All language subtitles for Feud.S02E05.1080p.HEVC.x265-MeGusta

I told Martha to throw
these goddamn things away.

Happy Rockefeller.

It couldn't just be a girl
from the secretarial pool.

With you, it always has to be
a monument to your fucking ego.

Oh, so it's my fault?

I'm not the one
who told him everything.

Of course I told him!

He was there for me.
Where were you?

Have you ever wanted to have
a conversation with me?

No!

Your bloated lack
of discretion and--

What the fuck did we do to him?

Other than roll out
the red carpet

so he could prance
on twinkle toes into our world.

He was a fucking guest!

Carol Matthau,
Gloria Vanderbilt, and Lee...

he leaves them
practically alone.

It's hatred.

Pure hatred.

I feel like I'm going insane.

He comes off far worse
than any of you do.

I need something.

I need a pill. Where...?

Martha, would you make
Mrs. Paley a cup of tea, please?

Yes, you have a phone call, sir.

Thank you.
I'll bring you a Valium.

I don't want your fucking help.

You miserable little fuck.

Don't call here again. Ever.

You might as well move
to Patagonia.

That is how isolated
you will be,

starved of oxygen.

And I will watch.

I will watch as you die alone.

So go and die.

[phone r

It's Truman.

You know what to do,

so do it after the beep.
Here it comes, the beep.

Mr. Capote,
it's Jimmy Baldwin.

If you are there, hiding
behind some hideous piece

of Ormolu furniture,
please pick up.

I'm counting.

One.

Two...

Hello, Mr. Baldwin.

Mr. Mailer tells me
you're despondent.

Is this true? N'es pas?

Oui, j'suis desolé.

I mean, stunned, shocked.

I'm speechless.

This is the worst time
in my life.

I think...

I may have tried to kill myself
last night.

Let me turn this thing off,
it's taping us.

I don't need that.

So the ladies who lunch

are taking their pounds
of flesh, are they?

Oh, no. Not pounds.

All of it.

Flaying me alive.

A concentrated effort
to effectively ensure

I am a social pariah.

What are you doing right now?

Well, I was standing
at the window,

thinking about throwing myself

into the East River, frankly.

Then you called.

Let's meet for lunch.

The scene of the crime, today,
1:00 sharp, I'll reserve.

I don't want to go there.

It's full of enemies.

They might not even let me in.

What a story that would be.

They can't refuse entry
with this Black man, can they?

They're all glowering.

What if somebody comes over
and starts a ghastly scene?

Well, I'll just beat
the living shit out of them.

Besides...

you've had ghastly scenes
here before, haven't you?

Didn't that murderess
spritz you with Chablis once?

Sancerre, actually.

Mr. Capote,

I am going to tell you
some hard truths today.

You're going to spend the day
listening and learning from me.

Class begins henceforth, baby.

I'm not
a very quick study, Jimmy.

Then let's order some oysters.

Oh, what is this
faux Basque shit?

I've been to the Basque coast,
darling, this is not Basque.

This is New York
continental frou-frou.

Why are you being nice to me?

We're friends, I mean,
but we're not close friends.

Mr. Baldwin, I'm told you
have a special request.

Oh, yes, the best thing...
the best thing I ever ate

was at a place
outside of Biarritz.

Something called kokotxas.
Do you know it?

Ko-ko-txas?

With cod cheeks
in a salsa verde.

Olive oil with fish stock,

garlic, finely-chopped parsley,

and it comes on this
perfect crusty bread.

Could you do something
like that?

We need to do something

to bolster this man's
flagging spirits.

Of course, sir.

I have noticed
that most minorities,

Blacks, thank God, Asians,
women, Jewish folk,

they all have a community to
turn to in their time of need.

The homosexual, not so much.

Not yet.

You, me, Gore, Tenn,

we are the only gay American
men of letters pretty much.

I'm not counting Frank O'Hara
and Ginsburg

because they are just poets.

Gore hasn't reached out
to you, I'm guessing.

Gore? Are you kidding?

He's dancing in joy
at my misfortune,

voodoo doll in hand.

It's because he's jealous
of you.

I'm not jealous of you.

Today, Truman, I am going
to be your community.

Because you need one.

You are important
to this country.

Your words and ideas.

As... as are yours.

Well, we know that. We're not
talking about me today.

Your story is being
dismissed as a...

as a small salacious
roman a clef.

And it is much more than that.

It is?

I mean, it is.

I want to know
what you left out.

All the awful things you
could've said about the swans.

Why do you want to know that?

I'll tell you
at the end of the day.

Let's start with Babe.

I know she's your favorite.

Can we please just talk
about this in the bedroom?

What is there to talk about?

Everyone overheard.

Of course, you happened
to slip in

that in between buying
a Max Beckmann painting

and a Max Ernst painting
in Berlin,

that you just fucked somebody.
Listen to me!

It's the sex stuff
that I revealed

in my Sneak Peek magazine
article that's made them mad.

It's not the Bang Bang cruelty
or even their funny names,

it's the rough truth of it,
it's Bill's affairs.

I don't know what
matters more to him,

the fuck or me knowing about it.

♪ How long has this
been going on? ♪

You think it's harmless,
flirting with the help?

Oh, it was hardly
flirting, dear.

Well, I was mortified.

She has legs like a tree trunk.

Why don't you cut one off
and count the rings?

If I wrote a book, it would be
called Thieves I've Known.

Starting with Betty Bacall,
who stole my look.

The fabric I found,
gray flannel that I found?

And any man I ever
spent a night with,

she had to do the same thing,

until finally I heard from one
of these guys that he couldn't

tell the difference who
he was fucking, her or me.

And what's left of me after
everything's been stolen?

"Formidable excellence"
is how I'm described.

That's code for a dry hump.

I was trying
to go after the men.

Not the women.

The truth, Jimmy, the thing
that I could have written

but didn't is that
they all fuck everybody

and get away with it.

The affairs of the rich
are different,

but these women pillory
anyone else who does so,

as if they were above it all.

Babe had many affairs
in their apartment

when Bill would go to L.A.

for his programming trips.

I even helped her pick out
the outfits.

One time, she wanted to dress up

as a Hermes pirate for a lover.

The men were always unsuitable.

Lee...

Lee plays the part of America's
original pilgrim,

but she's a true slattern,

voracious and predatory.

But the worst is Slim.

In the final years
of her marriage,

she'd relegated Kenneth
to the guest room

and brazenly paraded in
a series of lovers.

And even C.Z., who is
a human chastity belt,

she had her time
as a party girl.

Does she not remember
posing nude for Diego Rivera?

Mostly, her lovers are the tiny
vegetables she tends to.

Because vegetables can't talk,
or talk back.

I mean, there's
a double standard.

When the men get caught,
oh, brother, hell to pay.

But what do the men ever get

for the women's indiscretions?
Nothing.

And in many ways
the women are far, far worse.

- Darling...
- They make the men pay

because the ultimate threat
to the swans are younger women.

And, God, do they hate them.

Please excuse me
while I throw up.

Babe?

I hope you get this message,
I hope Bill...

doesn't erase it.

I'm at Cote.

And without you...

...it's nothing.

Nothing even tastes good.

I never meant to hurt you.

Why did you leave all that out?

You know, fascinating fact,

swans are actually terribly
aggressive with one another.

One race of swan
hates the other.

I read a bit about them

before our lunch, dear man.

The Beswick swan, for example,

hates the Whooper
with a kind of rabid passion.

A Mute swan will do anything

to eviscerate a Trumpeter swan
and take its home,

even if the Trumpeter
lived there first.

A swan? Mm.

It will kill if it can.

Yes.

As they are trying to kill me.

My swans, yes.

And I think they might
actually succeed.

No, fuck them. No.

Oh, thank you.

My swans would never do this.

Have lunch alone
with a Black man.

I am aware. This is not news.

Maybe they just never thought
they had to.

But they are
constitutionally by nature

not curious enough to cross
the imaginary barriers.

Come out and say it.
You can say it.

Well, there is a...

subtle racism below the surface

of the water they swim in.

Exactly. Your next chapter?

Well, it's never overt,

the racism,

or the classism.

It's subtle, but it's...

meant to convey one thing:

I am a privileged,
wealthy white woman

and I am better than you.

And the pecking order
speaks volumes.

Blacks for labor,

gays for entertainment,

women for the men to look at,

and all of us there
to serve them.

And the people
next to her and Bill?

White. Money. Power.

Even Jack usually
wasn't invited,

too overtly homosexual,

us together might upset
the other guests.

Oh, it stung me, those parties.
It really did.

Okay, let's talk Bianca Jagger.

Or rather let's not.

I say we all get
on the same page.

Oh, she's fine
for a dinner party,

but you don't want her purring
on your sofa.

Does this have anything to do
with Bianca's skin

not being alabaster white?

Of course they would argue no,

they don't include Bianca
because she's too loud,

or some such other reason,
but I think it does.

They don't want
to corrupt the pool.

Whites only. WASPs only.

They're not even aware
they're doing it,

it's just that this
kind of bigotry

is so intrinsic to their world
and who they are

that they can't see it even when
it's right in front of them.

Let me tell you something, it's
impossible for a white person

or an American white person,

to not be, in some
fundamental sense, a racist.

Mm.

Well, I worry about
what I'm not seeing.

I spend so much time with them,

how can I not be guilty as well?

Well, you are of course,

but the question is
how you address it.

I've always wondered at the
great effort it seems to take

a certain segment of society
to work so hard

to ignore what was happening.

Their good work?
Never meant for us.

It's all for their world.

No one else's.

The Met, the Botanical Gardens,

the New York Public Library,

the Frick.

It's for preservation
of their monuments.

Then let's go somewhere

to brighten up the day
a bit, my dear.

So, tell me something.

Are you in love?
Or dating anyone?

Me? My love life
has been a series of...

arias, fumbles,

half-finished sentences
and a quick amour,

and fleeing into the night.

Living in Paris helps.

Exile makes sex more felt.

Mm. I remember that.

You sleep with a sailor
in Marseilles

and you really get to know
what a Frenchman is like,

what he smells of,
what he dreams of.

Maybe I could just--

No, don't go. Stay.

Stay here.

It will feel like surrender
to your adversaries.

They want you gone.

Why did we never date?

We were in Italy
at the same time.

We've circled each other...

We would've murdered each other.

Two flowers, no gardener,
that's...

We are here to talk
about the swans.

I brought you here for a reason.

From the collection
of William S. Paley.

Now, you tell me why. Why do
they care so much about art?

Well, they love to put
their names on things,

but they don't know how
to love them, these things.

They collect and collect
and collect,

the appetites are insatiable,

but the swans are never full.

They're like a starving person
who keeps buying food

only to tuck it away
in their pantry

and then the person says,
"Why am I so hungry?

My shelves are positively
overflowing with food."

Everything the swans do
is skin-deep.

It's why they're not truly
interesting people.

Their situations
are interesting,

sure, their lives
are fascinating,

but they, themselves,
are truly dull.

They don't know what's
going on in the world.

They don't read anything

except the Ladies' Home Journal
or McCall's.

It's funny because Lee
really wanted to be an artist.

She tried her hand
at interior design.

She has a great high style.

She loved designing
her own homes,

ordering people about.

It never occurred to her
that designing for other people

would involve taking orders.

I don't know, Lee.

It's just not what we discussed.

Well...

what would you like me to do?

Would you like me to go back
to the Garment District

and ask them to cut and hem
a whole new set of drapes?

It's not what we discussed.

You know what it is?

There's not one ounce
of humility

or empathy or compassion.

They don't care
about any of that.

They only care that
they appear to care about it.

Tell me, in nature the one thing
swans are good at is parenting.

Let me tell you this.

I said one time to C.Z.,

"Doesn't it bother you
that the governess

sees your children
more than you do?"

And she replied
without batting an eyelash,

"Of course I see my children,

I go fox hunting with them."

All my swans
are horrible mothers,

all of them.

Babe is an interior woman.

Sensitive and deep,
but also deeply self-absorbed.

Ruled by a need
for order and perfection

that no mortal can ever attain.

I said chrysanthemums,
not carnations.

Chrysanthemums.

Amanda, sweetie,
send everyone home now, okay?

I don't feel well.

I need some quiet.

Thank you, darling.

The woman is so preoccupied

with her own world,
she's not even aware of the way

she's ravaged
her children's lives.

And get that buffoon
out of my house.

Oh, my God.

But I always felt her pain.

Felt she knew she wasn't
cut out for motherhood.

It was too overwhelming
loving messy, living things.

You know, sometimes I'm jealous
of people making art like this.

You get to hide
in that abstraction.

I much prefer figuration.

You know how the goddamn artist
feels about the subject.

Like those wonderful Dick
Avedons he has out right now.

He makes the Duchess of Windsor
like a cadaver.

He even makes his own father
a gargoyle.

Maybe this lopsided circle
is filled with rage, too.

Maybe that's his mother's smile
when she's drunk.

Art, most of the work
in this building,

is about anger, truth
and revenge for something.

Art is revenge, isn't it?

And so you're saying...?

Stop apologizing to them.

To any of them. Defy them.

Defy the foul fowls,

the Trumpeter swans,
the Tundra swans,

the Black-necked swans.

Truman, do you understand?

People think I wanted
to hurt them.

And admit you did.

Admit it and keep going
because you...

You are the toughest little
faggot in this town, baby.

But I don't like
what I'm seeing lately.

I don't like it
when I see you on television

showboating and incoherent.

You're better than that.

I drink, Jimmy, because...

I've been wounded my...

entire life, over and over.

I'm in pain.

I know you are.

Truman, so am I.

So is she and him
and them over there,

but none of us end up
in a blackout on television,

so why are you?

Because I'm afraid.

Of what?

Everything.

Abandonment.

Or acceptance.

In their world.

Life with them,
life without them.

Both are unbearable.

But, Truman,
they have abandoned you.

The worst has happened
and here you are.

The rest is up to you.

I really could use

a nice pick-me-up.

A little goddamn drinky.

Come on.

Okay, I do know
a very unlikely place

where the bartender is a shaman

with a maraschino cherry
and rye.

- Mmm.
- But, Truman...

Two drinks only.

Well, and who doesn't love
a maraschino?

From Cote to cocksucker bar
in one lovely afternoon.

How I love New York!

This day is cheering me up.

Two drinks only, Truman.

Really. Got to get ahold
of this booze thing, man.

It's your main problem.

Drags you all the way
down to hell.

Oh, God, you're right,

we would've killed each other
if we'd been lovers.

Two drinks.

Then we're leaving, Truman.

Jimmy, I have to say this.

Because you're a gentleman,
you haven't brought it up.

I-I am ashamed,
I have been unkind.

About whom?

You.

Not really.
A few picayune criticisms

of my work here and there,
mostly true.

I've criticized you, Truman,
but only with the intent to...

educate and uplift.

Yes, and your words sting
because I admire you so.

A criticism only hurts
if you believe it.

My swans would never do this,
what you're doing.

In a crisis,
in a time of treachery.

No, no, no.

Because they compete
and they are deeply disloyal.

They may pretend to hate
what I wrote about Ann,

but they loathed her
and they treated her savagely.

Hello, ladies.

You are exactly
who can answer this question.

I'm supposed to be meeting
Otto Preminger for lunch.

He's now 20 minutes late.

I mean, at what point
do you just give up

and order for yourself?

Mind if I sit down?

Oh, I wish you could,

but we're being joined
in just a second.

What I would do
is not sit and wait

because clearly
you can't dine alone.

I would go home.

Yes. What you do in that
situation is you send a note.

You write it while
you are sitting at home

with your soup and sandwich,
by yourself.

Yes, that's exactly
what you should do.

So, I send a note,

in which I tell him
to go fuck himself,

and then I heat up some sad soup

and eat a half a tuna sandwich?

In other words,

get the fuck out of here?

Well, I would never
have put it like that, but...

I forget that you're not afraid
to be vivid, are you?

The swans, they despise
growing older.

Once the bloom
of youth began to fade,

every one of them either
underwent a brutal regime

of fetal sheep cell injections

or went under the knife.

What about yourself?

You've succumbed to the same
pressures and vanities, no?

Well, it comes
from a very dark place.

Have you seen Bill Blass lately?

He looks like he's just come
back from the fountain of youth.

One person gets something done,

everyone else
has to follow suit.

Are you really
relying on your wit

to keep you in the game, Truman?

I saw you on Cavett
last weekend,

and Lord knows I'd want
somebody to tell me.

You're looking awfully
weathered, to put it politely.

And... And fat.

I'm saying this because
I love you to death

and you're so often
on television these days.

More visible than ever.

I think you might want
to do something, my dear.

Someone raises the stakes,
you ante up

or you risk being thrown
from the table.

And they don't eat.
None of them eat.

They live on air, water,

tiny portions
of very rare meats.

A life without appetites
is a life without joy.

- No.
- Cas...

Oh, come on.

No, it's time to get you home.

Our two drinks are over.

Are you going to tell me
what this day was all about?

Mm.

All in good time.

Now, it's just grapefruit juice
for our little nightcap, right?

Because last call
was at the bar, Truman.

Yes, yes.

Shocking how little flavor
grapefruit

has all by itself,
isn't it?

Tell me more swan facts.

I had so much fun
at the library.

Y-You must know
that a full one-fifth

of male swans are homosexual?

Mm. Well, it makes sense.

Swans are so comme il faut.

Yes, and they couple,
even raise cygnets together,

and are far more successful
than the straights.

80% of the children
of gay swans live,

as opposed to something like
30% of the heterosexual ones.

A lady swan might join them,
I kid you not,

for a ménage, and then go off,

and the two gents
raise the babies.

Why do they thrive
so well, their kids?

The gay swans are stronger,
you see.

They are more able to provide.

Hmm.

Can you imagine
all the successful,

gay New York artists
and writers as swans?

Tenn, Frank O'Hara,
Ginsburg, Albee,

even Gore, Andy, and so on.

Perhaps your next ball?

I'm going to heat up
those crab cakes.

Do you need more juice?

I'm fine.

- Just juice, Tru.
- Mm.

Truman.

Hey, man.

Yes. Okay.

I need vodka. I just do.

I know, I understand.

I do.

I understand.

Sit down and listen to me.

It is time for our
11:00 number, Mr. Capote,

the reason I gave you this day,

one of my few days in New York

before I fuck off
back to France.

Close your eyes,
just for a second,

until you see a glimmer

of your great gargantuan,
enormous worth and gifts

which you have criminally lost
sight of in your sickness.

In your disease,
which you reek of.

Yes, you threw away
the ten years

since you published
In Cold Blood,

you jettisoned your unparalleled
ability to paint hell.

I cannot blame you.

In Cold Blood would have
flattened anyone.

I don't know what you sold
to the devil to write it,

but let me tell you a secret.

You can steal whatever
the devil took right back.

The moment you are born,
Mr. Capote,

the process of our dying begins.

Ticktock, ticktock.

And as the years go on,
the dying accelerates

until the final breath,
and then silence.

That is the order
of the universe.

This life, Truman,
is vicious and dark,

and you and me, we are angels

sent here to light it
on fire, and illuminate.

Some of us,
some of us real swans,

not those fake dime store
porcelain trinkets

that you call swans,
some of us, like you and me,

we are given a torch,

and your job
was to keep it alight,

it was to endure it
and write the world.

Goddamn it, Mr. Capote,

your work isn't even half done,

you have miles to go.

Your fucking torch is still lit.

Faint motherfucking glow,
but it is still lit.

The lunches and the trips
and the soufflés

and the yachts, and the nausea
of demented privilege

with these pathetic creatures
are over.

Their world,
you captured it forever

and everybody knows
what you wrote,

it's a dictionary of disgust,

a thesaurus of American nausea,

and I promise you:
one day it will be seen.

But you got to finish
what you began, baby.

That is your obligation,

just as mine is to do
everything I can do

to change my world.

You got to do that, too.

What is your obligation?

It's not over?

- It's not too late?
- Too late?

Baby, you set the table,
now have the meal.

Cote Basque is to be
a chapter in your story

of how the ruling class dies.

So, keep going until you've
killed all of them, Truman.

Truman, don't you get it?

Your book,
it is your firing squad

that killed the Romanoffs,

it's your guillotine
that beheaded Marie Antoinette.

This is your slave revolt,

it's your Rite of Spring
ushering in a new world,

your Oppenheimer bomb,

your Shiva
"I am destroyer of worlds."

Hmm.

Now go to bed.

You have more bends
in your river.

Wake up without your hangover.

Shower, shave, and put on
the most comfortable sweater.

Have someone go out and get you

some great bad bacon,
egg and cheese thing

from the nearest deli.

And you get back to work.

The light is dimming.

But you're still here.

Your light is still shining.

[commercial pl

Did I wake you?

I'm headed back to Paris,

I just decided to take
the night flight.

You're leaving now?

James, thank you.

I'm getting ready to sleep.
I'm okay, I think.

Thank you.

And, Truman, there's one final
bit of swan lore

I forgot to tell you.

Oh, okay.

You see, in England,
the queen owns all the swans,

all the unmarked Mute swans
in wild waters there

and it's been that way
since the 12th century.

The rich and the royal,
they feasted on so many of them,

they were disappearing.

Served as centerpieces
in their skin and feathers,

with a lump of blazing incense
in the beak at Christmas.

"A lump of blazing incense"?

If she wanted to now, the queen
is still the only person

who could legally
eat a swan in England.

That's wonderful.

I thought you'd appreciate it.

It's time for my flight,
Truman, I've got to go.

But you take care now, you hear?

Remember what I said.

Thank you.

Mm.

What have I been eating?

An occasional egg sandwich
and some spinach.

I don't know,
I've been in a trance

for three days, Jack,
I tell you.

The words, t-the pain
and the rage,

is just pouring out of me.

About the swans,
about who they are,

who they really are
behind the plumage.

It's my best writing.

Jack, I've almost finished
the book.

They think "La Cote Basque 1965"
was bad?

Just wait for this.

I was reading some passages
this morning to Joanne Carson,

and she called Johnny,
and he wants me to give

an entire week performing
morsels every night.

And I said I'd do it.

This is my return.

Jack, I have to call you back.

Talk soon.

Matty? Is everything okay
in there?

Yeah. All good. Sorry.

Uh, just the... thing fell.

Well, are we almost ready?
I'm famished.

Yes. I hope it's good.

Uh, I've never made
anything like this before.

Uh, but I did my best.

Honey, I'm sure it's divine.

You've been my favorite waiter

at Tavern on the Green
for years,

and you have aspirations
of being a chef, no?

Yes, I-I'm going
to culinary school.

Well, then this is an
opportunity of a lifetime.

Red or white?

Oh, no, thank you, dear.
I'm not drinking.

Not until I finish the book.

Tell me again how you did it.

I want to remember this forever.

Uh, okay.

I went to Central Park,

just like you said,
in the dead of night.

Um...

And they were all
sleeping there together,

but then I saw this big one
kind of off to the side.

And I-I snuck up real slow,

and grabbed it by the neck.

It-it kept moving even
after I, uh... snapped it.

Did it attack you?

Uh, I used ginger

because the other spice
in the recipe,

"galangala,"
doesn't exist anymore I think.

Do you mean galangal?

You did well.

Very well.

I'm going to throw in
an extra hundred bucks

for those war wounds.