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Screenwriter’s Submission Berlin Talent Campus 2006 Ben Robbins Applicant #: 2006-3265 The scene below is from A BAD NIGHT FOR SHAKESPEARE, a script I wrote this past year and am in the process of revising. SYNOPSIS: A BAD NIGHT FOR SHAKESPEARE is a madcap historical black comedy based on the true story of the two biggest celebrity actors of their day (the 1840s), and the immoral novelist-adventurer-politician who hijacks their public feud for his own, tragic political ends. Imagine the Coen Brothers doing Gangs of New York meets Topsy-Turvy. The historical record is this: In the late 1840s, the American public became fascinated by the rivalry between Edwin Forrest, the first native-born star of the American stage, and William Charles Macready, the indisputed greatest British Shakespearean of his day. As men and artists, Forrest and Macready respected each other, and each had great affection for the other’s motherland. But their competing performances of the great Shakespeare tragedies – politicized by Ned Buntline, a self-promoting muckraker and dime-novelist – became fuel for the xenophobic mania of the day, eventually leading to the Astor Place Riot of 1849. That night, thousands of American workingmen, spurred by their objection to a Macready performance of Macbeth, rioted and attacked the theater. More than 20 people were killed and hundreds were injured by the time the National Guard was able to disperse the crowd. A BAD NIGHT FOR SHAKESPEARE is a loving, comic homage to a time when the theater was popular entertainment across social classes, a cautionary tale of the dangers of the politics of fear, and a character-driven exploration of two deeply different artists and the corrupt visionary who uses their integrity to destroy them. In the scene below, we’re meeting Forrest offstage for the first time, sharing drinks and his love for the theater with his fellow countrymen. I hope you enjoy it. INT. EAGLE CLAW BOWERY TAVERN. NEW YORK CITY, 1846 - NIGHT A rough crowd -- men who work with their hands, women of loose morals and the lowest of the low... actors. An impromptu performance is underway as RUFUS, a comic actor entertains the crowd with the drunken porter from Macbeth. RUFUS Drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things. From his seat of honor, a mildly sauced Forrest is enjoying himself immensely. FORREST What three things does drink especially provoke? RUFUS Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. "Leechery," sir, it provokes and unprovokes... But can't help correct Rufus' pronunciation. FORREST It's 'lechery.' Leechery's something else entirely. RUFUS Well, if'n you don't like the way I do it, then you do it, eh, Forrest? ...an idea that the crowd responds to enthusiastically. After a moment of feigned humility, Forrest stands and holds his mug aloft, to the drunken cheers of the revelers. FORREST Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes. It provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance. The crowd loves the ribaldry and Forrest plays it up. FORREST Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him and disheartens him; makes him stand to and not stand to. He pantomimes an erection turned flaccid, to great laughter. FORREST In conclusion, it equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves him. The crowd applauds. He raises his glass and takes his seat. RUFUS Well, three cheers for Forrest. It seems our great tragedian has a comic bone or two, as well! As the cheers die down, a SURLY FELLOW, who has been sitting apart, sneering at the goings-on, says his piece. SURLY FELLOW I say there's no comedy in Americans cheering for British plays. HAPPY DRUNK Yeah. Give us Metamora the Indian! The room falls silent. Heads turn towards Forrest. FORREST Who are you, friend? BUNTLINE A native son, an American by birth and blood. One who didn't fight for his homeland to see it overrun by the dogs of Europe. FORREST Every man who spends his hardearned scrill in this tavern is an American. I'd be careful suggesting otherwise if you like your head attached to your body. Forrest's just stating a fact, and does so with the folksy backwoods intelligence he tries to bring to all his interactions. SURLY FELLOW Just because a man takes his piss here, don't make him an American. JOHNNIE BOWIE, the young, good-looking cowboy type sitting at Forrest's elbow, has a much shorter fuse, and starts to stand, his hand on the enormous, war-scarred knife he wears at his belt. BOWIE How'd you like to take yer piss with blood in it? FORREST Easy, Johnnie. It won't be worth cleaning your blade. Forrest gestures for Bowie to sit back down, then slowly gets up, himself, and approaches his critic. The crowd is dying to see him pop the guy. FORREST I don't know which discredits you more, friend, your bigotry or your ignorance. Shakespeare is no Englishman. Sure, he was born on English soil, but his spirit is as vast as the whole world. The Bard belongs to us all. He speaks to all, and for all. If he were alive today, he would sit among us here. Forrest is now standing inches from the man's face, knowing that a barful of his fans have his back. FORREST So, how 'bout I buy you a drink and you start thinking before opening yer mouth on matters you don't understand. The surly fellow hesitates a moment, then spits a mouthful of beer at Forrest, who wipes the beer off his face with a smile. FORREST You can't teach 'em if they don't want to learn. Boys. Before the word has even escaped Forrest's lips, Bowie and two other strapping YOUNG MEN have the surly fellow headlocked and on his way out the door. The BARTENDER hands Forrest a towel as everyone listens to the sounds of the surly fellow getting a few kicks and punches as a parting gift... and then, ho hum, return to their drinks and conversations. Bowie re-enters, smiling as he approaches Forrest. BOWIE What a turd. Forrest looks at the young man with fatherly pride. FORREST You're every inch your father's son, Johnnie. You got his temper and his backbone. BOWIE Think I'm a few inches taller, actually. FORREST There was one time, in New Orleans, your pa got his knife stolen... Bowie pulls up a barstool, eager to hear the tale. BOWIE Two more, barkeep! What'll it be, Eddie? FORREST None for me. I perform again tomorrow. BOWIE At seven o'clock! Come on, one more. Just to tell the story. Forrest starts to get up from his seat and put on his coat. FORREST Can't do it, Johnnie. That way dissolution lies. I'll tell you the story another time. BOWIE Any other man I'd slice from gut to gullet for refusing me. You're lucky I love you. They embrace and Forrest heads for the door.