment

rather than submit to Protestant rule.

And I, Robert Southwell, do witness

that thou art sworn to protect
the one true religion,

even unto death.

Unto death.

Birds.

Birds!

What?

The French could be attacked by birds.

Birds?!

Crows. Or... ravens.

As if...

as if their refusal to
recognize Edwards as king

has offended nature.

Inexplicably, the sky darkens.

The ravens circle, the French panic,

and the outnumbered English triumph!

Ridiculous!

Brilliant!

It's brilliant.

Yes.

Yes.

It's brilliant!

Brilliant!

Oi! Look to your parts.

Tomorrow, we continue early.

Alice!

Birds!

We've not formally been introduced.

Richard Burbage.

William Shakespeare.

And this ugly arse is Autolycus Brewit,

the second best actor in the company.

In thy dreams, dick-wit.

Come... drink with us.

Well, I have to do tomorrow's changes.

Do them later.

'Tis already late.

Then do them early.

We must live fast, die young,
and leave a pox-ridden corpse!

Henslowe is trying to ruin us,

but we don't need his poxy playwrights.

We have you.

Aye, that we do!

You're dressed as a man.

Mm-hmm.

'Tis easier to go abroad
at night like this.

Methinks thou art a pretty fellow.

- Ooh. Sodomite!
- Sodomite!

Ale, wench! A moment, Alice!

My acting... 'tis great, 'tis not?

Speak truth!

Great? Yes.

Perhaps... even a little... too great.

Too great? How?

Well...

when actors act, they hold a
mirror up to nature, as if were.

A mirror up to nature?

As opposed to carpentry.

So that an audience can
recognize themselves.

Most audiences are common, like myself,

So if you're too great, the audience...
will be confused.

That's my problem.

I am too great.

You are a genius, Will Shakespeare.

A genius of birds, so I hear.

Caw! Caw!

Caw!

Master Shakespeare...

I hear you're quite the birdsmith.

Don't believe I've had the pleasure.

Ohhhh! Adorable.

He's so... rustic.

What's your business, Master...?

Robert Greene, founding member
of the University Wits.

And my business is to inform you

that you have no business

imagining that all one
needs to become one of us

is a few of your
provincial stage tricks.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

A true writer needs an understanding

of the classics... A
university education.

Then I must write false, which
I hold as no great sin,

as lies are to a writer

what wood is to a carpenter... material.

Do not duel with a duelist,

lest thy lose thy jewels..

Challenge him, Will!

Oh, no. Not I.

A shilling on Will!

- No, Richard.
- Yes!

I'll take it... Two more on Greene!

I do withdraw.

Oh! The worm turns, does he?

Inch back to whatever shithole
you came from, sluggard.

Sir, you do me wrong.

Three more... On Will!

I don't even know the game.

It's words, you idiot.

Sport for the better sort.

Another two on Will.

Well, lamb, ready for the slaughter?

Or is it "Baa baa baa" all the way home?

Sharpen thy wit, butcher!

Come on!

Verse, iambic pentameter.

The first to falter eats shit!

Lord, save us from these
troublesome fellows,

country bumbling, rude mechanicals.

Upstart crows, beautified
with our feathers,

they flock to London
to ape their betters.

They know no classical allusions,

no quotes Ovidian nor Zeno-lluvian.

To wit, their wit is
bald-faced counterfeit.

Be it caviar to the commoner,

to those of taste, it is mere fodder!

Three...

two...

one!

Good, Sir.

Why...

Why...

Why is thy wit so dry?

We will quench it if
thou does not reply.

Why...

Why...

Why, thy brain is so dull,
thy tongue is tied!

So why take offense that this dull brain

doth foolishly wish to entertain?

I make no claim to fame,
hold none is disdain.

Why dost thou fear this
humble, rustic swain?

Fear thee?!

To demonstrate my superiority...

He'll quote another non... sensicality.

Nonsensicality? Pray, what is that?

The prating nonsense of a tavern rat.

Thy hair is wild, but thy wit is tame.

Lame as an old nag, thou
rides it for shame!

Thy wit is so stale,
worms would not eat it.

It cannot be spoken, only...
Pfft! Excreted!

How dare thee!

Oh, I dare well, for
thou are truly dead.

For shame! Thy wit is slain
by one so poorly read.

Oh! He ills! Bring a stool
so this knave can sit!

"Quilled by common Will"
shall be his epithet!

Ahhh! Bah, bah, bah, bah!

If this upstart has offended,

think on this... I pray all's mended.

Whether fine-feathered...

Ooh!

Or the most common of birds,

to wing our way to
Heaven, all we need...

are words.

Thou art a genius, Will Shakespeare!

That boy can swing! Bam, bam!

That's right!

A pox on those poxy playwrights!

A pox on them all!

We've got Willy Wankerspeare!

Willy Wankerspeare and Big Dick Burbage,

the two new cocks of the London stage!

I will bedazzle them all!

The bedazzler!

Oi! People are sleeping!

Not anymore they're not!

Willy Wankspeare will get us arrested!

I care not.

I will write the greatest plays
this world has ever seen,

and together, we will achieve greatness!

We will achieve greatness!

It is written in those stars. I see it.

I see it!

I see it!

I see it!

I see it. I... I see it.

I see it. I see it. I see it.

- Will...
- I see it!

Yes. Peace.

Peace.

Peace.

- Peace.
- Who goes there?!

The watch!

- Halt!
- Halt!

Halt, there!

Shh!

Shh!

Shh! Shh! Shh!

W-Wait. Alice.

I'm married.

What?

I'm sorry. I'm... I'm...

I'm drunk. I...

Married?

Aye.

Married.

With... three children.

Three?

You must have started young.

18.

So, uh, you're...

you're married.

Yes.

I'm not free.

You're a man.

Don't talk to me about not being free.

Stinking old piss breath!

I'll kill him!

I'll bloody kill him!!

Disrobe, thy dirt-some punk.

Come, commodity.

Show thy worth.

A king's cloak is too fine a bed for me.

Thou art a true knight, Sir Will.

Good night.

Good night, Sir Will.

Good night, Sir Will.

Good night!

Alice.

Don't burn the place down.

She is beautiful.

But you already have a wife.

This will lead to damnation.

I do this for my family.

For yourself.

God gives us rules, not choices.

Is it such a sin to want to be who I am?

You are the son of a glover.

Go home and live by your commandments.

God have mercy on their souls.

Hell is real. And eternal.

Remember thy true faith, Will.

Better to die righteous
than to burn for fear.

The traitor carrying this letter

was from one of the theatres.

It surpriseth me not.

Those places are full drunkards,
degenerates, whores, and spies.

I find it so hard to fit in.

Whoever carried this letter
can lead me to Southwell.

Then they are a valuable prize.

Find him, and you'll be paid well.

Search the theatres for a writer

with a gash on his hand.

"Tamburlaine the Ghost"
by Christopher Marlowe!

Burbage! Where is that liar?

Burbage! Burbage!

You said it was my play.

Well... I did pay for a Marlowe play.

But I didn't write you one.

After the performance,

you can say it was written
by a disciple of yours, huh?

I could sue you, you know.

First, I want to meet this...
"disciple."

Hm.

Very well.

Stop that! I'm practicing!

You two look busy.

- Your pretty gown will get ruined!
- Good.

I-I can't read this.

Uhh... "The death."

Ahhhh!

- Look, if I...
- Will, what do you think of my teeth?

Yes. Very scary.

What am I holding the mirror up to?

You poxy, pigeon-livered,
sodding cocksuckers!

- Now, that's funny, boy.
- Will!

That's funny. What am I
holding a mirror up to?

Nature. Will!

- Nature?
- Will!

Oh. Come and meet Christopher Marlowe.

Will. Uh, William.

Shakespeare.

An honor.

Seems your play is quite the thing.

Very poor thing, compared to your...
great works.

Indeed.

What happened to your hand?

I, uh... slipped.

How long have you been in London?

Not long.

No.

No, not long at all.

And welcome, Monsieur Shakeshaft.

I predict your stay will be profitable.

"Tamburlaine the Ghost"
by Christopher Marlowe!

Psst! You... come here.

Yes, you. Come on.

Go to the house of Richard Topcliffe.

- Whose house?
- Richard Topcliffe.

Tell him Marlowe has what he seeks.
You understand?

What he seeks.

Aye, Sir.

Off you go.

- Master Kemp, Sir.
- What? What?!

In this scene, the line where you...

The line?!

Shut your gob, sonny.

Watch a star shine.

Dislodge! Dislodge!

It is the King of England!

The King of England!

The King of England!

Aaaah!

Saddle my bonny black!

Haaa!

Message for Mr. Topcliffe.

I would have their lives
choked up, my sovereign.

Whose lives, m'lady?

Your wedded queen... My liege.

And Salisbury...

What am I holding...

It's holding a mirror up to nature.

That we cannot bestow
but by their death.

Thy opposition is beyond our law!

So is your... desire.

Yeah! Tell the old lech!

A message from Mr. Marlowe, Sir.

Where is he?

The theatre.

A flight of ugly ravens
do croak and hover

o'er our soldiers' heads!

Fly! Fly!

There is no hope but death!

♪ La morte ♪

♪ La mooooooooooooorte ♪

This first fruit of my sword.

Cropped and cut down even
at the gate of death!

Down with the French faggots!

"Gate of death" is my line.
All the good bits are mine.

You couldn't write this well

if I shoved a hot poker
up your arse, hm?

The King of Boheme, Father, whom I slew,

whose thousands...

That boy can't act for shite!

And lay as thick upon
my battered crest...

"The Carpenter's" at it again.

Well, at least the audience are with us.

The entire play hangs
on the final speech.

If Richard doesn't stop
shouting, we're ruined.

Often blows,

like the continual laboring
of a woodman's axe...

What's he yelling about now?

That is enjoining
to fell a load of oaks

began to faulter,
straight I would record

my gifts you gave me and my zealous vow

that, in despite, I
carved my passage forth!

So, John of France!

- I see you keep your word!
- Give me a sword.

But had you done at
first, as now you do,

how many civil towns...

A mirror!

What mean you... soldier?

Speak!

Hold up a mirror...

my prince...

wherein...

this French villain may
see his own foul nature.

Nature?

Hold up a mirror?

His... nature?

Mirror...

To his... nature.

Mirror...

A mirror.

John, see what a scourge
has laid upon your land?

Had you done at first as now you do,

how many civil towns had stood untouched

that now are turned to
ragged heaps of stones?

How people's lives
might'st thou have saved

that are untimely sunk
into their graves?

Yeah. War.

Nothing but a waste, innit?

God willing, then, to
England we'll be shipped.

Where in a happy hour, I
trust we shall arrive.

Three kings, two princes, and a queen!

Hush!

Thank you!

Thank you, gentles, all!

But, uh, I must inform you

that this trifle was
not written by myself,

but a young upstart... A mere pup!

Please give your hand to the whelp...

Master Will Shakeshaft!

You said you were going
to pull me onstage.

I wrote it with him!

I have a far greater
role for you to play.

I told you he was special.

We'll see.

Give me your hand.

Go gather the props.

Christ!

What have you done?!

We all must suffer for
greatness one way or another.

Degenerate lunatic!

Shh. Here. Let me bandage it for you.

I'll kill you!

No!

He struggled, and the wound opened.

- Get him out of here.
- No, no, no, no!

No! I've done nothing!

No! No, no!

No! He's a lunatic!

No!

You've got the wrong man!

You owe me your life,
Master Shakespeare.

Then, the debt is small, for
I am but born this moment.

A debt, nonetheless.

A debt.