All language subtitles for The.Boys.in.the.Band.2020.WEBRip.x264-ION10

♪ Don't you ever feel sad ♪

Come on.

♪ Lean on me when times are bad ♪

Asshole!

♪ When the day comes ♪

Hey!

♪ And you're down ♪

♪ In a river of trouble, baby
And I've got to swim out ♪

♪ Hold on, I'm comin' ♪

♪ Hold on, I'm comin' ♪

♪ I'm on my way, your lover ♪

♪ If you get cold, I'll be your cover ♪

♪ Don't have to worry, 'cause I'm here ♪

Sorry about that.

♪ Don't have to suffer, baby
'Cause I was here ♪

♪ Hold on, I'm comin' ♪

♪ Hold on, I'm comin' ♪

♪ Hold on, I'm comin' ♪

♪ Hold on, I'm comin' ♪

♪ Reach out to me ♪

♪ For your satisfaction ♪

♪ All you have to do is call my name ♪

♪ For quick reaction ♪

♪ Hey, yeah, yeah ♪

♪ Yeah, yeah, yeah ♪

Enjoy your stay.

♪ Don't you ever feel sad ♪

♪ Lean on me when the times are bad ♪

♪ And when the day comes and you're down ♪

♪ In a river of trouble, baby ♪

♪ And I've got to swim out ♪

♪ Hold on, I'm comin' ♪

♪ Hold on, I'm comin' ♪

♪ Hold on, I'm comin' ♪

♪ Hold on, I'm comin' ♪

♪ Hold on, I'm comin' ♪

♪ I'm comin' ♪

Coming!

Come on. Coming, coming, coming, coming.

-Hello. Hello?

Shoot. God!

Hello! Oh, Jesus Christ!

Listen, what do you recommend
for a catatonic fit in a parking garage?

I… Ugh, ask your doctor.

That's why I'm calling. He just canceled.

Can I come over?

Donald, you're about
a day and a half early.

-What am I supposed to do?
-I just got in.

I'm not ready for you yet.
Why did the prick cancel?

I don't know.
He said he was just too sick.

Why don't you tell him
you're sicker than he is?

He already knows that.

Okay, Donald, come on over,
but bring a bag of ice.

Please do not give me any responsibility.

At this moment, I cannot cope
with anything weightier

than the directions to your apartment.

If you want a cold martini when
you get here, you'll cope with some ice.

-I'll cope with some ice.
-And hurry up.

I gotta go.

I was saying hello to an old friend.

What?

10th and Broadway, please.

Coming! Jesus Christ.

-How did you get inside?
-The street door was open.

-You want a drink?
-Not until I've had my shower.

I want something to work out today.

I'm gonna try to relax
and enjoy something.

You in a blue funk because of the doctor?

Christ, no.
I was depressed long before I got there.

This should pick you up.

I went shopping today,
and I bought all sorts of goodies. Look.

-Sandalwood soap.
-I feel better already.

-Mm-hmm.
-What we got here?

Oh! Your very own toothbrush,

because I am sick to death
of you using mine.

-How do you think I feel?
-You've had worse things in your mouth.

Oh, also for you,
something called "Control."

Notice nowhere is it called "hairspray."

Just simply "Control"
and the words "for men"

written about 37 times
all over the goddamn can.

Yeah, it's called Butch Assurance.

Well, it's still hairspray,
no matter if they call it "balls."

It's all on your very own shelf,

which is to be labeled
Donald's Saturday Night Douche Kit.

By the way, are you spending the night?

Nope, I'm driving back.

I still get very itchy
when I'm in this town too long.

Why didn't the prick call you and cancel?

Suppose you'd driven
all this way for nothing?

Why do you keep calling him a prick?

Who ever heard of an analyst

having a session with a patient
for two hours on a Saturday evening?

He simply prefers to take Mondays off.

He works late on Saturday
taking Monday off?

What is he,
a psychiatrist or a hairdresser?

Actually, he's both.

He shrinks my head and then combs me out.

Besides, I had to come in town
for a birthday party anyway, right?

Oh, you had to remind me.

God, if there is one thing
I'm not ready for,

it is five screaming queens
singing "Happy Birthday."

-Who's coming?
-I think you know everybody anyway.

I mean, the same old tired fairies
you've seen around since day one.

Actually, you know what?

There will be seven,
counting Harold and you and me.

Are you calling me
a screaming queen or a tired fairy?

Oh, I beg your pardon.

There will be six tired,
screaming fairy queens

and one anxious queer.

I'll be out of your way in a second.
I've only got one more thing to do.

Surgery? So early in the evening?

Sunt.

-That's French with a cedilla.

I've got to comb my hair
for the 37th time.

Hair, that's singular.

My hair, without exaggeration,
is clearly falling on the floor.

You're totally paranoid.
You've got plenty of hair.

No, what you see before you
is a masterpiece of deception.

My hairline starts about here.

All this is just tortured forward.

Look.

That's not good, huh?

It's not the greatest.

- It's called getting old.

Oh, well.
One thing you can say for masturbation:

you certainly don't have
to look your best.

So what are you so depressed about?
I mean, other than the usual everything?

I really don't want to get into it.

Well, Donald,
if you're not going to tell me,

then how can we have
a conversation in depth?

A warm, rewarding, meaningful friendship.

Up yours.

It's just that today I finally realized
I was raised to be a failure.

I was groomed for it.

Oh, Christ. How sick analysts must get

of hearing how Mommy and Daddy
made their darlin' into a fairy.

It's beyond just that now.

Today I finally began to see

how some of the other pieces
of the puzzle relate to them.

My neurotic compulsion to not succeed.

I realize it was always when I failed
that Evelyn loved me the most.

Because it displeased Walt,
who wanted perfection.

I began to fail on purpose to get love.

Failure is the only thing
with which I feel at home

because it's what I was taught at home.

No.

♪ You better chase all the blues away ♪

♪ Shout hallelujah, come on… ♪

What is more boring than a queen
doing a Judy Garland imitation?

A queen doing a Bette Davis imitation.

Where'd you get that sweater?

Oh, this clever little shop
on the Right Bank called Hermès.

I work my ass off

for 45 lousy dollars a week,
scrubbing floors,

and you waltz around
throwing cashmere sweaters on them.

The one on the floor
in the john is vicuña.

Oh, I beg your pardon.

You could get a job doing something else.

Nobody holds a gun to your head
to be a charwoman.

That is, how you say, your neurosis.

Gee, and I thought it's why I was born.

Besides, just because
I wear expensive clothes,

doesn't mean they're paid for.

That is, how you say, your neurosis.

However, thanks to the silver screen,
your neurosis has got style.

It takes a certain flair to squander
one's unemployment check at Joe Allen.

What's so snappy
about being head over heels in debt?

The only thing smart about it

is the ingenious ways
I dodge the bill collectors.

Yep, come to think of it,

you're the type
that gives faggots a bad name.

Oh, and you, Donald,
you are a credit to the homosexual.

You're a reliable, hard-working,
floor-scrubbing, bill-paying fag

who don't owe nothing to nobody.

-I am a model fairy.

You think it's just nifty

how I've always flitted from Beverly Hills
to Rome to Acapulco to Amsterdam,

picking up a lot of one-night stands,

a lot of custom-made duds along the trail?

I'm here to tell you
the only place in all those miles,

the only place that I've ever been happy
was on the goddamn plane.

Run, charge.

Run, buy, borrow, make, spend.

Run, squander, beg.

Run, run, run. Waste, waste…

waste.

And why?

Finis. Applause.

-Hey.
-Don't. You don't have to.

Hey, come on.

Oh, there's nothing quite as good
as feeling sorry for yourself, is there?

Nothing.

Okay.

I adore cheap sentiment.

Backstage, Funny Girl.

-Hi, it's Alan.
-Alan?

Oh, my God.

Alan, oh, I don't believe it.
How are you? Where are you?

I'm here… on business.

Listen, what are you doing tonight?

Oh, I'm tied up tonight.
Alan, tonight's no good for me.

Oh, I'm tied up, too, but I thought
I might just drop by for a drink.

What, you mean now?

Well, Alan, old boy, listen to me.

It is a friend's birthday,
and I am having a few people in.

-Oh.
-And I'm sorry

I can't ask you to join us. It's just…

It just wouldn't work out,
kiddo, you know?

And I'd hate to just see you
for ten minutes

-and then have to say goodbye.
- Mickey, please?

Alan?

-Mickey?
-Alan…

What's wrong?

I've gotta see you
about something right away.

Okay, Alan, come on over.

No, it's perfectly all right.

Just come on over, have a quick drink,

-but-but hurry up.
-Same old address?

-Yeah.
-Okay.

Well…

am I stunning?

You're absolutely stunning.

You look like shit,
but I'm absolutely stunned.

Your grapes are, how you say, sour.
Where's my drink?

I didn't make it. My old roommate
from Georgetown just called.

-Alan what's-his-name?
-McCarthy.

He's up here from Washington
on business or something,

and he's on his way here.

I hope he knows
the lyrics to "Happy Birthday."

Listen, asshole.
What am I going to do? He's straight.

What'll he feel about this freak show
I've got booked for dinner?

Ah, Christ, is that good.

He absolutely
lost his spring on the phone.

He started crying,
and that's not his style at all.

Alan's so goddamned pulled together,

he wouldn't show any emotion
if he were in a plane crash.

What am I going to do?

Are you suddenly ashamed of your friends?

Donald, you are the only person I know
of whom I am truly ashamed.

Some people have different standards
from yours and mine, you know?

And if we don't acknowledge them,

then we're just as backward
and narrow-minded as we think they are.

You know what you are, Michael?
You're a real person.

Thank you. Fuck you.

Do you want some cracked crab?

No, thanks.

How could you ever have been friends
with a bore like that?

Well, believe it or not,
there was a time in my life

when I didn't go around
announcing that I was a faggot.

That must have been
before speech replaced sign language.

Don't give me any static on that score.
I didn't come out until I left college.

Seems to me
that the first time we tricked,

we met in a gay bar on Third Avenue
during your junior year.

Cunt.

Thought you'd never say it.

Don't wait up.

Hi, doll face.

-You look cute.
-Always.

-Hello, Emory.
-Hi.

You know I hate coming
between the two of you like this.

That makes one of us.

This is gonna be fun.

Oh, great.

Well, that's all we need, for it to rain.

-You want some more club soda?
-What?

There's nothing
but club soda in that glass.

I've been watching you
for several Saturdays.

You've actually stopped drinking,
haven't you?

And smoking, too.

-How long's it been?
-Five weeks.

-That's amazing.
-I found God.

-It is amazing. For you?
-Or is God dead?

I could always tell
when you were getting high. One way.

-I'd get hostile.

Hey, what made you stop? The analyst?

Oh. He certainly had a lot to do with it.

Mainly I didn't think I could get through
another morning-after ick attack.

Morning-after what?

Icks! Anxiety, guilt, unfathomable guilt.

From the second
your eyes open and you say,

"Oh, my God! What'd I do last night?"

Mmm, tell me about it.

And then that struggle
to survive till lunch…

-Mmm.
-…where you have a double Bloody Mary.

That is, if you've waited till lunch.

And then you're half pissed again
and useless for the rest of the afternoon.

So you hang on till cocktail time,

and by then, you're ready
for whatever the night holds,

which hopefully is another party,

and that whole goddamn cycle
starts all over again.

Well, I have been
on that merry-go-round long enough,

and I either had to get off
or die of centrifugal force.

Oh, Joe College has finally arrived.

All right, Donald, listen to me.

Don't insult me by giving me any lecture
on acceptable social behavior.

-I promise

to sit with my legs spread apart
and keep my voice in a deep register.

Donald, you are a real card-carrying cunt.

All right. This is a raid.

Everybody's under arrest.

Hello, darling. Connie Casserole.
Oh, Mary, don't ask.

Hi, Emory. Come on,
you can put it in the kitchen.

-Hi, Hank. Larry.
- Who is this exotic woman?

My dear, I thought you had perished!

Where have you been hiding
your classically chiseled features?

I don't live in the city anymore.

I'll take those.
Emory, where's your present?

It's arriving later.

Larry.

Larry. Larry!

-What?
-Give Michael the gift.

Oh, here.

Louder, so my mother
in Philadelphia can hear you.

-You were standing there in a trance.
-Was I?

-You both know Donald, don't you?
- Sure. Nice to see you.

-Hi.
-Nice to meet you.

Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you'd met.

Well, we haven't exactly met, but we've…

-Hi.
-Hi.

But you've what?

Seen each other before.

Oh, that sounds murky.

You've never met,
but you've seen each other.

-What was wrong with the way I said it?
-They're gonna have their first fight.

The first one
since we got out of the taxi.

- Where did you find this trash?
-Downstairs, leaning against a lamppost.

With an orchid behind my ear

and big, wet lips
painted over the lip line.

-Oh! Just like Maria Montez.
-Oh, please.

Hey, what have you got against Maria?
She was a good woman.

Hold on. Everybody, listen.

This old college friend of mine
is in town,

and he's stopping by for a fast drink
on his way to dinner,

but he's straight, so…

Straight? If he's the one I met,
he's as straight as the yellow brick road.

No, you met Justin Stuart.

I don't remember meeting a Justin Stuart.

-Of course you don't, dope. I met him.
-This is someone else.

Yes, Alan McCarthy,
a very close total stranger.

It is not that I care
what he would think of me. Really.

It's just he's not ready for it,
you know, and he never will be.

-You understand that, don't you, Hank?
-Sure.

Do you really think
he doesn't know about you?

If there is the slightest suspicion,
he's never let on.

-What's he had, a lobotomy?

Hey, I was super careful
when I was in college,

and I still am whenever I see him.

-I don't know why, but I am.
-Tilt.

I was just like Alan
when I was in college.

I was very large in the dating department.

I wore nothing
but those constipated Ivy League clothes,

and those, oh, ten-pound cordovan shoes.

-No offense.
-Quite all right.

I butched it up quite a bit,
and I didn't think I was lying to myself.

I really thought I was straight.

I know damn well I did not come out
until after I graduated.

What about all those weekends
up from school?

Oh. I still wasn't out.

I was still in the
Christ-was-I-drunk-last-night syndrome.

"Christ, I was so drunk last night,
I don't remember a thing."

That's it.

You were just guilty
because you were Catholic.

-That's all.
-That is not true.

The Christ-was-I-drunk-last-night syndrome
knows no religion,

although there's a high percentage
of it among Mormons.

Who do you have to fuck
to get a drink around here?

Will you light somewhere?

We all somehow managed
to justify our actions in those days.

You know, I later found out
even Justin Stuart, my closest friend--

Other than Alan McCarthy.

Zip it. He was doing the same thing.

Only Justin was going
to Boston on weekends.

You see, in the
Christ-was-I-drunk-last-night syndrome,

you really are drunk.
That part of it is true.

It's just you also do remember everything.

Well, a lot of guys
have to get loaded to have sex.

So I've been told.

Donald…

…if you remember,
the first time we made it,

I was so drunk I could hardly stand up.

You were so drunk,
you could hardly get it up.

-Christ, I was so drunk, I don't remember.
-Oh, bullshit. You remember.

-Oh, Jesus. All right, that's Alan.

Please, everyone do me a favor.
Cool it for the few minutes he's here.

Anything for a sis, Mary.

Emory, no!

I'm sorry, but that is exactly
what I'm talking about.

-No camping.
-Sorry.

Think the Giants are gonna win
the pennant this year?

-Fuckin' A, Mac.

-Oh, hey, Bernard.
-Hey, baby.

I'll take these. Everyone's outside.
You can put your present with the others.

-Oh, it's only another queen!

-And it ain't the red one either.
-It's the queen of spades!

Anybody ever tell you
you'd look divine in a hammock,

surrounded by louvers and ceiling fans
and lots and lots of lush tropical ferns?

You're such a fag. You take the cake. Up!

-What about the cake? Whose job was that?
-Mine. I ordered it to be delivered.

How many candles
did you say to put on it? 80?

Wait, Alan. There's too much noise.
I'll get another phone.

-Michael, did the cake come?
-No.

-Oh, God. Can I use your private line?
-Sure.

Listen, everybody, there is some
cracked crab out there. Help yourselves.

Can I have the number for the
Marseilles Bakery in Manhattan, please?

-Is everybody ready for a drink?
-Yeah!

Ready? I'll be your
topless cocktail waitress.

Please, spare us the sight
of your sagging tits.

What are you having, kids?

-Is there any beer?
-Oh, in the fridge.

-I'll get it.
-Beer?

-Who drinks beer before dinner?
-Beer drinkers.

How can a sensitive artist like you
live with an insensitive bull like that?

-I can't.

Well, here's hoping.

Alan, don't be silly.
There's nothing to apologize for.

It's just that I feel like such a fool.

I can shoot myself
for letting myself act that way.

Look, it is just as well.
I have people over.

It wouldn't be a good time to talk.

Hey, what about this?
What if we do lunch tomorrow?

Sure. Why don't you meet me
at the Oak Room at about one o'clock?

That sounds perfect.

And listen, Michael,
can you just forget about tonight?

Pretend it never happened?

Alan, done. It's forgotten.

-I'll see you tomorrow?
-Great.

-Yeah, baby! Let's hear that sound! Whoo!

A drumbeat
and their eyes sparkle like Cartier.

Terrible.

Wow, thanks, Bernard.

It's like you stock up
for the whole summer.

You kidding? That'll last him two days.

-Well, he's not coming.
-Oh!

Some people eat,
some people drink, some take dope.

-I read.
-Yeah, and read, read, read.

It's a wonder your eyes
don't turn back into your head

-at the sight of a dust jacket.
-At least he's a constructive escapist.

Oh, that's true.
What do I do? I take planes.

No. No, I don't do that anymore

because I don't have
the money to do that anymore.

I go to the baths. That's about it.

I'm about to do both.
I'm flying to the West Coast.

You still got that act
with the donkey in Tijuana?

I'm going to San Francisco
on a well-earned vacation.

I'm going to the Club Baths,

and I'm not leaving till they announce
the departure of TWA one week later.

You'll never learn
to stay out of the baths, will you?

-Bernard, don't… Bernard!
-The last time Emily took the vapors,

this big hairy number strolled in.

So Emory says, "I'm just resting."

Big hairy number said,
"Oh, I'm just arresting."

-It was the vice.
-Emory!

You have to tell everything,
don't you? Thanks, honey.

You live with your parents?

Yeah, but it's all right, they're gay.

Thought that was funny, Hank?

What happened to Alan?

Oh, he suddenly got terrible icks
about having broken down on the phone.

Kept apologizing over and over.

Did this big about-face,

reverted to the old Alan
right before my very eyes.

-Ears.
-Ears.

Well, the cracked crab
obviously did not work out.

I don't know why everyone
has such an aversion to it.

Sometimes you remind me
of the Chinese water torture.

No. No, I take that back.

Sometimes you remind me
of the relentless Chinese water torture.

-Bitch.
- Whoo! Whoo!

- Wonder where Harold is.
-Yeah, where is the frozen fruit?

Emory refers to Harold as the frozen fruit

because of his former profession
as an ice skater.

Whoo!

You know he's out here looking rough.

If your mother could see you now,
she'd have a stroke.

- Got a camera on you?

Oh, my God, it's Lily Law.
Everybody, three feet apart.

It's probably Harold now.

No, it's the delivery boy from the bakery.

-Oh, thank God.
-Ask him if he's got any hot cross buns!

Come on, Emory. Knock it off.

You can take her anywhere but out.

You remind me
of an old maid school teacher.

You remind me of a chicken wing.

-I'm sure you meant that as a compliment.
-Good evening.

Hey, Bernard, remember that thing
we used to do on Fire Island?

Whoo! That was in so far back,
I think I've forgotten.

I remember.

-Baby, come on, follow.
-What is it?

-It goes swing, swing. Hook, hook.
-Yeah. Yeah. Yeah!

Milk the cow,
milk the cow, milk the cow…

You gotta swing it. You gotta hit it.

Look, it's the Geriatric Rockettes!
Here we go.

♪ Whenever I'm with him ♪

♪ Something inside starts to burning ♪

♪ And I'm filled with desire ♪

♪ Could it be a devil in me? ♪

♪ Or is this the way
Love's supposed to be? ♪

♪ It's like a heat wave
Burning in my heart ♪

♪ I can't keep from crying… ♪

-Come on, Donald. Donald.
-No, God.

♪ Whenever he calls my name ♪

♪ Soft, low, sweet and plain ♪

♪ Right then, right there
I feel that burning flame ♪

♪ Has high blood pressure
Got a hold on me ♪

♪ Or is this the way
Love's supposed to be? ♪

♪ It's like a heat wave
Burning in my heart ♪

♪ I can't keep from crying
It's tearing me apart ♪

♪ Ooh, heat wave ♪

♪ Ooh, heat wave ♪

-God damn it, Hank!
-Why would you--

I thought… I'm…
You said that you weren't coming.

Well, I'm sorry.

Well, we were just acting silly.

When I called,
I was at a phone booth around the corner.

My dinner party isn't far from here.

Emory was showing us this silly dance.

I walked past,
and your downstairs door was open.

This is Emory.

Everybody, this is Alan McCarthy.

Alan, counterclockwise, we have
Larry, Bernard, Donald, Emory and Hank.

-Nice to meet you.
-Hi.

-Would you like a drink?
-Thanks, no. I-I can't stay long.

You're here now, so stay.
What would you like?

-Scotch, please.
-Scotch.

-I'll get it.
- Thank you.

-Guess I'm the only beer drinker.

Whose, uh, birthday is it?

-Harold's.
- Harold?

- He's not here yet.
-She's never been on time in her li--

He's… never been on time in his life.

Hank, Alan is from Washington.
We went to college together, Georgetown.

-Ah.
-Yeah.

Well, isn't that fascinating?

If that's too strong,
I'll put some water in it for you.

It's fine, thanks. Fine.

-You in the government, Alan?
-No, I'm a lawyer.

-What do you do?
-I teach school.

Oh. Would have taken you
for an athlete of some sort.

You look like you might play sports.

Well, I'm no professional, but I was
on the basketball team in college.

-Played quite a bit of tennis.
-I play tennis, too.

-Great game. It is, yeah.
- Yeah, great.

-What do you teach?
-Math.

-Math?
-Yeah.

Math.

Kind of makes you want to rush out
and buy a slide rule, doesn't it?

Emory, I need help in the kitchen.

-You're elected. Come on.
-I'm always elected.

-You're a natural-born domestic.
-Said the African queen!

You come, too. Fan me
while I make the salad dressing.

- This way, Emory.

Why don't we all sit down?

-Sure.
-Yeah.

I feel terrible
barging in on you fellas this way.

Ah, that's okay.

- How've you been?
-Fine, thanks. And you?

You married?

-What?
-I see you're married.

Oh.

Yes, Hank is married.
Donald, cope with some ice.

-Do you have any kids?
-Yes, two.

A boy, nine. A girl, seven.

You should see my boy play tennis.
Really puts his dad to shame.

-I have two kids, too. Both girls.
- Great.

-How are the girls, Alan?
-Oh, just sensational.

-Yeah?
-They're something, those kids.

God, I'm-I'm nuts about them.

-How long you been married?
- Nine years.

Ah!

-Can you believe it, Mickey?
-No.

Mickey used to go with my wife
when we were all in school.

-Can you believe that?

Oh, Lord. Sorry.

You live in the city?

Yes, we do.

Oh!

I'm in
the process of getting a divorce.

-Larry and I are roommates at the moment.
-Yes, they're roommates.

Oh, I'm very sorry. I mean--

-No, I understand.
- Mmm.

-I think I'd like another.
-Of course. I'm so sorry.

Can I help you, Alan?

Uh…

Can't seem to find the scotch.

It's in your hand.

-Oh.

Of course. How stupid of me.

-Why don't you let me do that for you?
-Thank you.

-Where the hell could Harold be?
-Oh, he's always late.

You know how neurotic
he can be about going out in public.

Takes him hours to get ready.

-Why is that?
-Why is what?

Why does it take Harold hours
to get ready before he can go out?

Because she's a sick lady. That's why.

Alan, why don't we go upstairs and talk?

I'm just gonna finish this and go.

Come on. You can bring your drink.

-I-I finished it.
- Here.

-Excuse me. We'll be down in a minute.
-Oh, he'll still be here.

-Come on. This way, Alan.
-Sure.

What was that supposed to mean?

-What was what supposed to mean?
-You know.

-Do you want another beer?
-No.

You're jealous, aren't you?

-I'm Larry.

You're jealous.

So, Donald, where have you been
hanging out these days?

I haven't seen you in a long time.

- Alan…

I want to try to explain
something about this evening.

What's to explain? Sometimes you just…

can't invite everybody
to every party, and…

Some people take it personally,
but not me.

I should apologize for inviting myself.

That is not exactly what I meant.

Your friends seem like awfully nice guys.

That Hank is a very attractive fellow.

Yes, he is.

-What's his roommate's name?
-Uh, Larry.

What does he do?

He's a commercial artist.

I liked Donald, too.

The only one
I didn't care for too much was…

What's his name? Emory?

Yes, Emory.

Just can't stand that kind of talk.
It grates on me.

What kind of talk, Alan?

Oh, you know, his…
brand of humor, I guess.

He can be really quite funny sometimes.

I suppose, if you find
that sort of thing amusing. He just…

seems like such a goddamn little pansy.

I'm sorry I said that.
I didn't mean to say that. That's…

such an awful thing
to say about anyone.

But you know what I mean, Michael.

You have to admit he is effeminate.

-He is a bit.
-A bit?

He's like a butterfly in heat.

There's no wonder
he was teaching you all to dance.

He probably wanted to dance with you.

Oh, come on, man. You know me.

You know how I feel.
Your private life is your own affair.

No, I don't know that about you, Alan.

I-I…

don't care what people do
as long as they don't do it in public

or try to force their ways
on the whole world.

What were you crying about
on the telephone?

All I-- All I can say is
please forgive me for making…

such an ass of myself.

You must have been upset
or you wouldn't have said you were

and that you wanted to see me,
you had to see me.

-Michael, please.
-Is something wrong between you and Fran?

Listen, I've really gotta go.

Why are you in New York?

-Late for this dinner.
-Whose dinner? Where are you going?

-Is that the loo?
-Yes.

Excuse me.

What's going on in here?
Oh, Mary, don't ask.

Hank, why don't you come and join us?

That's an interesting suggestion.
Whose idea is that?

-Mine.

He means in conversation.

-Where are the rest of the wine glasses?
-I's working as fast as I can.

- To your health.
- Up yours.

Up my health?

-Where's the gent?
-He's in the gent's room.

If you can all hang on
for five more minutes,

he's about to leave.

-Well, at last.

♪ Happy birthday to you ♪

♪ Happy birthday to you ♪

♪ Happy birthday, dear Harold
Happy birthday to you ♪

Oh!

Who the hell are you?

She's Harold's present from me
and she's early,

and that's not even Harold, you idiot!

You said whoever answered the door.

But not until midnight.
He's supposed to be a midnight cowboy.

He looks right out of the chorus
of a bus-and-truck Oklahoma!

Not until midnight, and you're supposed
to sing to the right person.

I told you Harold
has very tight, tight, black curly hair.

This number's practically bald.

Thank you, and fuck you!

Good thing I didn't open the door.

-Not that tight and not that black.

I-I forgot.

Besides, I wanted to get
to the bars by midnight.

Oh, he's a class act all the way around.

What do you mean, "get to the bars"?

Sweetie, I paid you
for the whole night, remember?

I hurt my back doing my exercises,
and I wanted to get to bed early.

Well, that's too bad. What happened?

-I lost my grip doing my chin-ups,

and I fell on my heels
and twisted my back.

You shouldn't wear heels
when you do chin-ups!

I shouldn't do chin-ups.
I got a weak grip.

Aw, weak grip. In my day,
it used to be called a limp wrist.

Who can remember that far back?

-What's your card say?
-Here. Read it.

"Dear Harold, bang-bang. You're alive."

"Now roll over and play dead."

-"Happy Birthday, Emory."

Sheer poetry, Emmy.

And in your usual good taste.

So conservative of you
to resist a sign in Times Square.

-Cheese it, here comes the socialite nun.
-Shit. God damn it, Emory.

Well, I'm off.
Thanks, Michael, for the drink.

Oh, you're entirely welcome.
So I'll see you tomorrow?

No. No, I think I'm gonna be awfully busy.
Might even go back to Washington.

-Got a heavy date in Lafayette Square?

-What?
- Emory.

Forget it.

Are you Harold?

No, he's not Harold. He's for Harold.

-Goodbye, Hank. It was nice to meet you.
-Same here, Alan.

If you're in Washington,
I'd like you to meet my wife.

That'd be fun. Wouldn't it, Hank?

Yeah, I'm sure they'd love to meet him…

Her.

I have such a problem with pronouns.

How many S's are in the word pronoun?

How'd you like to kiss my ass?
That's got two more S's in it.

-How'd you like to blow me?
-Mmm.

What's wrong with your wife?
She got lockjaw?

Faggot! Fairy!

-Emory!
- You goddamn freak.

Motherfucker!
I'll kill you, you son of a bitch!

Fucking faggot! Faggot!

-Get some ice!
- Freak!

What the hell is wrong with you, huh?

Just relax.

He just
busted your lip, love. Larry?

-Here.

- Jesus.
- Damn it.

Do you mind waiting
over there with the gifts?

Well, Harold! Happy birthday.

You're just in time for the floor show,

which you can see is on the floor.

Hey, you, this is Harold.

♪ Happy birthday to you ♪

♪ Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday, dear Harold ♪

♪ Happy birthday to you ♪

What's so fucking funny?

Life.

Life is a goddamned laugh riot.
You remember life?

-You're stoned.
-Happy birthday, Harold.

You're stoned, and you're late.

You were supposed
to arrive at this location

at approximately 8:30 dash 9:00.

What I am, Michael,

is a 32-year-old,
ugly, pock-marked, Jew fairy,

and if it takes me a while
to pull myself together,

and if I smoke a little grass
before I can get up the nerve

to show this face to the world,

then it's nobody's
goddamn business but my own.

And how are you this evening?

Happy birthday, Hallie.

- What happened to you?
-Don't ask.

Your lips are turning blue.

You look like
you've been rimming a snowman.

That piss-elegant kooze hit me.

Careful, Emory. That kind of talk
just makes him so nervous.

Who is she?

Who was she?

Who does she hope to be?

Who knows? Who cares?

His name is Alan McCarthy.

Not the famous college chum?
Is this my surprise from you, Michael?

I think Alan is the one
who got the surprise.

- You'll notice he's speechless.
-I hope she's in shock! She's a beast!

Is it his birthday, too?

- That's your surprise.
-Speaking of beasts.

From me to you, darling.
How do you like it?

Well, I suppose
he has an interesting face and body,

but it turns me right off 'cause
he can't talk intelligently about art.

Yeah, ain't it a shame?

-I could never love anyone like that.
-Never. Who could?

I could and you could, that's who could.

Mary, she's gorgeous.

She may be dumb, but she's all yours.

I think my present is a super surprise.
I'm so thrilled to get it.

I would kiss you,
but I don't want to get blood all over me.

Look at my top!

Wait till you see your face.

Come on, Emory. Let's clean you up, hmm?
Happy birthday, Harold.

-Thanks, love.
- Top is ruined.

Take one of mine
from the bedroom.

The one on the floor is vicuña.

Just another birthday party
with the folks.

Here's a cold bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé
I bought especially for you, kiddo.

Pussycat, all is forgiven. You can stay.

No. You can stay,
but not all is forgiven. Cheers.

Who asked Mr. Right
to celebrate my birthday?

There are no accidents.

And who asked him?

Guilty.

Always got to have
your crutch, haven't you?

I'm not leaving.

I feel sick. I think I'm gonna throw up.

Say that again, and I won't
have to take my appetite suppressants.

-Easy does it. One step at a time.

I am not ready
for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.

Nor will I be for the next two weeks.

Oh, my God! He's after me again!

-He's sick.
-Yeah, sick in the head.

Mary, take me home.
These queens are crazy.

Turning on.

-Anybody care to join me?
-Many thanks. No.

No, thank you.

How about you, Tex?

Yeah.

Michael, I left the casserole
in the oven. Take it out anytime.

You're not going.

- I couldn't eat now anyway.
-Well, I'm absolutely starving.

I'll eat until I have a fat attack.

I said you're not going.

Beware the hostile fag.

When he's sober, he's dangerous.
When he drinks, he's lethal.

-Attention must not be paid.
- Well, I'm starved, Em.

I'm ready for some of your
Alice B. Toklas' opium-baked lasagna.

Are you really? Aw.

That makes me so pleased.
Maybe I'll serve it before I leave.

Nobody is going anywhere.

You're gonna have schmertz tomorrow
you wouldn't believe.

-Hey, do a figure-eight on that.

I'm turning on. You're just turning.

-Michael? Is there any air spray?
- Hairspray?

You're supposed to be holding his head,
not doing his hair.

Air spray, not hairspray.

There's a can of floral spray
on top of the john.

Thanks.

I keep my grass
in the medicine cabinet in a Band-Aid box.

Somebody told me it's the safest place.

If the cops arrive,
you can lock yourself in the bathroom

and flush it down the john.

That's very cagey.

Makes more sense
than where I was keeping it.

In an oregano jar in the spice rack.

I kept forgetting, and accidentally
turning my hateful mother on with a salad,

but I think she likes it.

No matter what meal she comes over for,
even if it's breakfast, she says,

"Let's have a salad!"

You are definitely the type
that still moves his lips when he reads,

and who sits in a steam room

and says things like,
"Hot enough for you?"

I never use the steam room
when I go to the gym.

It's bad after a workout.
It flattens you down.

Just after you've broken your back
to blow yourself up like a poisoned dog?

-Yeah.
- You're right, Harold.

Not only can he not
talk intelligently about art,

he can't even follow
from one sentence to the next.

But he's beautiful.

He has unnatural natural beauty.

-Not that that means anything.
-It doesn't mean everything.

Keep telling yourself that
as your hair drops out in handfuls.

Not that it's not natural for one's hair
to recede as one reaches seniority.

You know, faggots are worse
than women about their age.

They think their lives are over at 30.

Physical beauty
is not that goddamned important.

Well, of course it's not. How could it be?

It's only in the eye of the beholder.

And it's only skin-deep.
Don't forget about that one.

Oh, no,
I haven't forgotten that one at all.

It's only skin-deep,
and it's transitory, too.

It's terribly transitory.

I mean, how long does it last?
30 or 40 or 50 years at the most?

Yes, it's too bad
about this poor boy's face.

It's tragic.

He's absolutely cursed.

And how could his beauty
ever compare with my soul?

And although I have never seen my soul,

I understand from my mother's rabbi
that it's a knockout.

I, however, cannot seem
to locate it for a gander,

and if I could,
I would sell it in a flash

for some skin-deep,
transitory, meaningless beauty.

Forgive him, Father,
for he know not what he do.

Oh, Michael, you kill me.

You don't know
which side of the fence you're on.

If somebody says something pro-religion,
you're against them.

If somebody denies God,
you're against them.

One might say
you have a problem in this area.

You can't live with it,
you can't live without it.

-Hot stuff coming through!
-Hey!

You know what? One could murder you
with very little effort.

You hang on to that great
insurance policy called the church.

That's right, I believe in God.

And if it turns out that there
really isn't one? Okay, nothing lost.

But if it turns out that there is,
I'm covered.

Harriet Hypocrite, that's who you are.

Right. I am one
of those truly rotten Catholics

who gets drunk, sins all night,
and goes to Mass the next morning.

It depends on what you think sin is.

Would you shut your minty mouth
and get back to the goddamn kitchen?

Say whatever you want. Just don't hit me.

Well, is it bigger than a breadstick?

He's laying down for a little bit.

-How does the bathroom smell?
-Better.

-Before it smelled like somebody puked.

Now it smells like somebody
puked in a gardenia patch.

Dinner is served!

What would you like, big boy?

Alan McCarthy, and don't hold the mayo.

Oh, Em, it looks absolutely fabulous.

I'd make somebody a good wife.

-What is it?
-Lasagna.

Looks like spaghetti and meatballs
sort of flattened out.

-Well, it's been in the steam room.

-It has?
-Oh, my God.

"It looks like spaghetti and meatballs
sort of flattened out."

Oh, yes, Harold, truly enviable.

As opposed to you,
who knows so much about haute cuisine.

Raconteur, gourmet, troll.

-It's good.
-You like it? Eat it.

Stuff your mouth
so you can't say anything.

Turning.

- Wine?
- No, thank you.

Oh, go on, kiddo. Force yourself.

Have a little vin ordinaire
to wash down all that depressed pasta.

Sommelier, connoisseur, pig.

Aren't you gonna have any?

No, my lip hurts too much to eat.
Anybody gonna bring a plate up to Alan?

Oh. The punching bag
is now dissolved into Flo Nightingale.

Do you like it, Hallie?

Mmm. I'm having seconds and thirds
and maybe even fifths.

I'm absolutely desperate
to keep the weight up.

You're absolutely paranoid
about absolutely everything.

Oh, yeah? Well, why don't you
not tell me about it?

You starve yourself all day

so that you can
gorge yourself at one meal,

and then you moan and groan about
how fat you are and how ugly you are,

when the truth is you're no fatter
or thinner than you ever were.

-Polly Paranoia.
-This is great, Emory.

Connie Casserole. No trouble at all.
Oh, Mary, don't ask.

Oh! Oh! And this pathological lateness,
that's downright crazy.

Turning!

Standing before a bathroom mirror
for hours and hours

before you can walk out on the street,

and looking no different
after Christ knows how many applications

of Christ knows how many
ointments and salves and creams and masks.

I've got bad skin. What can I tell you?

Who wouldn't after they deliberately
take a pair of tweezers

and deliberately mutilate their pores?

There's no wonder
you got holes in your face

after the hack job you have done
on yourself year in and year out.

King of the pig people.

Yes, you've got scars on your face,
but they're not that bad.

And if you'd leave yourself alone,

you wouldn't have any more
than you've already awarded yourself.

You'd really like me
to compliment you now, wouldn't you,

for how honest you're being?

For being my best friend who will tell me

what even my best friends won't tell me,
you hateful sow.

And the pills!

Harold has been gathering, saving,

and storing up barbiturates
for the past year

like a goddamn squirrel.

Hundreds of Nembutals,
hundreds of Seconals.

All in preparation for,

and anticipation of,
the long winter of his death.

I'll tell you right now, Hallie,

when the time comes,
you'll never have the guts.

It's not always like it happens in plays.

Not all faggots bump themselves off
at the end of the story.

-What you say may be true.

Time will undoubtedly tell.

But in the meantime,
you've left out one detail.

The cosmetics
and astringents are paid for,

the bathroom is paid for,

the tweezers are paid for,

and the pills… are paid for.

♪ Happy birthday to you ♪

- Oh, Jesus.
-♪ Happy birthday to you ♪

♪ Happy birthday, dear Harold ♪

♪ Happy birthday to you ♪

You're so sweet.

Blow out the candles, Mary,
and make a wish!

Blow out your candles, Laura.

- She's 32 years young!
- Oh, my God.

-Now you have to open your gifts.
-Start with this one.

Presents! Where's the card?

-Uh…
- Here.

-Oh, from Larry.
- Larry.

Why would you put it on the back?

Oh, it's heaven.
Oh, I just love it, Larry.

-What is it?
-The deed to Boardwalk.

- Aw. Gay pop art.

Oh, Larry, it's super.
It goes up the minute I get home.

-Oh, good.
- I don't get it.

You cruise Atlantic City or something?

How much did you pay for him?

-He was a steal.
-I'm not a steal. I cost $20.

And what do you do for $20?

I do my best.

Oh, what a nifty sweater.

Thank you, Hank.

You can take it back,
exchange it for something else.

-No, I think this one is just… nifty.

-Who wants cake?
- Everybody?

None for me.

-There you go.
-Thanks.

Oh, Bernard! How divine!

Look, everybody, bejeweled knee pads.

Monogrammed.

Bernard, you're a camp!

Thank you, Michael.

What?

Oh.

-You're welcome.
- What is it, Harold?

It's a photograph of him
in a silver frame,

and there's an inscription engraved
and the date.

What's it say?

Just something personal.

Hey, Bernard, what do you say we have
a little music to liven things up?

-Okay.
-Yeah, I feel like dancing.

Come on, Michael.

Oh, no, thanks. I can only lead.

- I can follow.
-Oh, I think I'll sip this one out.

Ha!

♪ You see this guy? ♪

♪ This guy's in love with you ♪

♪ Yes, I'm in love ♪

♪ Who looks at you the way I do? ♪

♪ When you smile I can tell ♪

♪ We know each other very well ♪

♪ How can I show you ♪

♪ I'm glad I got to know you? ♪

♪ 'Cause I've heard some talk ♪

Come on, Tex.

-♪ They say you think I'm fine ♪
-You're on.

♪ Yes, I'm in love ♪

♪ And what I'd do to make you mine ♪

♪ Tell me now, is it so? ♪

♪ Don't let me be the last to know ♪

♪ My hands are shaking ♪

♪ Don't let my heart keep breaking ♪

♪ 'Cause I need your love ♪

♪ I want your love ♪

♪ Say you're in love ♪

♪ In love with this guy ♪

♪ If not, I'll just die ♪

Shit.

-Michael!
- Everybody, help clean up.

Go, go, go! Come on!

-Come here, kid.

- Everybody, hurry up!
- Close the door!

- Come on, guys.
- Come on.

Get the fuck inside.

- Oh God.

I'm dripping all over.

Take a towel.
Don't get the goddamn furniture wet.

-Here. Towel. Dry off.
-Jesus, Michael.

-Thanks. Thanks, Michael.

Wanna dance?

Uh-oh, Yvonne the Terrible is back.

Oh, hello, Alan. You feel better?

Oh, no. No, no, no. Alan, no.

As they say in the Deep South,
don't rush off in this inclement weather.

You'll never get a cab.

Revolution complete.

You missed the cake
and you missed the opening of the gifts,

but you're still in luck.

You're just in time for a party game.

Hey, everybody, game time.

Michael, why don't you just let him go?

He can go if he wants to,

but not before we play a little game.

What's it gonna be, movie-star gin?

No. No, that's too faggy for Alan to play.
He wouldn't be any good at it.

What would you like to play, Michael?
The Truth Game?

Cute, Hallie.

Or would you like to play Murder?

-You all remember that one, don't you?
- Very, very cute.

As I recall, they're quite similar.

The rules are the same in both:
you kill somebody.

-Mickey, I'm leaving.
-Stay where you are.

-Michael, let him go.
- He really doesn't want to.

If he did, he'd have left a long time ago,

or he wouldn't have come
in the first place.

-Mickey. I don't feel--
-My name is Michael.

I'm called Michael.

You must never call
anyone called Michael "Mickey."

Those of us who are named Michael
get very nervous about it.

If you don't believe it, try it.

I'm sorry. I…

I can't think.

You can think.

What you can't do is leave.

It's like watching
an accident on a highway.

You can't look at it,
and you can't look away.

Who's going to play
with Alan and me? Everyone?

-I have no intention of playing.
-Yeah, nor do I.

Well, not everyone
is a participant in life.

There are always those
who stand on the sidelines and watch.

-What's the game?
- Simply this:

We all have to call on the telephone

the one person
we truly believe we have loved.

-I'm not playing.
-Oh, yes, you are.

-You'd like for me to play.
-I'd like to know who you'd call

after all the fancy speeches
I've heard lately.

Who'd you call, Hank? Would you call me?

Oh! Sounds like there's,
how you say, trouble in paradise.

Well, if there isn't,
I'm sure you could stir up some.

And who would you call? Hmm?

Don't think I think for one minute
that it would be me.

Or that one call would do it.
You'd have to make several.

Three long-distance,
God only knows how many locals.

-I'm glad I don't have to pay the bill.
-Quiet.

Don't worry.
Michael won't pay it either.

Now, here's how it works.
If you make the call, you get one point.

If the person you are calling answers,
you get two more points.

Somebody else answers, you only get one.

And if there's no answer at all…

you're screwed.

You're screwed if you make the call.

When you get the person
whom you are calling on the line,

if you tell them who you are,
you get two points. And then…

If you tell them that you love them,

you get a bonus of five more points.

-Hateful.

Therefore, you can get
as many as ten points and as few as one.

You can get as few as none
if you know how to work it.

Hank, leave with me?

Oh, well, now, did you hear that?

You don't understand, Alan. I can't.

You can, but I can't.

If he doesn't understand,
explain it to him.

-I'll explain it.
-I had a feeling you might.

Alan, Hank and Larry are lovers.

They're not roommates.

-Bedmates, lovers.
-Michael.

No man's still got a roommate
when he's over 40 years old.

If they're not lovers, they're sisters.

-Hank is the one who's over 40.
-Well, you're pushing it.

Hank.

Yes, Alan. Larry and I are lovers.

But…

But you're married.

Jesus Christ.

I think you said the wrong thing.

Don't you love that quaint little idea?

If a man's married,
he's automatically heterosexual.

Alan, Hank swings both ways…
with a definite preference.

Now… who makes the first call?

-Emory?
-You go, Bernard.

-Mm. I don't want to.
-Go on, call up Peter Dahlbeck.

-That's who you'd like to call, isn't it?
- Who is Peter Dahlbeck?

The boy in Detroit

whose family Bernard's mother
has been a laundress for

since he was a little black-eyed pea.

I worked for them, too,

after school and every summer.

I think I've loved him all my life.

But he never knew I was alive.

Besides, he's straight.

Nothing ever happened between you?

They finally made it
in the pool house one night

after a drunken swimming party.

With the right wine and the right music,
there are damn few that aren't curious.

And afterwards, we went swimming,

in the nude, in the dark,
only the moon reflecting the water.

How romantic.

And the next morning, you took him
his coffee and Alka-Seltzer on a tray.

I remember I was worried sick all morning
about having to face him,

but he pretended
like nothing at all had happened.

Christ, he must have been so drunk,
he didn't remember a thing.

Odd how that works.

And now for ten points,
get that liar on the phone.

- Mmm!
- Oh!

You know the number?

Sure, he's back
in Grosse Pointe, living at home.

Just got separated from his third wife.

-Mmm-hmm.
- Mmm-hmm.

-DA or BY?
-What?

It's operator lingo.
It means "doesn't answer" or "busy."

He didn't even give it time
to find out.

Come on, Bernard. Pick up that phone.

You know you want to call him.
You know that, don't you?

Well, go ahead.

Your curiosity's got the best of you now.
So go on, call him.

Do it.

-Hello?
- One point.

Who's speaking?

Oh!

-Mrs. Dahlbeck.
- One point.

It's Bernard.

Francine's boy.

- Son, not boy.
-Shh.

Oh, just fine, thank you.

Mrs. Dahlbeck, is-is… Peter at home?

Oh.

Oh, I see.

Oh, shit.

-Oh, no, no.

Oh, no, no. No, no.
It-It's nothing important. I, um…

I just wanted to tell him that…

Just to tell him that I…

I love him… and I've always loved him.

That I was very sorry
to hear about him and his wife.

No points.

Mama wrote me.

Yes, it is. It-It-It really is. Well, uh…

Would you just tell him
that I called and said that I…

That I, uh…

I was just very, very sorry to hear

and hope they can
get everything straightened out.

Good night. Uh-huh.

Goodbye.

Two points total.

-Terrible. Next.
-You all right, Bernard?

Why did I call?

Why did I do that?

-Where was he?
-Out on a date.

Come on.

Emory.

Punch in.

May I have a number, please?

In the Bronx.

For a Delbert Botts.

A Delbert Botts?
How many could there be?

Wish I hadn't called now.

No, the residence number, please.

Thank you.

I do wish Information
would stop calling me "ma'am."

-Hey, by all means,

scribble all over my phone.

It comes off with a little spit.

Ooh, like a lot of things.

Who the hell is Delbert Botts?

The one person I've always loved.
That's who you said to call, isn't it?

Right, emery board.

Ugh, how could you love somebody
with a name like that?

Yes, Emory, you couldn't possibly
love anyone with a name like that.

That wouldn't look good
on a place card. Right, Alan?

I admit his name is not so good,

but he…

Absolutely beautiful.

I've loved him ever since
the first day I laid eyes on him,

which was when I was in the fifth grade

and he was a senior.

Then he went away to college,

and by the time he got out,
I was in high school.

And he had become… a dentist.

And you went and had every tooth
in your head pulled out, right?

No.

I just had my teeth cleaned, that's all.

-Oh, I shouldn't have called.
-Will you shut up, Bernard?

And take your boring, sleep-making icks
somewhere else. Go.

I remember I looked
right in his eyes the whole time.

I kept wanting to bite his fingers.

Well, it's absolutely mind-boggling.

-Phyllis Phallic.
-It absolutely boggles the mind.

I told him I was having my teeth cleaned

for the junior-senior prom
for which I was in charge of decorations.

I told him
it was a celestial theme,

and I was cutting stars out of tin foil

and making clouds
out of chicken wire and angel's hair.

Oh, Mary, it takes a fairy
to make something pretty.

I got angel's hair down my shirt
once at Christmastime.

Gosh, did it itch.

It would be terrible
if you got that stuff in your…

I'll be quiet.

He was engaged
to this stupid-ass girl named Loraine,

whose mother was truly
a real see-you-next-Tuesday.

Uh-uh. Don't digress.

Well, anyway… I was a wreck.
I mean, a total mess.

I couldn't eat, sleep,
stand up, sit down, nothing.

Finally, I called him on the phone
and asked if I could see him alone.

Clearly, not the coolest of moves.

He said okay.

Told me to come by his house.

I was so nervous, my hands were shaking.
I couldn't even look at him.

I just… stared straight in space
and blurted out why I'd come.

I told him I wanted him to be my friend.

I said that I had never
had a friend I could talk to

and tell everything to and-and trust.

I asked him if he would be my friend.

He said he would be glad to be my friend,

and anytime I wanted
to see him or call him,

to just call him and he'd see me.

And he shook my trembling hand,
and I left…

-on a cloud.
-One of the ones you made yourself.

And the next day,

I went out and bought him
a gold-plated cigarette lighter

and had his initials monogrammed on it.

I wrote a card that said,
"From your friend, Emory."

Seventeen years old
and already big with the gifts.

And then the night of the prom,

I heard Loraine
and another girl I knew giggling together.

Obviously, Del had told Loraine
about my calling and about the gift.

Pretty soon, everybody at the dance
had heard about it.

They were laughing and making jokes.

Everybody knew
that I had a crush on Dr. Delbert Botts

and that I had asked him to be my friend.

What they didn't know
was that I loved him,

and that I would go on loving him

years after they had all forgotten
my funny little secret.

Well, I for one need an insulin injection.

Oh.

-Call him.
-Don't, Emory.

Since when are you telling him what to do?

Don't. You'll be sorry.
Take my word for it.

What have I got to lose?

Your dignity.
That's what you've got to lose.

Oh, that's a knee-slapper. I love…

You're telling him about dignity

when you allow him
to degrade you constantly

by Uncle Tom-ing you to death.

He can do it, Michael.
I can do it. But you can't do it.

Isn't that discrimination?

I don't like it from him,
and I don't like it from me.

But I do it to myself,

and I let him do it.

I let him do it
because it's the only thing that,

to him, makes him my equal.

We both got the short end of the stick,

but I got a hell of a lot more
than he did, and he knows it.

I let him Uncle Tom me

just so he can tell himself
he's not a complete loser.

How very considerate.

It's his defense, Michael.

You have your defense,
but it's indescribable.

Y'all want to hear a little polite
parlor jest from the liberal Deep South?

Do you know
why niggers have such big lips?

Because they're always going…

Christ, Michael!
Give me that. Let go, Michael.

I can do without your goddamn spit
on my telephone, you nellie coward!

I may be nellie, but I'm no coward!

Yo, Bernard…

forgive me. I'm sorry.

I won't ever say
those things to you again.

Huh.

-BY.
-It's busy?

Loraine is probably talking to her mother.

Oh, yes, Delbert married Loraine.

I'm sorry, you'll have
to forfeit your turn. We can't wait.

Well, you're not wasting any time.

-Who are you calling?
- Charlie.

I refuse to forfeit my turn.
It is my turn, and I'm taking it.

That's the spirit, Emory.

You hit that iceberg! Don't miss it.
Hit it! God damn it!

I want a smash of a finale.

- God, I'm drunk.
-You're a falling-down-drunk-nellie-queen.

Now that's the pot
calling the kettle beige.

I am not drunk.
You cannot tell that I am drunk.

-I'm drunk.
- So am I.

-I am a major drunk.
-Shut up and dial.

I'm a major drunk
of this or any other season.

It's ringing. It's no longer BY.

-Hello?
- One point.

Who's speaking?

Who?

Dr. Delbert Botts?

Two points.

Del, is this really you?

Nobody.

Yeah, you don't know me.
You wouldn't remember me.

Um…

I'm just a friend.

A falling-down, drunken friend.

Hello?

Hello?

Hello?

- He hung up.
-Three points total. You're winning.

He said I must have the wrong party.

Well, he's right. We have the wrong party.

It's your party, Hallie.
Having a good time?

Simply fabulous.

How about you?
Are you having a good time, Emory?

Are you having as good a time
as you thought you would?

-My turn now.
-No, it's my turn to call Charlie.

No… Let me.

Are you gonna call Charlie?

Don't, Hank.

I want to.

Larry.

Be my eager guest.

Is he gonna call Charlie for you?

Charlie is all the people
I cheat on Hank with.

With whom I cheat on Hank.

The butcher, the baker,
the candlestick maker.

Right! I love 'em all,

but what Hank refuses to understand
is I gotta have 'em all.

I'm not the marrying kind.
I never will be.

Who're you calling?

Did it ever occur to you

that Hank might be doing
the same thing behind your back

that you do behind his?

I wish to Christ he would.
Would make life a hell of a lot easier.

Who are you calling?

Well, whoever it is, they're not
sitting on top of the telephone.

-Hello?
-Must have been in the tub.

One point.

- I'd like to leave a message.
-Oh, not in. One point.

Would you say that Hank called?

Yes, it is.

-Oh, good evening. How are you?
-Who the hell is that?

Yes, that's right.
The message is for my roommate, Larry.

-Just say that I called…

It's our answering service.

…and said I love you.

Hank, are you crazy?

You heard me correctly.
The message is for Larry.

It's from me, Hank,
and it is just as I said.

I love you.

Yeah, thanks.

Seven points total.

Hank, you're ahead, baby!
You're way, way ahead of everybody.

Why, Hank? Why did you do that?

Because I do love him,
and I don't care who knows it.

- Don't say that.
-Why not? It's the truth.

I left my wife and family for Larry.

-I'm not interested in hearing about it.
-Sure you are.

Go ahead, Hankola. Tell him all about it.

-I don't want to hear it! It's disgusting.
-Some men do it for another woman.

Well, I can understand that.
That's normal.

It doesn't always work out that way, Alan.

No matter how you might want it to,
and God knows,

nobody ever wanted it more than I did.

I really and truly felt
I was in love with my wife

when I married her, but…

there was always that something else.

Always?

I don't know. I suppose so.

I've known what I was
since I was four years old.

Oh, everybody's always known it
about you, Emory.

I've always known it about myself, too.

I don't know
when I first admitted it to myself that…

I always labeled it something else
or denied it completely.

Oh. "Christ, was I drunk last night."

There came a time
where I couldn't lie to myself anymore.

I thought about it
but never did anything about it.

The first time
was during my wife's last pregnancy.

We lived near New Haven in the country.

There was
this teachers' meeting in New York.

My wife didn't feel up to the trip.
I came into town on my own and…

That day on the train,
I began to think about it.

And think about it.

And think about it.

I thought of nothing else the whole trip.

And then 15 minutes after I had arrived,

I'd picked up a guy in the men's room
of Grand Central Station.

Jesus.

I'd never done
anything like that before.

I was scared to death.

He turned out to be a nice fellow.

I've never seen him again.

You know, it's funny.

Can't even remember his name anymore.

Anyway, after that, it got easier.

Practice makes perfect.

Then, sometime later,

Larry and I met at a party
my wife and I went in town for.

And your real troubles began.

That was two years ago.

Why am I always
the goddamn villain in this piece?

If I'm not the happy home-wrecker,

I'm an impossible
son of a bitch to live with.

Guilt turns to hostility.

-Isn't that right, Michael?
-Go stick your tweezers in your cheek.

I'm fed up to the teeth

with everybody feeling so sorry
for poor, put-upon Hank.

Aw, Larry, everybody knows
you're Frieda Fickle.

Hey, I never made any promises.

I never intend to.

It's my right to lead my sex life
without answering to anybody,

Hank included.

And if those terms aren't acceptable,
then we can't go on living together.

Numerous relations
is a part of the way I am.

You don't have to be gay to be a wanton.

By the way I am,
I don't mean gay. And Emory…

You are the most
promiscuous person I know.

-I am not promiscuous at all!

Not by choice, by design.

Why would anybody want to go to bed
with a flaming little sissy like you?

-Michael!
- Who'd make a pass at you?

I'll tell you who. Nobody.

Except maybe some fugitive
from the Braille Institute.

-Why do you let him talk to you that way?
-Physical beauty isn't everything.

Thank you, Quasimodo.

What do you think it's like
living with a goddamn Gestapo, huh?

Can't even take a breath
without getting the third degree.

-Larry, it's your turn to call.
-And I am so sick of this

let's-be-faithful-
and-never-look-at-another-person routine.

That doesn't work.
If you want to promise that, fine.

Then you promise it, and you stick to it.

But if you have to promise it,

as far as I'm concerned,
nothing finishes a relationship faster.

Give me Librium or give me meth.

Yeah, freedom, baby! Freedom!

You got to have it.
It doesn't work any other way.

And-And the ones who swear their
undying fidelity to each other are lying.

Most of them, anyway. 90% of them.

They cheat on each other constantly
and then lie through their teeth.

I'm sorry I can't be like that.
It drives Hank up the wall.

There is that 10%.

The only way it stands a chance
is with some kind of understanding.

I've tried to go along with that.

-Come on!
-I agreed to an agreement.

-Your agreement!
- What agreement?

A ménage.

A lot of people think that's the answer,
but that's not my style.

I certainly didn't want it!

-Then who suggested it?
-It was a compromise!

- Exactly!
- You agreed!

I didn't agree to anything.

You agreed to your own proposal
and then informed me that I agreed!

I don't understand. What's a--

I will kick you!

The ménage, baby.
Two's company, three's a ménage.

Oh.

It works for some.

-Well, I'm not one for group therapy.

I can't relate to anyone
or anything like that.

I'm old-fashioned.

I like 'em all,
but I like 'em one at a time.

Did you like Donald
as a single side attraction?

Yes.

-Did you tell him?
-No.

It was perfectly obvious
from the moment you walked in.

What was that song and dance

about having seen each other
but never having met?

Don't look at me like that, Hank.

You've been playing footsie
with that penguin all night.

Oh! I suppose you want the three of us
to have a go at it.

-At least that would be together.
-Well, that point eludes me.

What kind of an understanding do you want?

Respect!

Respect for each other's freedom
without any need to lie or pretend.

Hank, in my way, I love you,

but you have to understand
although I want to live with you,

sometimes there might be others.

If that happens,
I know I'll never mention it.

But if you ask me, I will tell you.

He gets points!

What?

He said it. He said "I love you" to Hank.
He gets the bonus.

-He didn't call him.
-He called him.

He just didn't use the telephone.

- Then he doesn't get any points.
-He gets five points.

He didn't use the telephone.
He doesn't get a goddamn thing!

It's for you, Hank!

Hello?

One point.

Hello, Hank.

Two points.

This is Larry.

- Two more points.

For what it's worth, I love you.

Five-point bonus.

I'll…

I'll try.

I will, too.

-That's ten points total.
-Larry is the winner.

Well, that wasn't as much fun
as I thought it would be.

Game isn't over yet.

It's your turn, Alan.
Pick up the phone, buster.

-Michael, don't.
-Stay out of this!

You don't have to, Alan. You don't.

Emory, I'm sorry for what I did before.

Forget it.

Forgive us our trespasses.

Christ.

You guys joined at the goddamn hip now?

Who are you going to call, Alan? Hmm?

Can't remember anyone?

I believe this will be the final round.

Michael, aren't you gonna call anyone?

How could he? He's never loved anyone.

♪ No matter how you figure
It's tough to be a nigger ♪

- Stop that, Michael!
-♪ But it's tougher to be a Jew ♪

My God, Michael, you're a charming host.

Michael doesn't have charm, Donald.

Michael has counter-charm.

-Wait, are you going somewhere?
-Yes, excuse me.

You're going to miss the end of the game.

With any luck,
I won't be down until it's all over.

What do you suppose
is going on up there, hmm, Alan?

What do you imagine that Larry and Hank
are doing up there, hmm?

Whatever they're doing,
they aren't hurting anyone.

And they're minding their own business.

Yeah, and you mind yours, Harold.
I'm warning you.

Are you, now?

Are you warning me?

Me?

I'm Harold.

I'm the one person
you don't warn, Michael,

because you and I are a match.

And we tread very softly with each other

because we both play
each other's game too well.

I know this game you're playing.

I know it very well,
and I play it very well.

You play it very well, too,
but you know what?

I'm the only one
who's better at it than you are.

I can beat you at it, so don't push me.

I'm warning you.

You're funny, Hallie.

You're a laugh riot. Isn't he funny, Alan?

Or as you might say, "Isn't he amusing?"

He's an amusing faggot, isn't he?

Or, as you might say, freak.

That's what you called Emory, wasn't it?
A freak, a pansy.

God, what an antiquated vocabulary
you have.

I'm surprised you didn't say
"sodomite" or "pederast."

You better let me bring you up to date.

Have you ever heard
the term "closet-queen"?

You know what that means?

Do you know what it means
to be "in the closet"?

If you're insinuating
that I'm a homosexual,

I can only say that you're mistaken.

Am I?

What about Justin Stuart?

What about Justin Stuart?

You were in love with him,
that's what about him.

And that is who you are going to call.

Justin and I were very good friends.
That's all.

According to Justin,
that friendship was quite passionate.

What do you mean?

I mean that you slept with him
in college several times.

-That's not true.
- Several times.

One time, it's youth.
Twice is a phase, maybe.

Several times, you like it.

-It's not true.
- Yes, it is!

Because Justin Stuart is a homosexual!

He comes to New York on occasion,
and he calls me.

I've taken him to parties.

Larry had him once,
and he has told me all about you.

Then he told you a lie.

You were obsessed with Justin.

That is all you talked about
morning, noon and night.

You started doing it
about Hank upstairs tonight.

"What an attractive fella he is."
All that transparent crap.

-I said he was attractive. That's all.
-How many times do you have to say it?

How many times
did you have to say it about Justin?

What a good tennis player he was,
what a good dancer he was,

what a good body he had,
how bright he was,

how amusing he was,
how-how the girls were all mad for him,

what close friends you were.

We were very close, very good friends.
That's all.

It was obvious.

And when you did it around Fran,
it was downright embarrassing.

-Even she must have her doubts about you.
-Justin lied.

If he told you that, he lied.

He'd say anything about me now
to get even.

He could never get over
the fact that I dropped him.

You ended the friendship, Alan,

because you couldn't face
the truth about yourself.

You could go on sleeping with Justin
as long as he lied to himself

and you lied to yourself.

And you both dated girls
and you labeled yourselves men

and you called yourselves
"just fond friends,"

but Justin finally had to be honest,
and you couldn't take it.

-You couldn't take it, and so…
-No.

…you destroyed the friendship
and your friend along with it.

- No.
-Oh, yes.

Justin never understood what he had
done wrong to make you drop him.

-He blamed himself.
- No.

He did,
until he eventually found out who he was.

-And what he was.
- No!

But to this day,
he still remembers the treatment.

-Scars he got from you.
-No.

You pick up this phone,
and you call Justin.

No.

I want you to call him and apologize.

You tell him what you should have
told him many years ago.

-He lied. Not a word of it is true!
- Call him!

All right, then I'll dial.

You're so helpful.

Give it to me.

Hello?

One point.

It's Alan.

Two points.

-Yes. Yes, it's me.
- Is that Justin?

- You sound surprised.

I should hope to think so,
after all this time.

Two more points.

I'm in New York.

Yes, I…

I won't explain now, I just…

called to tell you…

That I love you. God damn it, I love you.

I love you.

You get the goddamn bonus.
Ten points total. Jackpot!

-I love you, and I beg you to forgive me.
-Give me that. Give me that!

Justin, did you hear
what that son of a bitch said?

Fran.

No, of course I knew it was you.

How are you?

Yes.

Yes, he told me everything.

No, now, don't thank me.

Please. Please, don't thank me.

I'll put him back on.

My love to the kids.

Darling, I'll take
the first plane I can get.

Yes, I'm sorry, too.

I love you very much.

Thank you, Michael.

Who won?

It was a tie.

-Now, it is my turn.

And ready or not, Michael, here goes.

You are a sad… and pathetic man.

You're a homosexual,
and you don't want to be.

But there is
nothing you can do to change it.

Not all your prayers to your God,

not all the analysis you can buy
in all the years you have yet to live.

We may very well one day be able to know
what it is to live a heterosexual life

if you want it desperately enough,

if you pursue it with the fervor
with which you annihilate.

But you will always be homosexual as well.

Always, Michael.

Always.

Until the day you die.

Oh, friends…

thank you for a nifty party
and a super gift.

It's just what I needed.

Bernard, thank you.

And you'll get him home?

Don't worry about her.
I'll take care of everything.

Good to see you, Donald.

Good night, Harold.

-See you again sometime.
-Yeah.

How about a year from Shavuot?

Come on, Tex. Let's go to my place.

Are you good in bed?

Well… I try to show a little affection.

Keeps me from feeling like such a whore.

Uh, Michael, thanks for the laughs.

Call you tomorrow.

Come on, Bernard. Time to go home.

Mary, you're a heavy mother.

Why'd I call?

-Why?
-Hey, thank you, Michael.

-Good night, Donald.
- Good night, Emory.

I'm gonna
take you for some coffee,

and everything's gonna be all right.

-Careful.

Donald?

-Donald, Donald. Donald?
-Michael?

-Oh, my God, what have I done?
-Christ, Michael.

-Oh, God.
-Michael, I'm not--

Oh, no. Oh, no.

-Hey, hey.
-God, Donald. Oh, my God, no!

-I'll get you some water. Here.
-God, what have I done?

-Hey, stop it. Stop it.
-Jesus, God.

I'm gonna give you a Valium.

-No! Not pills and alcohol. I'm gonna die!
-I'm not…

Come on, take this. You're scaring me.

Stop that crying. Take this pill.

Come here.
Come here, Michael.

-Come here, Michael! Come here!
-Get off of me!

Jesus Christ.

-Hey.

It's okay.

It's okay.

It's okay.

Hey, it's okay.

It's okay.

Who was it that always used to say,

"Show me a happy homosexual,
and I'll show you a gay corpse"?

I don't know.

Who was it who always used to say that?

If we could
just not hate ourselves so much.

That's it, you know?

If we could just…

Oh. If we could just learn
not to hate ourselves…

quite so very much.

Yes, I know.

-I know.

Okay.

By the way,
I think your analyst is a quack.

-Earlier, you said he was a prick.
-That's right. He's a prick quack.

-Or a quack prick. Whichever you prefer.
-Okay.

Harold was right.

You'll never change.

You suppose there's any possibility
of just flushing this place?

What time is it?

It's early.

Where are you going?

The bedroom's ocupado,

and I don't want
to go to sleep yet anyway.

I'm gonna try and walk off this booze.

If I went to sleep right now,

when I woke up,
they'd have to put me in a padded cell.

Not that that's where I don't belong.

There's a midnight mass
over at St. Malachy's

that all the show people go to. I th--

I think I'll walk over and catch it.

Well, pray for me.

Maybe they'll be gone when I get back.

Will I see you again next Saturday?

Unless you have other plans.

No.

- Michael.
-What?

Did he ever tell you
why he was crying on the phone?

No.

It must have been that he'd left Fran.

Or maybe it was something else,
and he changed his mind.

Maybe so.

I wonder why he left her.

As my father said to me
when he died in my arms,

"I don't understand any of it."

"I never did."

Turn out the lights
when you leave, will you?

What? Oh.