Henry Fool Script - Dialogue Transcript

Voila! Finally, the Henry Fool script is here for all you quotes spouting fans of the Hal Hartley movie.  This script is a transcript that was painstakingly transcribed using the screenplay and/or viewings of Henry Fool. I know, I know, I still need to get the cast names in there and I'll be eternally tweaking it, so if you have any corrections, feel free to drop me a line. You won't hurt my feelings. Honest.

Swing on back to Drew's Script-O-Rama afterwards for more free movie scripts!

Henry Fool Script



You want some?



You're dead motherfucker!

Keep runnin'!



Where the hell have you been?



-Mom, come on and eat!

-I'm not hungry.



-Then why did I cook?

-I don't know why you cooked.



I don't know why you bother.



Eat, Simon.



God! I want to get fucked.



You okay?



See ya.



Get up off your knees.



Where do you have to go to get

a six-pack of beer around here?



-Say something.

-She's mute.






Kiss my ass.









Centuries ago,

it had an 'e' at the end.



-Where do you come from?

-Nowhere in particular.



I go where I will

and I do what I can.



That's why I'm in trouble.



I'm sort of

what you might call...



an exilé.



Why are you in trouble?



An honest man

is always in trouble, Simon.



Remember that.



How do you know my name?



I am not retarded.



Yeah, well.

I'll take your word for that.






I mean...



they think...



you know...






I see.






Take this.









Keep them with you

at all times...



if you feel you've got something

to say and you can't get it out.



You stop

and write it down, okay?



What are these?



My life's work.



My memoirs.



My confession.



What have you done?



I've been bad.






But why brag?



The details of my exploits

are only a pretext for a...



far more expansive

consideration of general truths.



What is this?



It's a philosophy.



A poetics.



A politics, if you will.



A literature of protest.



A novel of ideas.



A pornographic magazine of

truly comic-book proportions.



It is in the end whatever

the hell I want it to be.



And when I'm through with it

it's gonna blow a hole this wide...



straight through

the world's idea of itself.



They're throwing

bottles at your house.



Come on,

let's go break their arms.






I don't want trouble.



Once, I forget where I was,

Central America, maybe...



somewhere hot.

Stupid job, bad pay.



Dangerous location, the water was

so foul they wouldn't piss on it.



A crowd of drunken motherfuckers,

hired by the local drug cartel...



shows up at my hotel room and

threatens to tear me limb from limb.



And I say:



"Listen, 'hombres'...



You got me outnumbered   to  .

You're gonna kill me here tonight...



and not a soul in this dimly-lit

world is gonna notice that I'm gone.



But one of you...



one of you is gonna have

his eye torn out."









I repeat myself.



"One of you jerks, is gonna have

his eye ripped out of its socket.



I promise. It's a small thing,

perhaps, all things considered.



But I will succeed.



Because it's the only thing

I have left to do in this world.



So, just take a good look

at one another one last time...



and think it over

a few minutes more."



And then, what happened?






here I am...






after all.



Did you throw up

all over some girl?



They were throwing bottles

at the house, you know.



She's got some ex-con

in it she met at the bar.



Tattoos all over himself

and big, red, bloated nose.



Did you take your pills?



You want me

to tell her to be quiet?



What's the use? She might

as well get it while she can.



She's not always gonna have the ass

she has now, you know? That's life.



Good morning, Simon.



A glorious day, huh?

Here, have a doughnut.



Can you lend me US$  O?






Where's the library

in this scrappy little burg?



Down the highway about

a mile and a half, then make a left.



Excellent. I'm polishing up the

final chapters of my confession...



and I need a

reasonably well-stocked...



reference section.



I thought...



I was...



I wanted to...






Can I take this?



I'll correct the spell.



-Simon, who did this to you?

-I was gonna tear out their eyes.



-Who's eyes?

-I told them. Like you said.



I knew I could do it.



You should take him home.

He smells like a toilet.



Mr. Fool, what is this?



-It's poetry.

-Are you sure?



Of course I'm sure.

I've corrected the spelling myself.



It made my daughter sing.



-Keep still.

-Let me do it.



Fine. You do it, Simon.

I don't care.



Mom! Simon's got a broken rib

and dislocated shoulder...



and he won't let me disinfect

a gash in his head.



-Fay, just take him to the hospital!

-He won't go!



Simon Grim, you go to the hospital

with Fay right now, you hear me?



We gotta talk.



What the hell were you trying

to do when you wrote this thing?




-You wrote it in iambic pentameter.



-Iambic what?




Look, in my opinion this

is pretty powerful stuff.



Though your spelling is Neanderthal

and your reasoning a little naive...



your instincts are profound. But the

thing needs to be more cohesive.



It can be expanded, followed-thru,

unified. See where I'm getting at?



Are you willing

to commit yourself to this?



To really work on it, to give it

it's due on the face of adversity...



and discouragement, to rise up to the

challenge you yourself accept?



And don't give me that wonder struck

'I'm only a humble garbage man'.



It hurts to breathe.



Of course it does.



Have a drink.



Do you find me attractive?






-I look young for my age, don't I?

-How old are you?



How old do you think I am?



You look young.



How young?



I don't know. Young.



But how? Do I look more

like  O or, you know,  O?






Listen, you geek. After a couple of

drinks, people mistake me for   .




are you a registered voter?



Bug off, Vicky.



"Saving America from itself."



-What the fuck is this?

-About the upcoming elections...



and Congressman Owen Feer, the good

things he'll do for our country.



Yeah? Like what?



He wants to win back this

country for us Americans, Warren.



And restore a kind of cultural and

moral standard to our way of life.



What time does your

kid go off to school?



Nine o'clock.



How about I come over

to your house later?



I don't know, Warren.

I mean...



Come on.



I mean it.

I'm trying to change.



How dare you put something like

this up where anyone can see it?



-It's poetry.

-It's pornography!



A product of a diseased mind!

You ought to be ashamed, Sr. Deng.



You see, Simon,

there are three kinds of "there."



There's there...






"There are the doughnuts."



Then there's their.






Which is the possessive.



"It is their doughnut."



Then, finally...



there's they're.



T-H-E-Y, apostrophe, R-E.



A contraction.



Meaning they're.



"They're the doughnut people."



Got it?



If you're gonna read Wordsworth, you

better get a more updated edition.



This odoripherous tome you're so

attached to doesn't have a prologue.



And you need

notes, commentary.



I'll go to the library and I'll get

you the best edition they have.



Thank you, but that's okay. I'll

stop there on my way back from work.



From work?

You can't go to work.



Oh, yeah. Maybe not today.

But tomorrow, probably.






-My job?







You need time to write, Simon.

To study, to reflect.



But I like my job.



A vocation like ours, Simon,

is not a   to   thing.



You can't put a fence

around a man's soul.



We think and feel when

and where we think and feel.



We are the servants of our muse,

and we toil where she commands.



Can I read your confession?






Not yet. Soon. We'll see.



-Is it almost finished?

-In a piece of work like this, it's...



avocation like ours, it's...



you can't put a fence around a man's

soul. What I'm trying to achieve...



takes a lifetime, really.



It's a life's work.



But soon. Don't worry about it.

I'd appreciate your feedback.



I gotta go.



See you.



What are you

doing here, Simon?



I'm writing a poem.



So what? It's not so great.



Is that him?



Pardon me, Simon.



Look, I'm the editor of

a high-school newspaper...



One of the editors.



-One of the editors. And we...







wanted to know if we can print

your poem in this month's issue.






-Because I think it's great.

-I don't.



-Who cares what you think?

-Geez, you're a drag!



-Well known drag.




Mom, did you

take your medication?



I guess so.



Good evening, Fay.



What do you want?



I've got these

library books for Simon.



Leave them there

on the cabinet.



Where is he?









Simon, are you

a registered voter?



This year, when you go to the polls,

consider congressman Owen.



He wants to restore America to its

position of unmatched wealth...



power and opportunity.



To revitalize

American civilization...



and lead the human race to even

greater levels of freedom...



prosperity and security.



He's a good man.









I know a man.



His name is Angus James, and he is a

big shot in the publishing business.



Smart, adventurous,

tons of integrity.



When the time is right, I'll

recommend he read your poem.



He'll respect my opinion.



That man was here again

today looking for you.



A man? What man?



You know. That guy.



Why do they torment me like this?




-They're like a bunch of mosquitoes.

-What do they want from you?



They want to suffocate me, Simon.

To extinguish me like a flame.




-They're afraid. That's why.



They're afraid of what I might do.

What I might say, think!



They're afraid of my ideas. You

and I are alike in this way, Simon.



We are?



We are outsiders.

We think and feel too much and...



too deeply.

And the world can't handle that.



Our mere existence is a threat

to its illusion of security.



Sure, they'll name awing of

a library after us when we're dead.



But now where we are alive,

they want to burn us at the stake.



Look, Simon...



I made love to your mother

about half an hour ago...



and now I'm beginning to think that

maybe it wasn't such a good idea.



I mean to say that

I think Fay may be jealous.



I don't want

to think about this.



Bad move, Simon.



A poet's gotta be able

to contemplate anything.



Am I really a poet?



Of course you are.



A great poet.



But you need experience.



You need to do something

to be ashamed of once in awhile!



Come on. Let's go out.



Have you got any money?



That man is a bad influence.



To whom?






-Hey, Simon. Wake up.

-What's that?



It's a computer.

You write on it.



-Here's the manual.

-Where did you get it?



I stole it. Now, listen. Remember we

discussed the need for cadence...



...to the readability of form.

-Shit. Not you again.



-I cannot work on these conditions.

-Yeah, get out of here, you freak!



-Get a life!

-Eat shit 'n' die, Henry!



Beast! Fiend! Rapist!



Oh, shut up, mom.



I am not a rapist.



Shit. Come on. This way.



Keep a lookout.



What's going on?



What's wrong?



I doubt.



So, you're an honest man.

Why beat yourself up about it?



I don't know if there are grounds

for faith. Is my vocation relevant?



Does it make a difference?



-A difference in what?

-The world. The way it is.



Is this away to

help relief suffering?



-Your vocation makes a difference.

-How can you be so sure?



Because vocation is the difference.

Only someone who cares doubts.



Listen, father.

Have you got any money?



Let's go have a drink.



-Are you a registered voter?

-I really don't know.



I could give you some information

about congressman Owen Feer.



This man will make a big difference

in the lives of every American.



-Pardon me, sir.

-Fuck off!






What time does your mother get off?

Fay, are you a registered voter?



Don't you dare talk to me that way.

And keep your hands off my brother.



-Pearl, what are you doing here?

-I'm watching her.



-You and Vicky got back together?

-I got a regular job now.



I saw this retard

on TV this morning.



He's gonna be the next

president of the USA, Fay.



Keep dreaming, Warren.

The guy's a nazi.



-I like him.

-Give me a light.



He's a decent man.

He takes complicated issues...



and he totally simplifies them.

I appreciate that.



-You still sell dope?




You know what the problem

with this country is, Fay?



Me. I'm the problem. We live

in a culture of poverty and crime...



where the work ethic

is undermined...



and male responsibility

is made irrelevant.



Come on, Pearl.

Let's go play at my house.



If she gives you any trouble,

just let me know, Fay.



-What do you mean, you quit?

-I quit my job.




-For things I want to do.



Like what?



Opportunity will step out of the

way to let a man pass it by.



-Are you drunk?

-Now you have to get a job.



I'm not getting a job.



-Who's gonna look after mom?

-I will.



If you treat mom

like a sick person...



she's gonna stay like,

you know, a sick person.



Mom can't be left alone with

no one to keep an eye on her.



Who's been keeping an eye on her

while you're out getting fucked?




What are you doing here?



Henry, your parole officer

came by again today.



He told me that if you don't call

him he'll put you back in jail.



-He wants you to call him!




He was talking to Mr. Deng too.

I was thinking...



Simon, just shut the fuck up!



Forgive me.



Forgive me, Simon.

Look, do me a favor.



Do you have a library card?



Check this out for me. Milton.

Seventeenth Century. English.



It's important my confession

dig up the past...



comb previous evidence, help chart

the historic and even the esthetic...



inevitability of my ideas.

This place is crawling with chicks!



Wander around.

Leer a little.



Feel them.

Pose yourself on them.



-Now, listen. I gotta go.




What did you do?



I got caught.



-How are you, Henry?

-Peachy. Get me a light?



Have you found a job?



How about those Alcoholics Anonymous

meetings? Have you gone over there?



What about that assistant librarian

position you were to set me up with?



I tried, Henry.

I really did.



-So, what happened?

-Henry, with your background...



I mean, your record,

they didn't think it would be right...



...to have you at the library.

-Why not?



They think you'd be

a bad influence on the kids.



Or worse.



So my word is not enough.



My promise, worthless.



The fact that I have served my time

Nothing but the emblem of my...



...continuing guilt.




-What's that?




I'm creating my resume.



This computer has got

a program especially for it.



Bought some special stationery too.

It's scented. Look.



It's roses.



Can you type my

poem into that thing?



-That's your poem?




Simon, mom's right about you.



A poem's supposed to be a small,

delicate thing. Feminine, gentle.



Look at this.

You made a fucking telephone book.



I was caught.



Yes. I was caught once.



In flagrante delictum screwing

a    year old girl named Susan.



She was an ugly

and mean-spirited kid.



But she knew how to play

upon my weaknesses...



which, I admit...



are deep and many.



You appear shocked.



It was a pathetic little conspiracy.

A transparently desperate attempt...



to discredit me and my ideas.



To label me a mere pedophile. As if

I'd be ashamed of such a thing.



As if Socrates himself hadn't

been taken out of circulation...



for corrupting

the youth of Athens.



Seven years.



Seven years for one afternoon

of blissful transgression.



But, what of it?



Who cares?



Prison is not so bad.



Particularly if one's free from the

conventional horror of sodomy.



They were not lost years.



I put them to good use.



I began my major

work, my Opus!



Believe me, Simon.



This incident with the girl...






pales to insignificance in the

wider context of my career.



Nothing in comparison to the day

my confession is unleashed.



We are told not to judge.

But to forgive.



Not to look into our neighbor's eyes

and find the bad. But the good.



This is difficult, I admit.



But having a good friend

isn't always easy.



Yes, I see.






I mean...



do you ever think that...



that Henry is...






He needs help.

Our help.



Yours, especially.



The best parts of himself surface

when he's helping others learn.



Let yourself be taught. Show

your appreciation for his guidance.



In this way, perhaps...






there's hope for everyone.



Even Henry.



The greats all say

the same thing.



Little. And, what little

there is to be said, is immense.



In other words, follow your

own genius, to where it leads...



without regard for the apparent

needs of the world at large...



which has no needs of such,

but just moments of exhaustion...



in which it is

incapable of prejudice.



We can only hope to collide with

moments of unselfconsciousness...



...this divine fatigue, this...

-Push over!



As I tried to

make right in Paris:



"We know we have fallen,

because we know who we are."



-When were you in Paris?

-That's beside the point.



But did they listen to me?

Of course not.



-You okay, Fay?

-No, I'm not okay.



Your poem brought my period

on a week and a half early.



So, just shut up.

Everybody, just shut up!



-Simon, can I have your autograph?

-Never let yourself be flattered.



-What of your friend, the publisher?




-Angus James.

-How about sending the poem to him?



Because it's not done yet.



When is it gonna

be done, Simon?



-I don't know.

-You ought to be home writing.



-Instead of hanging with groupies.

-I'm not a groupie.



-Pardon me. Is this your laptop?

-The thing to do is to send...



parts of it to different magazines

and literary channels first.



-You know, substantiate it.

-What scatological mean?



A preoccupation with excrement.




That's what the Board of Education

called Simon's poem yesterday.




-Yeah. I'm listening.



I'm Edna Rodriguez and I write for

the "Queens County Examiner."



I was just wondering if I can

have a word with Simon Grim?






You can't talk too long with him,

because he writes all day.



That's all he does. Can you believe

that? Simon, get down here!



Simon, Edna.

She's from the newspaper.



The parent's association is

calling your poem pornography.



The teachers are defending

the students' rights to exercise...



critical taste and sensibility. The

county agrees with the church and...



considers the poem emblematic of

modern society's moral...



disintegration. How do you feel

about these reactions to your poem?



Simon, answer the woman.



-I need my prescription pills.

-Mom, Edna. Edna, mom.



Mrs. Grim, what was Simon

like as a child?



-We all thought he was retarded.

-Everyone did.



-Never said a word.

-Masturbated constantly.



-Had no friends.

-Till he met Henry.



"Dear Mr. Grim:



we here at the magazine consider

ourselves open-minded...



and consistently print the work

of the most brilliant young talent.



Every week we are forced to return

writing which we cannot publish...



and include a brief

but polite refusal.



But this tract you sent us demands

a response as violent...



as the effect your words

have had upon us.



Drop dead.

Keep your day job.



Sincerely, the editors."



"De gustibus non disputandum est."



"You can't argue with taste?"



About taste. You can't argue about

taste. My God, Simon...



The other    are almost as bad.

I don't know why I bothered.



What do you mean, you

don't know why you bothered?



You bother because you

know the poem is excellent.



Do I?



Of course you do.



I'm not so sure sometimes.



Can you sit there, look me in the

eye and tell me it's not great?



That it is not a work

of great lyrical beauty...



and ethical depth?



That it is not a profound meditation

on the miracle of existence?




-Can you?






-I can't.

-So you see? You have no choice.



Can you recommend it to your

friend, the publisher, Henry?



Can you recommend

the poem to him?



-That might not be easy.




It's been a long time. My name might

not carry as much weight as it did.



-But he's your friend, right?

-We were close at one time.



You said he

respected your opinion.



Look, Simon.



Opinions come and go.



To be honest,

my ideas, my writing...



they've not always

been received well...



or even calmly.



They're upsetting.

I'm a controversial man.



You see, what I'm

doing is too radical.



Too uncompromising.



It'll take time

for people to see its value.



It's ahead of its time, perhaps,

or maybe just...



a recommendation from me might

do you as much harm as it does good.



Henry, why can't

I read the confession?



Because certain works need to be

experienced all at once...



for one to appreciate

the full force of its character.



Simon, wake up.

The guy's in the dream world.



He's afraid that his reputation will

not allow my work an honest chance.



-His reputation as what?

-As a writer.



-Give me a break.

-He's kind of like in exile...




on account of his ideas.



If he's such a genius, why doesn't

he write books like you do?



He has. He's been working on it for

years. It's just not published.



Yeah, I bet.

It's probably disgusting.



It's quite serious and difficult

piece of work, apparently.



Have you read it?



No. Not yet. Soon.



Certain work needs to be

experienced all at once...



in order for one to appreciate

the full force of its character.



Yeah, well. Whatever.

Listen, Simon. Forget Henry.



Go to this Angus James yourself

and get him to read the poem.



I'm going to fight for a job at the

photo store and another at the bank.



Make sure mom

takes the pills.



See ya.



Please, don't stop.



That was nice.



Yes, it was nice.



But it was unremarkable.



Does that matter?






it does.



Hi, I'll take that.



Aren't you the messenger?






Well, then you must

be here to fix the plumbing.



I'm here to see

Mr. Angus James.



Are you?



The book we know, Angus, will be

a thing of the past in a few years.



Novels, articles, newspapers,

Will all be downloaded onto a PC.



You're telling me to get

out of the publishing business?



We've got to reinvent the publishing

business for the electronic age.



I'm sorry to disturb you, gentlemen.

There's a wound up garbage man...



that seems to have written a poem.

A long poem.



And I recall how in last month's

meeting you stressed the need...



for us to be on the lookout for

more marginalized verse from...



un-established quarters

of the American scene.



-Did I say that?

-You did.






Okay, Laura. Make an appointment.

Sometime next month.






So, how is the digital revolution

is going to help me sell books?



Why can't I see him now?



Because he's a very

important man, and...



you're not.



Be reasonable.






I don't think people are gonna

prefer reading books on televisions.



-It's not television...

-It's interactive.



Angus, look. We have

a number of charts here...



In every home in America, the PC

is gonna be where the TV used to be.



And it'll be a direct connection

to all forms of media.



An unprecedented transformation

in American social life.



We'll become more informed, more

literate, increasingly productive...



and, well, like I said,

we have a number of charts.



I'm sorry to disturb you

again, gentlemen, but...



I'll call security for this one. But

before I do, I wanted to ask you...



just how marginal the undiscovered

voice of American poetry should be?



-Pretty damn marginal, I think.

-Downright controversial, probably.



-How's he striking?

-He's denounced by the Local Board.



I read about him. He hangs around

a delicatessen writing pornography.



Hello. Why do you think I should

take my valuable time to read this?



-Because it's a masterpiece.

-Really? Are you hearing this?



-He's adorable.

-I wouldn't want to waste your time.



I'm sure not. I assume you can

take some straightforward criticism.



Just say "yes."






Get him a coffee, Laura.



-Have a seat, Mr. Grim.

-Hold my calls for half an hour.



-What about Steve?

-He doesn't drink coffee. Do you?



Angus, listen...



-Henry, put those magazines back.

-I'm just looking at the pictures.



-It's not good for you.

-I learn so much from these magazines.



I refuse to discriminate

between modes of knowing.



-You can't smoke in here anymore.

-Why not?



It's the law.



This place is losing

all its charm, Mr. Deng.



Business is good. The kids

hang out all day, drink coffee...



...talk about art and read poetry.

-It's just a fad.



These kids today,

they're just slaves to fashion.



This is really quite

unbelievably bad, my friend.



I've made a career

out of disregard for convention.



But this is profoundly

irrelevant material.



This is only my opinion,

but it is one I value highly.



Good night, Laura. Call Norton

if we're still on for tomorrow.



I refuse to admit that I've ever

been wrong as a reader.



You got talent. You have an innate

sense of the musicality of language.



A good ear, maybe. But you

do nothing significant with it.



And this twisted reasoning that

poses as conviction or insight...




well, it's embarrassing.



Why did you bring

this thing to me anyway?



A friend of mine spoke of you.

He said you had a lot of integrity.



Yes, well, of course

I do, but I'm not crazy.



Who is this person?

Do I know him?



His name is Henry Fool.



Never heard of him.



I remember Henry.



He used to be

the janitor here.






-How much do I owe you?

-US$   .



That can't be right. So what,

my credit's good. Hey, Warren!



-You got a couple of bucks?

-I remind you to vote this Tuesday.



Of course. When noble minds shrink

from the task of leadership...



scoundrels will rush in

to fill the void. Thanks.



It's every American's right.

A blessing.



And yet another opportunity

to save America from itself.



Anybody home?






Henry, got any cigarettes?



Let us pray.



Lord, grant the peace be within

reach for our friend Mary.



May the pain and confusion

she endured on Earth...



be forth through

in the afterlife...



so that she may enter

the kingdom of heaven...



and live in the light of God.






So I was a janitor. So what?



-Angus said he didn't even know you.

-We weren't like bosom buddies.



We used to talk sometimes,

in the elevator, in the mornings.



He said he liked my ideas.



Being a janitor is a good

job if you're a writer.



Especially the night shift. All that

time to think and develop ideas.



Do it.



-Anyway, he hated my poem.

-What the hell does he know?



He wouldn't know a vital piece

of literary art if it bit him!



The hell with him! He's not

the only publisher in the world.



-Nobody likes it.

-It's true.



A prophet is seldom heeded

in his own land. Remember that.



Do it.



Hey, look. Treasure.



-What is this?

-Brass, maybe some kind of copper.



It's a ring. Jewelry.



I think it's a gasket, a fitting for

that old refrigerator over there.



Warren, I found Pearl wandering

around by the garbage dump.



-He lost.

-Who lost?



-Congressman Feer.

-Somebody's gotta lose.



What's the fucking use?



You make sacrifices,

Try to be a decent human being...



try to contribute something

meaningful to society...



and then lose to a bunch

of cultural elite liberal fuck-ups.



I don't give a shit anymore.

People deserve what they get.






What happened to you?



He's a good man, Henry.

Nobody's perfect.



I guess not.



He's terribly disappointed.




She gets scared.



And you don't?



I love him.



-Where's the beer?

-No more beer.



Coffee. Espresso. Cappuccino. Café

Au Lait. Carrot Juice. Cup of tea.



Give me a double espresso

and a jolly doughnut, Gnoc.



Do you mind paying?

My credit's no good here anymore.



Did you go to the

employment agency today, Henry?



No. But it's okay. Simon's gonna

give me a job on the garbage truck.



-I'm concerned about your friend.




It seems he gave an obscene

note to a girl in the library.



-Get out of here. When?

-I'm not sure.



-This is obviously a love letter.

-We've had complaints.



-Where did you get it?

-She posted it on the Internet.



Oh, slut!



She was trying to warn other

girls about a potential rapist.



Does all of this is

true about the Internet?



-About how you can get pornography?

-Sure. It's a serious problem.



-You can send dirty pictures.

-On the Internet?




-No kidding.



I'll see you

on Thursday, Henry.



Gnoc, give me another one of these

double espressos to go, will ya?



Hello, Fay.



Go away.



You gotta get out

of the house, Fay.



You can't blame yourself for not

being here. You did all you could.



Is there something you want?



Have you got the Internet

on that contraption?



Yeah, so what?



Look, Fay. About between

us, what happened.



I don't want to

talk about it, Henry.



Type that part of Simon's

poem onto the Internet.






Go ahead.






Why not?






Come on, Fay.

It's a great idea.



-I don't know if Simon would want it.

-Sure he would.



Just the first ten verses.



I don't know...



He'll thank you for it later.






Did you see him?



-He came by this afternoon.

-Did you talk?






You've gotta tell him, Fay.



He thinks I'm a slut.



Simon, I don't feel so good.



What's wrong?



I feel all kind of

clammy and damp.



-How many of these did you have?




-Henry, we have to talk.

-Can I use your toilet?



Fay's taking a shower.



How much you think

I can get for this?



Henry, Fay is pregnant.



She's pregnant

with your child.









I, Henry, take you, Fay,

to be my wife...



I, Henry, take you, Fay,

to be my wife...



And do promise before

God and these witnesses...



And do promise before

God and these witnesses...



To be a loving

and faithful husband...



To be a loving

and faithful husband...



In plenty and in want...



In plenty and in want...



In joy and in sorrow...



In joy and in sorrow...



In sickness and in health...



In sickness and in health...



For as long as

we both shall live.



For as long as

we both shall live.



Bless, o Lord, this ring, and he who

gives it, and she who wears it...



may abide in Your peace and continue

in your favor until their lives ending.



In God has joined,

let no man separate it.



-Where did you get this?

-It's all over in the Internet.



They're even talking

about it on the TV news.



There's a man from the radio

station over at the doughnut...



and a story about some kids burning

down the school near Boston.



It all started here in Queens, Jim,

at the World of Doughnuts...



about a year ago, when local garbage

man Simon Grim began to compose...



what many regard as vicious, anti

social and pornographic poetry.



This is outrageous!



Measures must be taken.



Have we debased our culture

to such an extent...



that a garbage man with a head

full of sick ideas...



is legitimately

referred to as a poet...



and where the filth he spews can be

accessed by a child at the computer?



Is this what we have come to?

Not the transmission of our...



highest ideals, but a cynical,

atheistic delirium?



In the past three days

we have been treated...



to the usual parade

of philistines...



the posturing, the preening,

the pomposity...



of the residual puritan element

of American culture...



that rears its ugly head every time

an artistic voice comes out.



I'm very attracted to what I feel is

a pungent and squalid element init.



That is the authentic thrashing

voice of American culture.



And, moreover, I find the kind

of imagery of rotten decay...



that is always symptomatic

of any fin-de-siécle.



In Rome, the Pope issued a message

of hope for believer sin their...



plight against what he termed

'the godless and lost.'



He did not mention

Simon Grim by name...



but offered a prayer for the young,

whom he described as sadly in...



need of faith, not the illusion of

conviction offered by rock music...



drugs, and

contemporary poetry.



Also in the news today: the

United Nations General Assembly...



God, Simon, you're like

a total fucking rock star.



I'm willing

to negotiate, Simon.



I know. It's just...



What? You got other offers?



Well, yeah...







Why have you reconsidered?



Because I think your writing

will be tremendously successful.



But you don't like it.



It's growing on me.



-What were the terms?

-US$  OO,OOO in cash.



Up front.




- O/ O split.



Well, that could be better.



But it is a hundred thousand dollars

up front. Guaranteed money.



You could use that.



-So it's a good deal?

-Of course it's a good deal.



So I should take it?






Try to get him

up to US$   O,OOO.



I've let

myself down, Simon.



I've let myself be caught in a

bloody maul, banale necessity.



How did I get here?



How did this happen to me?



I'm going to be

somebody's father.



I need time

to think, to write...



time to finish my confession.



I can't work for a living.



Simon, it's impossible.

I tried once.



My genius would be wasted

trying to make ends meet.



This is how great

men topple, Simon.



Their hearts are at the right

place for much of the time.



They get sidetracked,




How could I've

been so careless?



Henry, please let

me read the confession.



Angus James is convinced my poem is

gonna make him incredibly wealthy.



He'll read your book and

seriously consider publishing it.



If I ask him to.

I'm certain.






I'll insist he

publish the confession...



or I won't let him

publish my poem.



You'd do that?



You'd do that for me?



You saved my life.



Do you realize

what you're saying?



I owe you everything.



Is it really that bad?






Maybe your expectations

were too high.



Are you sure you're

being objective?



-You read this?




And you want me

to consider publishing?




-As part of our deal?









this book is

really quite bad.



That's what you said

about my poem.



I'm offering you a real expression

of my faith in your writing.




and a  O/ O split.



But just exactly what is the

nature of your faith in my writing?



Simon, you don't

require my admiration...



but my experience as a publisher.

And that experience tells me...



that your poem will make more money

than any poetry ever published!



You will never have to work again

on a garbage truck, I assure you...



or in anything else,

for that matter.



Whereas this...



The most I can say

about this is...



the man is a scoundrel.



-He taught me everything I know.




He encouraged what was expressive

in you to become manifest.



He inspired you to act.

He influenced your perception.



How about if my advance

is only a hundred thousand?



-It isn't about money, Simon.

-We could split the royalty  O/ O.



I will not publish

Henry Fool's confession.



Will you sign the contract?



I'm gonna go get your coat.



-Where is your coat?

-I don't need a coat.



I'm gonna go and get

Mr. Deng's van.



Get in the car!



-I want to go up front!

-You gotta lie down! Get in the car!



When did the water broke?



-Give me an ultrasonograph.

-Get to feed the monitor!



-She's losing her heartbeat.

-Sonograph, now!



-Give her oxygen.




What happened?



It's a...



it's a boy.



So, how did it

go with Angus James?



Listen, Henry. Angus

didn't like your confession.



Oh, I see.



-Well, what now?

-What do you mean?



-Did he suggest changes?




There are things I can do

to make it more accessible.






I can soften up some of the language

and make it read easier.



Take out some of the more

inter-textual references...



and popularize the underlying

strum and drum, sort of speak.



I can change its mode. Make it

more of a conventional novel.



No, don't.



I appreciate your

protectiveness, Simon.



But the integrity of the work

can sustain such things.



No, really, Henry. Don't.



What are you saying?



That it doesn't

merit revision?



I'm saying Angus James

didn't like it.



-Did you tell him what you think?

-What I think doesn't matter.



Yes, it does.

You've got to use your influence.



I gave it to him to read and he

hated it. What more can I do?



You can refuse to let him

publish your poem.



I can't do that.



You said you would.



That was before

I read your book.



I signed the contract.



Look, Henry.

What would you expect?






I don't know.



If I told you when I read it, it was

no good, what would've you done?



-I would've respected your opinion.

-There's no accounting for taste.



Well, is there?



I don't know.

I didn't bring it to Angus...



because it was good,

but because you're my friend.



Oh, how perfectly

enormous of you, Simon.



Look, Henry.

I did it. I wrote!



I wrote poetry

because you told me to.



I worked. I worked

while you just sat around...



and comfortably dismissed the

outside world as too shallow.



Is that such a priority? Is that

a measure of a man's worth?



To drag what's best in him out into

the street so that every average...



slob with some pretense to taste

can poke it with a stick?






Maybe it is.



You must be pretty impressed

with yourself, huh?



The all too obviously

talented new man.



The important new voice.



You'd be nowhere without

me and you know it.



I'm leaving.



I saw you for what you were

in the beginning, Simon.



I hold no grudge and I'm sure you'll

leave a small dent in the world.



The world is full of shit.



The world is full of shit.

It's true.



And you have to walk through it.

That's your part.



I'm sorry, but you're good at it.

Perhaps I'm not.



Perhaps I wasn't made

to walk through shit.



Go on, now.






Do what you're good at. Go.



-What are you doing?




About what?









Henry, what did I tell you about

not bringing the kid out here?



-Say hello to Patty, Ned.




-How are you doing, sweetie?

-What did you learn in school today?




-Here. I'll teach you something.



-How's that?

-It burns.



Of course. See, that'll teach you.

Here. Sip this.






I'm warning you.



That's it.






-Hey, Fool, it's about your friend.

-What about him?



The controversial and reclusive

American poet, Simon Grim...



has been awarded

the Nobel Prize in Literature.



The Swedish academy, which will

confer the award next week...



praised Mr. Grim for works of great

and difficult striving for the...



rendering of the desperate,

the ugly and the mundane...



in a language packet in our

share of human frailties.



They must be hard out for geniuses

to pin medals on, because, listen...



when I first met him, he didn't even

know what iambic pentameter was.



-He's a fraud.

-Shut up. You're out of your league.



Stir things up so as to get in

the newspapers, that's his racket.



He's a great American

poet, you dumb fuck!



Poet my ass!



I could puke all over a leaf and

be more profound than he is.



Come over here, and I'll cripple

you in three different ways!






Listen, you degenerate. I've had it.

I've got enough of this.



Ned, have you been drinking?



His throat hurt from smoking.



Henry, don't come home tonight.

Don't come home at all. Ever!



Who's winning?






What's going on in there?



We got out rock and

roll shows these days, Henry.



Poetry readings just don't

pay the bills no more.



What did I tell you?

That was just a fad.



I told you that.

I told everybody.



You hear about Simon?

He's on the news today.



Yeah. So what?



Nobel Prize.



Anybody can get

one of them these days.



That's the problem

with this world, Mr. Deng.



Nobody's got

any standards anymore.



'Ve you seen Fay?



You better sleep in

my office tonight, Henry.



She's very angry.

You gotta let it cool off.



I can't sleep in there

with all that racket.



Suit yourself.



What are you

doing here, Pearl?



You want some?



Some what?



Oh, shit.



That's what my

stepfather always says.






"You want some?"



People say you were once in jail for

having sex with a girl of my age.



You want some?



You oughta get

out of here, Pearl.



-I was here first.

-Go home.



I can't go home.



Why not?



He beat her up again.



Is she alright?



Do you think I'm pretty?



Does your mom need help?



I'll suck your cock

if you kill him for me!






What do you think

you're doing, you idiot?



What are you doing

in my house?



It's about Pearl.



Mind your

own business, Henry.



Yeah. Who the hell do

you think you are, anyway?



Is it true your husband served seven

years at a state prison for rape?



Yes. He has.



And when was that?



It was...



...I don't know,       years ago.

-And when were you married?



We were married

seven years ago.



Were you aware of the victim's

relationship with the stepdaughter?



Pardon me?



The girl.

The daughter, Pearl.



She has been having sexual

relations with her stepfather.



I didn't know that. No.



I'm just repeating

what she said, Fay.



I know this isn't easy,

but we need your help here.



She asked your husband to kill

her stepfather in exchange for...



well, I guess...



the promise of sexual

relations with her.






Where's dad?



I don't know, honey. Leave me

alone a minute. I gotta think.









Is dad in trouble?



Yes, Ned. He is.

He's in big trouble.



Now, can you just

be quiet for two minutes?



What do you want?



My uncle.



What's his name?



Simon Grim.



There ain't nobody

here by that name.



Room    .



This is postmarked

  years ago.



What's he look like?



I'm sorry, kid.



I can't help you.



Promise me you'll be

on that plane at  :OO, Simon.



I'll see you in Stockholm.



Look, Simon...



the world's a scary

place, I admit it.



But it's not

my fault, I swear.



Come on, let's go!



You got a light?



I love you, Fay.



Yeah, well...






Passport and ticket, please.



It's an honor

to meet you, Mr. Grim.



-Congratulations on the Nobel Prize!

-Thanks, but...



I know all your work by heart.

It changed my life.



Yeah, well.

Look, thanks, but, uhm...



Yes, of course.



Please hurry, sir. They're holding

the plane for you in the runway.



This way, Mr. Grim!

Please, we have to hurry!



Hurry, Mr. Grim!




Special help by SergeiK