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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.