All language subtitles for Feud.S02E01.1080p.WEB.H264-SuccessfulCrab_eng

Hi, Marc.

Thanks, Marc.

Honey, it's okay. It's okay.

I'm here.

Mrs. P. needs to be alone.

Go to the movies,
would you, dear?

- Yes, sir.
- And you know what?

Get Janice and the grandkids,
take everyone

to Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
at the Paris Cinema,

- and then Serendipity, okay?
- Oh--

It's on me.

Dean, none of that fluffy shit, please.

Baby's breath is vomitous.

You have ten minutes,
and out the door.

More delphinium.

Martha, leave us alone,
please, would you?

- Thank you, Martha.
- Thank you.

Tell me everything
from the beginning.

Tell me what happened.

Well...

I was in Paris, as you know.

The Givenchy fittings,
the shows.

It was perfect.

And-and Hubert,

he did something
truly wonderful for me.

Well, he's such a master.

Yes, he's such a master.

It was really
a great work of art.

I was struck.

Well, I... I just wished.

I wished someone
had been there with me.

Bill, not because
it's romantic with him anymore,

but you want to...
you want to share these things.

Love him and hate him,
all in the same moment,

but somehow,

being in Paris just
brought it all to the fore.

Of course.

See, we have a life,
and deep down,

I just keep finding myself
rather lonely.

I know.

He's done the worst thing
you can do.

He's taken me for granted.

What is it? What did he do?

I told him I was coming.
I gave him just enough warning.

I found out
Bill was still having

his grotesque little affair
with Happy Rockefeller.

- He was, still?
- Now,

- in... our... home.
- Go back.

We're talking the governor's
wildebeest wife here?

That was still going on?

I thought that was a one-time,
at best.

So did I.

- Ew.
- But he just wanted

to keep screwing
the governor's wife

because he got...
he gets a kick out of it.

And this is
what is so humiliating.

And that fat-ankled harridan.

Yes!

It's so humiliating to me

because I still do... love him.

He lied to your face.

- Yes.
- Mm.

And even though that part

of our marriage has been
over for years,

and God knows, I do understand,
but there are rules,

certain rules, aren't there,

about how much humiliation
one can stand?

- Sure.
- Because Happy Rockefeller...

She was always so jealous.

Oh, so jealous.

So jealous.

Here's what happened.

Don't you think we should have

at least one last hurrah

before she gets back,
for God's sake?

Happy, she's flying back today.

Look, she and I talked,
and-and she's right.

It was fun, but... come on.

Well, she's not back yet, and
we've been relatively discreet.

I don't know. I don't know.

It's one last fuck
for the road, okay?

To take with me.

I want to...

taste you in my mouth
one last time.

Well, when you
put it that way...

We have some time still.

- Come over.
- Happy?

Where you going?

Saks.
My hat from Milan just came in.

Oh.

Anyway, I mean, big vision...

That shitty perfume she wears.

Caleche. Hermes.

So...

Too much sandalwood
for a woman with her face.

Hey, listen, what
are you making it so dark for?

I like looking at you. I'll see.

What the hell is this?

You ruined my life.

You used me to be the punch line
of some sick joke about what?

Being... better than Nelson?

All I know is,
I get off the Concorde,

and I walked into that.

You think you can get
that stain out

before your cunt wife gets back?

The evidence is all there.

Should I?

Hmm. Go look.

What happened?

Was someone shot in here?

Well...

you're gonna need
a new mattress.

The menstruating, so calculated.

And you being in menopause.

Which he obviously
discussed with...

I'm divorcing him. It's over.

Finally, the final humiliation.

I don't know.

No, no, you're not.

I'm not?
What... what do you mean?

Honey, you're not
a sexual creature anymore.

Think about it.
You have a great life.

He's the most powerful man
in America, really.

Fuck Richard Nixon.
It's Bill Paley.

You have a house in Bermuda,
a mansion in Coral Gables,

a thing in London,
and four kids.

Don't be another divorcée
of Manhattan,

slowly going nuts
up in Westchester,

where you'll end up moving
to get away from him,

because he's everywhere.

What do you want?

Figure out
what it is you want, darling.

I know you've had your eye

on that Van Gogh
sunflower painting.

Well, there's a Gauguin,

Seed of Areoi,
coming up at Sotheby's.

And a nice Matisse Princess
Margaret's trying to lay off.

Take both.

Woman with a Veil.

Look, he'll buy you anything
you want right now,

so make him pay.

But follow my advice.

Don't tell anyone.

What are you talking about?

You want me to live with this?

- No. Listen to me.
- How?

Play this right.
This is our secret.

Come on.
You had a terrible, long day.

You're exhausted.
I know what you need.

- Nice little whopper
of a Valium for Baby.
- Oh.

- Oh--
- Swallow it. Come on.

No, I promised
I'd have dinner with the kids.

- I can't take--
- No.

I sent them to Chitty Chitty
and Serendipity

with Sylvia and Janice
for burgers and shakes.

Come on.

Nice, big sip of Scotch

to wash it down.

There you go.

Little more.

Good girl.

Come with me.

Come on.

You're a terrible influence,
Tru.

Follow me.

Now...

You're gonna take
a nice nap now.

- Are you sure they're gone?
- Mm.

And when you wake up,

you're going to realize

that everything I said is true.

Meet him at the door
with a drink.

Be the great lady that you are.

Okay, I'll take a nap
if you'll lay here with me.

Oh.

- Well, Tru?
- Mm.

I'm so, so, so hurt.

No. Let's be honest.

It's your ego wounded here.

He didn't really hurt you.

You've not been in love
for years.

It's your pride.

You're right.

The only person who could ever
really hurt me is you.

And that would never happen
in a million years.

Now close your eyes.

Just think about that.
Yeah, 7:30 for that.

- Uh, maybe--
- I'm not moving Dragnet.

It's fine where it is.

Oh, and tell General Mills
to pay up.

We sell their cereal, so pay up.

Mr. Paley, sorry to interrupt,

but David Selznick needs
to speak with you.

Hmm.

David, you better not
be canceling on me

at the last minute.

I have the plane,
Babe is excited,

we're playing tennis, and
it's 82 degrees in Montego Bay.

Jesus, Bill, no.

Jennifer and I are coming.

But, look, wouldn't it be great
to have Truman come?

Y-You don't really
know him, do you?

Uh, Truman? No.
I mean, well, we-we've met.

Yeah, sure, bring him.

Okay, I'll see you at the plane.

Oh, David, David. Is he fun?

Fun? Are you kidding? Truman?

The most fun there is.

Wait till you hear him
tell stories.

All right, I'll see you.

Harry Truman is fun?

Here he comes.

Sir.

- Of course, thank you.
- Yes, sir.

Thank you.

Who the fuck is that?

Hi. So lovely of you
to invite me.

I love Jamaica.

I once had a weekend there

with that wonderful actor
dancer fellow.

- Jennifer. Look at you.
- Truman.

David.

I'm mad at you
but I don't remember why.

Mrs. Paley, I've wanted
to meet you forever.

It's Babe.

As have I.
Finally, Mr. President.

Bill.

This is our dear, dear friend
Truman Capote.

Did you think it was
the other Truman, Bill?

- I did.
- That happens.

You did?

Yes.

What would I be doing
with Harry fucking Truman?

Well, thank your lucky stars
it isn't.

I hear two hours in a plane with
him and his economic theories

and you want to plunge
into the Bermuda Triangle.

- Cheers.
- Lovely to have you.

What a pretty plane.

Oh, please, are you kidding?

He had ten boys stashed
all over the eastern seaboard

and nobody knew.

He was extorted five times.

Cost him a Picasso.

The most expensive
hustlers ever.

You think he'd be more careful.

People are not careful, though.

He had a brief flirt
with the Nazi party.

And when I say "flirt,"
I mean he fucked everything

with blond hair
and blue eyes and a cock.

Well, I could never
trust a writer.

And why not?

I mean, I agree, but... why not?

The storytellers have
the last word, don't you?

And I would never
let a storyteller

have the last word.

Louisa, how fascinating.

But you tell me, dear,
who should have the last word?

That is perfectly obvious.

Anyone who's lived through
World War II could tell you.

The person who has
the most power.

America, for instance.

She had the last word.

Two bombs and it was all over.

Kaboom.

That is the last word.

Not those of a writer
of clever stories.

But the ones with the power.

What a unique point of view.

Would anyone like
some more rosé?

Hear, hear.

Thank you.

How do you get all
of this gossip, Truman?

On Beat the Devil,
he knew more than everyone

in hair and makeup combined,

and that's usually where
all the gossip is.

But Truman, holed up in
his hotel miles from the set,

he knew everything.

Truman's secret is seduction,
isn't it, Truman?

No, it's memory.

Well, I think it's wonderful
to know a good story.

To have a good story, to love
a good story, personally.

Well, so do I.
I think it's everything.

But it's not all fun and games.

You know...

we've been talking
about society,

but I'm interested in
what it all means, really...

to be important.

Is there anything you know
that we don't, Truman?

Because we know an awful lot.

Bill...

Well, you don't know this.

There's a murderer walking free
and you all know her.

And I'm gonna tell her story.

Socialite, B-level.

She married up.

He was going to divorce her,
she blew him away.

Wait, who is it?
Is that Ann Woodward?

I'm not saying.

I thought it was
a tragic accident.

She thought it was a burglar.

Oh, come on, come out
of the trenches.

The war is over.
That was murder, my dear.

She killed Billy with malice.
The police are well aware of it.

Well, how did she
get away with it?

Are you saying you couldn't?

Billy's mother paid
for it to go away.

You know, it's Oyster Bay,
they're old money.

They can do that there.

There had been a string of
burglaries all along the beach.

They slept in separate bedrooms,

he'd had it with her.

He'd found out with the help
of a detective

that there was another husband

out there somewhere in
an oil field, in Oklahoma.

It was over.

It's cold between them.

She doesn't think she
has much chance

out there in the world
if it gets out

she's a bigamist.

Poor William Woodward Jr.

A virgin GI when they met,
I'm sure.

And she was a jazzy little
curly-haired killer

from some country slum.

She knew she'd hooked a big one
when she met him.

But she never pressed him.

No fancy gifts. Just a letter.

Every day to him,
a cozy little note.

He comes back on leave
and finds her pregnant.

And of course they get married.

They were at a Wallis Simpson
affair the night in question.

Billy Boy needed some Seconal.

It's so funny, it usually
was right beside his bed.

Never mind, he knew there was
more in the medicine cabinet

in the master bedroom.

A bother, he'll have to go past
his estranged wife,

and they'd had a fight
at the party.

It was very frosty.

He'd just told her, it seems,

in the car, they were done.

And...

bang, bang, he was dead.

"She thought it was a burglar"?

Oh, my.

Let's call her Bang Bang,
shall we?

Bang Bang!

But let me inform you that
is not what happened, at all.

Because the cops did not
find him in the bedroom,

they'd found him in the shower.

That's the real story.

And the police knew this?

How is it possible?

The mother, she paid
to have it covered up.

No scandal. The children.

Exactly, Bill.

Mr. Bill Paley,
ladies and gentlemen.

It was the children.

Tragic enough to have lost
their father,

what purpose could it serve
to see their mother...

go to jail for murder?

The grandparents wanted Ann
to go scot-free

and within their terrain,
they have the power

to brainwash cops,
reweave minds,

move corpses from
shower stalls to hallways.

The very power
to control inquests.

His death was declared
an accident

in an inquest that lasted
less than a day.

And Bang Bang got away with it.

And I'm gonna write it.

And Bill, you should tell your
boys over at 60 Minutes

'cause it's a killer story.
But let me sell it first.

No.

No, no.

Shall we adjourn?

My God, he's dazzling.

Invite him to everything
we ever have.

Next weekend.

Yes, yes, do it, do it.

Oh, hello, how are you?

You know.

Yes, I do.

Yes, you do, don't you?

Tell me about your little
locked golden notebook.

What fabulous secrets
it must hold.

Actually, this is just
a list of everything I...

do wrong and everything
I could do better,

the next time.

"Better"? "Wrong"?

Whoever put that idea
in your head?

Babe, don't you see?

Our mistakes are what
makes us interesting.

Do you not worry
about anything, Truman?

Oh, sure, money,
aloneness, calories...

But never about perfection.

Now, open your golden notebook

and put down this
word to the wise.

Tell me.

Next time, seat me next to you.

That's all you need to do.

I need to tell you something.

I think we're going
to be close friends.

I know these things.

How?

Oh, I don't know, I just do.

I'm witchy.

"Witchy."

Well, tell me, Mr. Witch,
did you see...

my husband and Miss Europe 1952?

I did.

I saw him take her
to one of the cottages.

What do you suggest
I do about it?

Oh, I don't know...

Rise above?

I know about you,
I know about your car accident.

Shattered your cheekbones...

How, when they rebuilt
your face,

you were suddenly
more beautiful than ever,

you became a swan

from an ugly duckling,
am I right?

How do you know about all that?

Well, my point is...

the accident was a blessing.

And now there's something else.

You have a new best friend.

Now let's have a cigarette.

Mm.

May I?

Irving, you have to go back

to them and explain.

I need to be given
some benefit of the doubt.

I have earned that.

I'm not giving Random House
back my advance

for Answered Prayers
for failure to deliver.

I will deliver it one day,
you know that.

How much do they want from me?

$400,000?!

Yes, I know it's the third
deadline I've missed.

Well, I'm close, I'm very close,

but this one...

Irving, I'm telling you,
you have to explain to them

this is so much harder
than Cold Blood.

Well, because I'm writing
about society.

It's New York society,

it's a very small needle
to thread.

You do not want to get
one thing wrong.

What do you mean, Irving,
you've heard it all before?

How much have they
made from me worldwide?

They'll sue me?

I cannot give back money
I don't have!

Tell them that!

Oh...

Were you listening?

Why is your coat on?
Do we have a dinner?

Actually, no.

No dinner, I just
don't want to...

be here for this.

It's very clear to everyone

what's happening here
while you're stuck.

Oh, go on, Jack.

Why don't you enlighten me...?

- The reason that you
can't write the book...
- Oh.

...is that you are
now no longer a writer,

but rather a full-time,
60-hour-a-week

high-level drunk.

Mm. Well, you may be right,

but that's just
the surface, Jack.

Which is what you do so well.

The surface.

But why, why am I doing this
to myself?

Is it because it hurts more than
you could ever comprehend

to lose something so rare?

Oh, yes, your elite pain
is so singular

that no one but you could
bear it. Please. Really?

And it's just out of sight, too,
I can smell it.

You don't know what the stakes
are, you have no stakes.

But for me, it's all of it
or none of it.

And maybe, just maybe
I lost everything

that made me Truman Capote.

Maybe... Cold Blood took
everything I had.

Don't tell me I'm a drunk.

I know it.

But tell me why.

Tell me how to stop it.

Tell me how to be Truman Capote
again and I'll do it.

Can you tell me
how to be him again?

No.

But you won't find it this way.

Not with gin or vodka or pills.

No one ever has
and no one ever will.

There, I've done my bit.

Well, we can't be sure, can we?

Because sometimes...

after the third wine and...

a couple of pills...

I do feel him right next to me.

The old me.

No, and I'm not going
to stop chasing him

till he's returned to Mama.

Maybe it's that I haven't
drunk enough.

I intend to investigate that,
dear heart.

Okay?

Okay?

You're Truman Capote.

You're not worried
about being recognized?

I'm not him anymore.

Oh. Okay.

You reserve the right
not to be molested.

Oh...

I want to be molested.

That's why I'm here.

I want to be molested
into oblivion.

Uh-huh.

Well...

We can do oblivion no matter
who you are or used to be.

If this is your hustle,
don't waste your time on me.

I'm... broken and empty.

Oh, yeah?

You don't think you got
a little something for me?

Well, maybe that's my kink.

You're not gay, are you?

This is your thing, right?

I'm not a fag.

I'm not straight.

I just love to come.

My shrink told me
I'm a sexual sociopath.

Once, I came nine times in a row
going from room to room here.

I went home for dinner
and fucked my wife

without any problems.

- What was dinner?
- Well...

It was a Friday.

So, fish sticks.

Mmm, I love a good
Catholic lapse.

Mm-hmm.

I used to loathe myself
for all this crummy scuzziness,

but now I don't.

I remind myself that...

I used to be beautiful and...

all these louts and tricks
and closet cases

are lucky to even be
with me in decay.

Because...

I was something.

Yeah.

Do you always take trade
to meet your swans, huh?

Why do you call them that?

Because they are swans, you...

Beautiful and unruffled
above the waters,

stunning, singular, gliding
through the ponds of society.

But God gave them
too much baggage, you see.

Underneath the crisp surface
of the water, they have to...

paddle twice as fast
and vigorously

as an ordinary duck
just to stay afloat.

It's a great burden
only some can bear.

Oh, yeah? That sounds awful.

It is.

You know, some swans actually
drown under the beauty

and weight of their fantastical
superficial plumage?

- So what?
- They just can't keep going.

Yeah? They all
gonna be there today?

Oh, no. No.

That would be too much
for you to bear,

a little mortal mallard
like you, no.

Only three of the swans
will be in attendance today.

The number one swan
in the pecking order, Babe.

The most perfect woman
ever made.

Her only flaw is her perfection.

She's almost too beautiful
to look at.

And her eyes...

they're so smart,
they see so much.

And there's no greater WASP.

Just to be around her
smooths the rough edges off.

Anyone in her orbit glows.

Her husband Bill Paley
treats her

precisely like an employee
with no time off.

Even while he's fucking
someone else

in a hotel a block from home.

She offered to buy me a house.

But you can't take
too many gifts

from these beautiful creatures,
or they own you.

And Slim, Slim Keith,
came out of dusty poverty

in the middle of
rust-fuck California

to marry Howard Hawks

and then Leland Hayward

and then an even sweller swell
with all the money in the world

and no discernable personality
to interfere with any of it.

There is no one smarter

or as many steps ahead
of you at chess.

And she knows Hollywood
like she knows London,

like she knows Paris and Capri,

with her eyes closed.

- You keeping up, John?
- Mm.

'Cause you're gonna need
to be on your toes, sweetie.

- Please?
- All right.

Tell them about the book
you're writing, but not too much

'cause they're easily bored.

Anyway, also, there will be
the breath of fresh air

that is C.Z. Guest.

The most exemplary of the swans.

Really, my dear, she gardens

the way Jascha Heifetz
plays violin.

You know, C.Z.'s been able
to stretch the marigold season

way into late fall.

The marigolds she grows don't
want to fade as summer ends.

They just want to share their
great sunlike beauty for her,

as though they were
wonderful pets eager to please.

She does this
with anything that lives.

Like magic.

It's done through love.

Keep the meter running,
please, would you?

We don't want to go in
quite yet.

Timing is everything.

Anita, hi.

Ian, hi.
Take my glasses, thank you.

- Thank you.
- This is my friend John.

Hey.

Watch this.

My darlings, this is the man
I've been telling you all about.

The absolutely delightful,
entrancing,

marvelous John O'Shea.

How do you do, ladies?

See you started
refreshments already.

I can't wait to catch up.

- Thank you, Ian.
- Welcome to the club.

- Let's get the boy a drink.
- Yes, ma'am.

Or two.

Thanks. Uh, I will take...
Oh, it's for me.

It's so good to finally meet
the great John O'Shea.

It is? Okay.

- Thanks.
- Sir.

Cheers.

When I was in London last week,

I went to a party
at Drue Heinz's.

And I got stuck
with Princess Margaret.

- Oh, dear.
- Hell on Earth, let me tell you.

She's tough sledding.
How did you deal with her?

Well, I asked her
about Mick Jagger and Mustique.

Her mother's a darling,

- but the rest of that family?
- Ah.

Well, Prince Charles
may amount to something.

Hopefully.
He likes growing stuff.

He gave me a gorgeous
courgette once, though.

Is that a car?

It's a zucchini, sweetie.

Oh.

But nothing like
the ones grown by C.Z.

She bathes the little things
in milk

while they're still
nesting in the ground.

Yes, but it's skim milk, kiddo.

It's the secret to a good green.

You know basically royals think
there are just three categories.

Colored folk, white folk,
and royals.

I mean, you spend any time
with his family

and you just wonder how the fuck
did they get the prize?

Thank God for these lunches.

I-I swear I really do,
I really actually do.

Well, we'll always
have these, won't we?

Always because it keeps me sane.

Or semi, as much as it can.

Are you sane, though, Slim?

Well, the chow in the Navy is
not as bad as you might think.

It's not, uh, it's not,
it's not this,

but what is that?
Whatever that--

That is a piece of chicken.
That's--

Poulet something.

Oh, poulet? Okay, it's not that.

But I... it's where
I learned to cook.

And, uh, my, uh... my wife,

she doesn't mind if I
go ahead in the kitchen.

I-I make something called
a country captain.

It's a chicken dish,
but it has, uh, peppers

- and tomatoes, and, uh, it's--
- Excuse me.

Before you continue,
please, Fierro,

a-another bottle
of the Sangiovese, my dear?

And a Chablis. Mm.

Yes, go on and tell us more
about the country, uh, colonel?

It's, uh...

It's "captain."

When I come back from the men's
room, it's a good recipe.

It's, uh, it's a roux.

You ladies know what a roux is?

A street in Paris.

Ha.

Who wants to go first?

Truman, dear,

are you aware of what
a mistake you're making?

Explain yourself,
Truman, quickly.

I find it rich
that my having an affair,

something all your husbands do
without you saying a word...

We don't care about that.

Babe says you're making him
your manager?

Well, I need help, I tell you,

I need help
with the foreign sales,

the book royalties.

Who knows what those publishers
are stiffing me on?

And Jack, what does he say
about all this?

He's tired, he wants
to sit in Sagaponack

and write those terribly
polite little books,

he's tired of me
after all these years.

You're lucky Jack puts up with

all of your endless
bullshit, Truman.

I mean, my God, really.

Oh, Jesus.

John is terrific.

This meat-and-potatoes ruddy,
healthy heathen is quite smart.

And he wants to write, too.

Of course he wants to write.

Anyone can tell
he wants to write.

He's on his sixth glass of wine.

Never very good.

Hmm.

She's here, she's staring...

Forget Ann.

Pretend you don't see her.

You're gonna run into her.
It's not a surprise.

Look, Truman, we don't care
who you screw.

Just don't put them in charge
of your life, for God's sake.

It's bad mojo, kid.

- Keep it separate.
- Stop being an idiot, Truman.

A complete idiot.

He's a bank teller from
the middle of Long Island.

An alcoholic, clearly,
who can't dress and who, what,

left his wife and kids
to go on a ride with you?

Does that seem like
anyone who can...

manage anything?

Why does she keep staring at me?

Maybe it's because you
keep telling everyone

she's a murderess
and in your new book.

Could that possibly be why?

- All right, where was I?
So, uh, the country captain.
- John...

Your, uh, tomatoes and peppers.

You like onions, put onions in,
I don't mind that.

- Mm, yum.
- Sometimes--

Truman, you fucking
little piece of shit.

You think I don't know?

I know what
you're saying about me.

- "Bang Bang"?
- Ann,

you really don't
want to do this.

- Whatever you're doing...
- No?

- ...just don't do it in public,
dear, go sit down.
- No?

You're telling people that
I murdered my poor late husband?

Isn't that slander and libel?

And you're telling people
it's in your new book?

Well, if it were not true,
it would be libel, Ann,

but it is true.

And we all know it.

And it will be
a very interesting chapter.

I don't know why
you started this.

I mean, we...

we were close.

Just tell me why.

No, l-let me go, Slim.

No, he's-he's...

I mean, it's... it's torture.

I hear it everywhere!

I don't even know how you can
be sitting here with him.

Just tell me why, Truman.

Well...

you know,

I liked you once.

I liked you quite a bit.

But then I heard behind my back
you called me a fag.

So...

I thought I'd...

be a fag.

And show you what a fag can do

when he's angry.

When he's very angry.

And when he's been betrayed
by someone he actually liked,

- even though I knew
what you were.
- Truman, sit down.

Ann, you sit down, too.

Even if you are a killer
as he says,

he has a typewriter
and you don't.

I never...

I never called you
a fag, Truman.

What I called you was
a venomous little faggot.

Now get your quotes right.

Isn't that what you're
supposed to be good at?

I mean, what else
did he get wrong?

You miserable little faggot.

All right, that's quite enough.
You've had your scene, dear.

- Fuck you, Slim.
- That's enough now, really.
- Please?

- Let's go out, out there.
- You're all a bunch of snakes.

Oh, Ann.

Uh, waiter, I think
we need a refill here.

Yes, sir.

Now, where were we?

John, you were saying
something about a roux?

- Yes, a country captain.
- I was, uh...

Just a moment,
just a moment, C.Z.

Truman...

you're going to get it wrong
at some point, really.

I mean, what you do
is quite fucking dangerous.

You see what can happen.

I really want dessert.

And maybe let's
stay for dinner, too.

I can't bear the thought of
going back into the real world.

I thought you said
Babe was getting us a car.

I'm sure it slipped her mind.

Hmm.

Don't humiliate me
about the subway.

I told you my situation.

No, hold on.

Oh, excuse me.

Come on, sit down.

So you need to finish
your book, huh?

Write about the world
you're showing me.

Go on, please.

Truman...

that lunch...

it's gold.

All of it.

Just write it down, the lunch.

Nobody can show us
these women, Truman.

How they really are.

You're not blocked.

Just not looking
at what you got.

"La Cote Basque."

- Mm-hmm.
- Mm-hmm.

Mm.

"That's why Ann Hopkins got
away with cold-blooded murder.

"Her mother-in-law is a Rhode
Island goddess and a saint.

"But it could have been
an accident.

"As I remember,

"they'd just come home from
a dinner party in Watch Hill

"and gone to bed
in separate rooms.

"Weren't there supposed
to have been

a recent series of burglaries
thereabouts?"

"Ann, she kept a shotgun
by her bed.

"And suddenly, in the dark,

"her bedroom door opened
and she grabbed the shotgun

and shot at what
she thought was a prowler."

"Only it was her husband
David Hopkins

"with a bullet through his head.

The end."

Yay!

How bad is it? Is it true?

I'm sorry, Bill,
I don't know what to say.

There's no doubt

it's you and Babe.

The name, pronounced by Ina,

was a caressing hiss.
To be sure.

Sidney Dillon.

Conglomateur,
adviser to presidents...

Especially when he's married
to Cleo Dillon,

to my mind the most
beautiful creature alive...

Whether he confesses
to it or not,

that is why he wanted
to fuck the governor's wife,

revenge himself
on that smug hog-bottom...

...covered with blood
as it was.

- ...make her sweat and squeal...
- So was the bed,

the sheets bloodied
with stains the size of Brazil.

Doesn't he know who we are?

You read it?

Nobody...

nobody will know

that it's us.

Nobody will know?

Look, it feels terrible
right now,

but it'll go away.

We have to do what we always do.

Pretend?

You think that's the smart move?

And you're right.
You're always right.

You know the chess board.

You can... can see so far
into the future,

you're so many moves
ahead of Truman and me.

Did you see this moment

when you fucked
the governor's wife in...

our apartment?

And left me to quietly throw out
those sheets

and order new ones
from Porthault in Paris,

which I did,
and it was all white again.

As it always is, always so...

perfect for you.

Babe, I understand how
betrayed you feel, I do--

I wonder which is worse.

You betraying me
for years and years

and being so flagrant

and so profoundly
disrespectful towards me...

...or Truman's betrayal.

Because I don't know
if what we do

is even close to love,
you and me.

But I sure did love him.

And I let him in.

'Cause I had nobody.

Look, I promise you we can get
through this with our heads--

No.

I am... humiliated.

I am.

My heart is broken.

Don't you see?

It's all true.

His portrait of us,
he got it right.

He got it right about
all of us, but mostly me.

Oh, my God.

How seriously I took this job,

this fucking religion of us,
dying of perfection.

But I have been so angry
for so long

and I need you to tell me
why did I deserve this?

What did I do to deserve
your contempt?

Because all those affairs,
Bill, they are,

they are contempt.

That's untrue, Babe,
that's not true.

Yes, utter contempt for me!

No matter how perfect
the pictures are,

the dinners I curated
for you, the guests...

all of it, all of it for you.

Because I did love you.

And you squandered that.

Like I was a television station
you just bought up and ignored.

Just another asset.

Like all the other wives
and slick husbands

in this... thing
that he disembowels.

And he's right.

I turned to him for love.

This...

homosexual court jester

singing for his supper.

Don't know how I'm going
to get through this.

They're all staring.

Everyone knows.

Yes, they all know.

They all know...

that both of us
are barely disguised.

- Do you have a light?
- Oh, sweetheart.

Every newsstand.

The phone calls. The Post.

Listen, I need
to tell you something.

Please don't react.

Ann Woodward is dead.

She knew...

that Esquire
was coming out today.

Do you understand
what I'm saying, Babe?

Someone slipped her
an advance copy.

Ann... committed suicide
because of Truman's story.

Cyanide.

At least we're still alive.

Well, I want to die, too.

I do.

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

That's enough now.

Now we close ranks, my dear.

Now, no more being
deceived by these men.

Truman, the husbands, the men.

Enough.

What...?

He killed Ann.

And we are going to kill him.

He will have nowhere, nothing.

Everyone will see it.

Everyone will watch.

He will have no door
open to him.

He will have no oxygen.

And he will die.

Just like Ann Woodward died.

But it will be much slower.

- Oh.
- Excuse me, Mrs. Paley.

Thank you.

- And for you.
- Lovely.

Captioned by
Media Access Group at WGBH
access.wgbh.org