All language subtitles for The.Critic.2023

Critic,
from the Latin "criticus"

and the Greek "kritikos",

via "krites", a judge.

-Your seats, Mr Erskine.
-Tom.

-Curtain?
-10:40.

-Oh!
-Provided we go up on time.

Well, ensure it, eh?
I have a deadline!

The drama critic
is feared and reviled,

for the judgement
he must bring.

But the truth is imperative.

The critic must be cold,
and perfectly alone.

Only the great are remembered.

I must tell you,
when you go to the theatre,

in the dramas presented,

you'll find many a murderer
with cold blood.

But to take notice

of the occasional killer
with a conscience...

I shall need two more sessions.

Can you find the time?

For immortality, who wouldn't?

You vicious old bastard.

My father enjoyed
indulging this newspaper.

But times are harder now.

We're going to have to
economise

across all departments,
I'm afraid.

However, if we trim the fat,

we can restore The Chronicle
to its rightful place

as the most-read family
newspaper in the country.

So, let's resume our mission
with renewed vigour, hey?

No more inexplicable expenses,
no more long lunches,

no late copy.

He's dragging the paper
into the 20th century.

How dare he?

Be warned, watch your backs.

He won't come after
the old guard.

We are the bloody paper!

He won't have pirates on board.

We must all show loyalty
to the cause.

The sole historical cause
of The Chronicle

is to compete for readers
with The Daily fucking Mail.

Fascists.

Loyalty! I've been with this
festering organ 40 years.

Forty-three.

Hmm!

He should show loyalty to us.

He's Robespierre in a top hat.

Madame la Guillotine, salut!

Oh, don't, Jim.
Don't, you're plastered.

-Stephen.
-Good afternoon.

David. Viscount Brooke,
I should say.

My condolences again.
We all adored your father.

Thank you.

I remember
when mine passed away.

He was an insignificant man,
but...

his absence was profound.

You know,
your father gave me the job

right here in the club.

Over, uh, lunch. No, dinner!

And he squeezed my young cheeks
and...

"Jimmy, I hereby anoint you
my chief drama critic."

Hmm.

Working tonight?

Oh. The White Devil.

Best seen sober, I suspect.

Not necessarily.

That is the half.
Mr Cooper, that is the half.

Thirty minutes, half an hour,
ladies and gents.

Half an hour, Mrs Reverly,
half an hour.

Half an hour.

Half an hour, Miss Land.

- Fuck off, Lennie.
- I'll do my best.

Excuse me.

I'm too old for this.

From your secret admirer.

-Who is he, miss?
-Oh, it's a mystery.

I could travel to the Orkneys
and act in a stable,

and two dozen white roses would
appear on the first night.

Have them.

Unto my lord the Duke,
the best of welcome.

More lights!

I'm in the mood
for Jacobean tragedy.

Not often I say that.

Done badly, this play
could drive a nun to arson.

Mr Erskine? Mr Erskine?

Five minutes,
White Devil company!

That's the five!

You will be a sensation.

Don't expect a good notice
in The Chronicle.

At least not for my
performance.
Jimmy Erskine's never liked me.

Well, tonight,
the beast will experience

a Damascene conversion.

Ready? Have courage.

Unto my lord the Duke, the best
of welcome. More lights.

Where's Mr Erskine?

Over there.

How's his portrait
coming along?

Quite well.

His face is more interesting
than his opinions.

I love him. He's gutsy.

Viscount at one o'clock.

Shame his lady wife
never attends.

Perhaps she's got
a prior engagement

with a keg of lithium, hmm?

Your best of rest.

Unto my lord the Duke,
the best of welcome.

Attend the Duke! More lights!

-Flamineo!
-My lord.

Quite lost, Flamineo.

Now to the act of blood.

There's but three Furies
found in spacious hell...

I think I prefer this play
to his other one.

-His other one?
-Well, his other famous one.

Duchess of Malta.

Malfi.

Oh, yes!
The Duchess of Malfi.

Jew of Malta. Duchess of Malfi.

Same era, though.

Webster is Jacobean.
Marlowe, Elizabethan.

A slightly...
pedantic distinction.

It's the correct one.

Well, I'm sure we can agree
on tonight's performance,

thus far.

I... I just adore Nina Land.

Such a mercurial actress.

I'm... I'm sure you'll be

dipping that famous nib
in nectar tonight.

No need for the prussic acid.

Excuse me.

Meadows! Come here.

Will you remove
that lunatic baggage?

I'm so sorry, Mr Erskine.
What seems to be the problem?

Oh, no, not seems.
She invaded my table.

She besieged me
with her opinions.

And stole my nuts!

I must have silence!

I must be protected
from the general public!

Yes, sir. Move her, move her.

Run!

Oh, happy they
who never saw the court!

Nor ever knew great man
but by report.

-Oh!
-I recover like a spent taper,

for a flash.

But instantly go out.

The rack, the gallows
and the torturing wheel

shall be but sound
sleeps to me.

Here's my rest.

I limbed this night-piece,
and it was my best.

Remove the body.

See my honoured lord,

let guilty men
remember their black deeds,

do lean on crutches
made of slender reeds.

No.

Replace with, uh, "succubus".

-Oh... cut all that shit.
-This shit?

-No, that shit.
-Oh.

There is no "e"
in "somnambulant".

There never has been.
God help us, never will be.

Change "damp squib"
to... "wet blanket".

-No, no. Help?
-Uh, "sopping"?

Perfect, yes. No, "sodden".
Yes.

All right, get typing.

Sodden!

That was the longest
play in the world.

Longer than
life itself.

How long is life?

Endless. As long as
you eat your vegetables.

Wasn't Nina Land
the greatest?

She's magical.
You should paint her.

Hm.

I think you've got secrets.

- You're very direct.
- You raised me to be.

True. But I don't.

I wouldn't mind if you did.

-What if she makes you happy?
-I love your mother.

Said unconvincingly.

Your father
seemed to enjoy it.

Hmm.

Brutal play.

-Hmm.
-Extraordinary.

All that wailing and gnashing.

You are aware it was written
in the early 17th century?

I had gleaned it.

People don't wail and gnash
nowadays.

- Well, we don't.
- No, we don't.

I mean, we are representative
of everyone.

Oh, must you?

Tom, hurry up.

Oh, thank you.

"The Duke of Brachiano's...
steatopygous form"?

From the Greek.

Excessive flesh on
the buttocks.

I doubt our readers
are familiar with the word.

I doubt our readers can read.

Change it, please.

Replace with "fat-arsed".

You can't leave
the bloody party.

Sorry, exhausted.

The producers tell me

the vibrations
are extremely positive.

-It's opening night.
-We're a hit!

Even the beast gave me the nod.

Caught my eye
as he scarpered up the aisle.

Hmm. He's probably thinking
of all the vile things

he'll say about me.

Well, if you can't enjoy
the moment,

you'd best fuck off.

Love you!

A word of advice.

Brooke told me it's the best
thing he's seen all season.

But he's not the paper's
drama critic.

Not yet.

What do you know?

He's begun culling
the old lags.

And he's not so keen on you.
Nor does he like your...

proclivities.

Family paper.

Be careful.

Raid. Get down.

Get off me! Get off me!

Stand still,
you pansy! Come here!

No baths after ten!

Sorry.

Well, turn the taps off before
you wake the whole house!

Thank you.

The vamping and shrieking
Miss Nina Land

attempts Vittoria with all
the grace of a startled mule.

There's not a single moment
of stillness or subtlety.

After three long hours,

when Miss Land finally
and blessedly expires,

her death is akin
to a deflated dirigible.

Miss Land?

Visitor.

Oh, it's a disaster.
He's so important.

I know.

What did you think? Last night?

Well, I... I told you, I raved.

But?

I'm your most ardent supporter,

-it's irrelevant.
-Mum.

Well, I thought you were
a touch too florid with
your hands.

You know.

And... and you pushed a bit.

Bit too hard at times.

But you looked striking.

And...

you were very audible.

I mean, every syllable
clear as a bell.

Nina, you're 30... oomph
years old,

you're a spinster,
you're living in a squalid one
little room.

I mean, life is passing you by.

-I'm perfectly content.
-Well, you're patently not.

You should talk to him.

We don't talk to critics.
It's not the done thing.

Confront him
and have it out.

You're bloody mad.

Deal with the odious man
before he insults you again.

You've got ten days before
you open Twelfth Night.

Do it now.

I wish you'd stop meddling.

I'm not meddling.
I'm mothering.

No, no.

What do you require from me?

I have a very important
meeting. Please make it brief.

I want an apology.

For expressing
my opinion?

For the manner
of its expression.

The rudeness, the disrespect.

One of my many solemn duties
is to entertain the reader.

At my expense?

Well, it's not just you, is it?

I write, what,
half a million words a year.

Oh, mea culpa
if 12 of them offended you.

Over the last ten years, you've
compared me to livestock,

creatures of the sea,
and an extinct bird.

You've said my voice is
fluting, grating,
girlish and manly.

You've described me
as plump and emaciated.

Which is it, damn you?

Last season. "Her Mrs Elvsted
is glamorous but ungainly."

"She doesn't seem to know
how to walk." How to walk?!

You've been dishing it
out to me for a decade,

and now it's going to stop.

Oh, are you retiring?

I'm tight enough
to scratch your eyes out.

Oh, I wouldn't try. You stand
before the junior vice captain

of the Wigan Boxing Club.

You all right, miss?
He's a bit weird, this one.

- This is a private conversation.
- -Weird?

Oh, be a good chap
and bugger off.

-The lady's perfectly safe.
-Oh, tell.

- He likes it rough.
- Does he now?

Apologise.

I won't, Miss Land.

I will fight to the death
for freedom of thought

and its public expression.

Erskine of The Chronicle
pays trade for rough sex.

Why do you like that?

I daresay you
can imagine.

You spoke it. Last night.

"My soul, like a ship
in a black storm,

is driven I know not whither."

Humiliation. Danger.

I think you understand.

Don't take what I write
to heart.

There were other critics,

albeit lesser ones,
who think you're spectacular.

I'm not interested in them.

-I follow you.
-Me?

I'm a monster. I'm weird.

You most certainly are.

But I grew up reading you.

I wanted to act because of you.

You're mocking me.

You formed me.

Well... that's a terribly
flattering thing to say.

You write so tenderly
and passionately

about the plays
and the actors who move you.

And yet you dismiss those who
disappoint you so ruthlessly.

As if you've been betrayed.

This little England lowers
its standards every day.

In my footling way, I'm
attempting to maintain them.

I so wanted to meet
your standards.

But you think I'm appalling.

I am afraid so.

I might dissolve.

There is art in you, Miss Land.

My disappointment is in your
failure to access it.

You know where I live.

You may visit, miss,
if you wish.

Dorothy.

-Joan! Good afternoon.
-Jimmy.

Yes.

La commedia e finita.

Jimmy.

Tone it down.

Uh, what exactly?

The unpleasantness.

The extravagance.

Less.

Could you be more specific,
in order that I may obey?

"Warning, hold your breath
as you pass the Duke's Theatre,

for here is untreated
theatrical sewage."

"A play of elemental passion

has been reduced to the scale
of a sodden sock."

Well, it's my responsibility
to discourage our readers

from... wasting their wages
on tripe.

Never mind all that.

We're discussing
the extremity of your style.

But that's why people read me,
you know.

I wither and I effuse.

And the proud tradition
of this paper,

established
by your dear father...

Yes, I know he was fond of you.

He was also fond of
Sir Oswald Mosley.

You can't compare me with him.

Anyone who threatens
the reputation of this
newspaper

is an undesirable.

Oh, so... it's a witch hunt.

Jim.

Don't break the law.
Don't cause a stink.

Be kinder.

More Beauty, less Beast.

Final warning.

Stay! If I think so,

I think the same of you.

Think thou right.
I am not what I am.

I... I would you...

-Yes.
-Were as I would have...

Were as... I would you were
as I would have you be.

Break now?

Lunch, everyone.
Lunch, please.

Back in an hour. Thank you.

We must all get over that
review and focus on this show.

-I know my lines.
-I know you know them.

-Why can't you say them?
-I am.

Heavily. Where's the lightness?
Where's the wit?

I'm going mad without you.

Hello.
Could you tell her I miss her?

Could you tell him he's married
with two children?

Please.

Thank you.

-Nina...
-I'm in rehearsals.

I'm being dreadful
and we open in two days.

As we discussed, at length,

I won't be
your mistress anymore.

We were lovers.

You were my lover.

Go home to your family.

More!

He wants less?
Well, I say more!

More!

If I can't write freely,
I can't write at all!

- Don't resign.
- Well, no need.

He'll be rid of me as soon
as he finds an excuse. Oh!

I am on the scaffold,
black cloth bag over my head,

and the frigid fart's
just fumbling for the lever.

We should turn back.

They don't own
the streets. Not yet.

We have the right to walk here.
Come on.

Well, I'm turning back.

-Let go.
-No.

-All right?
-Oh, yes. And you?

-I'm all right.
-I'm so glad.

Who's your friend, then?

I'll tell you about mine
if you tell me about yours.

Tell your friend to go home.

Oh, but I'm taking him home.
He lives in this environ.

You're a cheeky old queer,
ain't ya?

May I return the compliment
and say how splendid you look

with your badges and crests
and crisp black shirt?

Did you iron it yourself?

Getcha! Go on!

Stop it!

I'm... I'm going to die.

-You could have got us killed.
-Oh, don't be silly.

They could have killed us.

Nobody gets murdered
in Bloomsbury.

You're a maniac
with a death wish.

It's true!

Stop that now.

He who lives in fear
dies of shame.

-Who said that?
-Me. Just now.

Just scribble it down
for the memoirs.

I will never let anything bad
happen to you.

- Oi!
- There's police on the way.

-Oh, sod the law!
-Quiet!

Home's this way! Oh. Oh!

Please get up. We have to move.

-Give me a kiss and I will.
-Oh, get up!

Kiss me, you gorgeous bastard.

-And then you'll get up?
-Yes.

Here!

Filthy queers!

Get up, you dirty old sod.

Round.

I'll check him for lipstick.

Are you a homosexual?

No.

Have you ever engaged
in unnatural practices?

No.

Your young friend,
Thomas Turner,

claims he's your secretary.

What are his duties?

Typing, filing, research.

And does he do shorthand?

Is he a proficient secretary?

-He's first rate.
-First rate.

You seem surprised
by his competence.

Is it due to
the colour of his skin?

Is it correct that you co-habit
with your secretary?

He's my lodger.

-Do you share a bedroom?
-No.

He sleeps on the sofa.

For how long has he been
sleeping on your sofa?

Six years.

How's his back bearing up?

Where'd you find him,
Mr Erskine?

-Was he trade?
-No.

I understand
you enjoy the theatre.

I do not enjoy the theatre.

I am the chief drama critic
of The Daily Chronicle.

His lawyer's here, sir.

Lambert. Thank you.

Police are in the mood
to charge you.

I had to tell Brooke.

I needed him to pull strings.

Oh.

-I had to, Jim.
-Yeah.

Can't have you two
going to prison.

Dorothy.

Terms. And one month's notice.

What did you expect?

You were found committing an
indecent act in a public place.

You resisted arrest
and assaulted a police officer.

You're in full breach
of your contract.

The terms
are significantly more generous

than those I advised
Viscount Brooke to offer.

Oh, Tom!

No first nights.
No dinners. No life.

I'm walking dead.

Now, come on.
Enough self-pity.

You know my debts.

I live like a king
on a pauper's wage.

When the fall comes,
it'll sweep me under.

Where's your spirit?

Where's your fight?

Fuck 'em!

That's the spirit!

Stephen.
I'm here for my sitting.

Oh. I have got the right day?

Yes.

Perhaps you should contact
Viscount Brooke's office.

Are you going to eat that chop?

Oh.

How's unemployment?

Wake at noon, hunk of bread,
mug of sherry,

back to bed.

Still go to the opera?

Can't afford it.

You must have something on him.

Ethos of the club,

we don't machinate
against fellow members.

Yes, we do!

Brooke is known
as a very decent fellow.

Look how he's cared for his
bonkers bride all these years.

The man's a saint.

Don't be sloppy.

No one is a saint.

Literature teaches us that.

Romeo?

Betrays entire Montague dynasty
for his own selfish lust.

Oliver Twist?

Class traitor.
Causes death of Nancy.

You're deranged.

All men have secrets.

I'll find his.

Come, boy.

My thoughts are ripe
in mischief.

I'll sacrifice the lamb
that I do love

to spite a raven's heart
within a dove.

And I, most jocund, apt,
and willingly,

to do you rest
a thousand deaths would die.

Fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes, please.
Back at 4:20.

Nina Land.

- What does she want?
- Sounds weepy.

Let her in.

Do a good deed for once, huh?

Welcome!

Um, I was just passing.
Sorry if it's too late.

Oh, we receive at all hours.

This is Tom.

-Hello.
-Hello.

Oh. Thank you.

-You were an actor?
-Hm-hmm. For two years.

My zenith was Laertes.
In Dundee.

Oscar Wilde, of course.

I saw him once.
When I was young.

I made a pilgrimage to the
stage door of the Theatre Royal

and waited for hours.

And then... he appeared.

Rolling up Suffolk Street.
Quite alone.

In the clear, bright sunshine.

A king.

Were he to command me
to give him my body and soul

right there,
I would have done it.

Gratefully.

But he swept by.

I wasn't pretty enough
to engage his eye.

Henry James.

Well, attributed.
His last words.

"So here it as at last,
the distinguished thing."

Death.

Oh, forgive me. Come on.

Now do sit down.

Has something happened?

I've got the fear.

Ah.

And we open tomorrow night.

You're the last person
in the world I should tell.

Hmm.

Or the only one that you can,
huh?

Drink?

Another, hmm?

You're too keen to please.

Now, when an actor
tries too hard,

it sends mustard gas
through the house.

You have to trust,

and it's very difficult
to trust, but...

the courage to give
of the self entirely

is what all great actors share.

I mean, those with the capacity
to conjure the sublime.

You have to trust
that we are present to you.

That we're sensitive
to your deepest sufferings,

your gentlest feelings,
your most intimate thoughts.

But you must trust
that we can perceive all this

without your help.

Less.

It's a dagger to the soul,
but... less is the only note.

What is your parentage?

Above my fortunes,
yet my state is well.

I'm a gentleman.

I'll be sworn thou art.

Thy tongue, thy face,
thy limbs, actions and spirit

do give thee five-fold
blazon...

Whoo!

Not too fast. Soft... soft.

Unless the master were the man.

How now?

Even so quickly
may one catch the plague?

Methinks I feel
this youth's perfections

with an invisible
and subtle stealth

to creep in at mine eyes.

He's crying.

Well... let it be.

Uh, Mr Erskine,
I've reserved a private room

for you through here.

I do hope it will suit.

Oh, thank you, Graham.

That's really very thoughtful
of you.

Um, I didn't catch your name.

-Ivan.
-Ivan.

Would you invite the Viscount
to join us in the private room?

We should throw a dinner
for you.

A celebration
for your retirement.

I would be honoured.

-Will you continue to write?
-Oh, no.

I couldn't work
for another paper, no.

Though I might start
my memoirs. Hmm.

Well... break a leg.

Enjoying the show?

Very much.

Some fine acting
on display.

Yes, I particularly...

Sorry?

- No, I, uh...
- Hmm?

I was going to say I thought,

uh, the Olivia and Viola
were both excellent.

Oh, Miss Nina Land.

Uh, which one?

Olivia.

Olivia, is she?

She has
a very particular talent.

-Do you think?
-Oh, yes. And she's beloved.

Whenever I've been
a touch harsh about her,

sacks of angry mail arrive
from her devoted supporters.

Are you a devotee?

I... I don't think
I've ever seen her before.

Oh, but you have,
you know. Here.

In The White Devil.
Twice, I believe.

-Yes, of course.
-And I seem to recall

you attended Hedda Gabler
at the Globe last season.

"Nina Land was an indecently
fetching Mrs Elvsted."

Well, I... I'm quoting
your father.

Well, that doesn't
make me a devotee.

Oh. Oh, no.

Of course not.

Final para.

"Miss Nina Land's
magnificent Olivia"?

Really?

I move mysteriously.

In my valedictory weeks,
why not be generous?

Huh?

Attention.

To those who have heeded
my recent warning

regarding a foul stench
emanating from the Aldwych,

I am most pleasantly surprised
to report good news.

I must stand and applaud
Miss Nina Land's

magnificent Olivia.

She now offers a performance

of such astonishing, delightful
nuance and depths of feeling

that I fear...

Miss Land!

Hello?

Good morning,
Miss Land.

Oh, hello.

Oh, and thank you
for what you said.

Did you really mean it,
or did you take pity?

Oh, I never lie.

And this is only the beginning.

Great success awaits you.

And, Nina...

Yes... Jimmy?

I have something...
a little delicate to discuss.

- One could say it's a part.
- In a play?

No, no, no, no. A performance.

Consider a man of about 60.

Powerful, rich,
but catastrophically married.

And it transpires...

that he's secretly obsessed
with a vivacious younger woman.

Which part do I play?

Who is he?

Viscount Brooke.

-Your proprietor?
-Hmm. Do you know him?

Decent chap. Handsome.

Wife, barking.

-In the aristocratic mode.
-And?

I want you to please him.

Coyness doesn't suit you.

You want me to fuck him.

That's my girl, there.

I'm afraid I must
decline the role.

I don't want
to play a prostitute.

Oh, dearest Nina, there's
no vulgar cash involved.

I'm asking you to do me
a little service.

And in return... you will gain
my unyielding favour.

Stunning reviews.

Acclaim.

"The actress of her
generation."

And we might start
with an interview

for my Backstage Whispers
column.

And my chum Cecil
will photograph you.

Only the best for Nina.

And there'll be...
parties, gatherings,

entrées, dinners, all that's
required to make you a star.

Everything you crave...

and deserve.

An immortal
of the stage and screen.

I can't do it. It's not me.

It's a part.
It's not you.

Your cruel profession
bestows glory on its young,

and time has no pity.

It will define you,
or cast you out.

I blame the writers.

Repertoire so lacking in parts
for the mature actress,

and between playing
the soubrette and the old maid

lie decades of waste.

Except for the select.

You said you yearned
to meet my standards.

Well, here they are.

- Miss Land.
- Hello.

Thank you.

Congratulations.
You're the hit of the season.

Oh. Thank you so much.

Miss Land.

- Welcome.
- Hello.

-Have a seat.
-Thank you.

It's so kind of you to see me.

Not at all.

I-I've come here
to beg a favour.

I don't suppose
you've seen my photograph

in your paper today.

My rather demanding mother
has requested a print

for her birthday next week.

I see.

Perhaps I could offer you some
tickets for these plays I'm in.

Well, to be honest, I've...
I've seen both of them.

And you were... excellent.

Oh!

I might blush.

Well, we mustn't
disappoint your mother.

How can I possibly thank you?

Perhaps you could
have supper with me.

I could give you
the photograph?

A very reasonable exchange.

Right. Well, if, uh,
you give Joan your details,

she can organise us.

She has the most
spectacular flowers
on her desk.

Yes. Her... sister's a florist.

I have a secret admirer
who's been sending me

two dozen white roses
every opening night since 1928.

And he's never
made himself known?

Isn't it mysterious?

Thank you.
Thank you so much.

Thank you.

Shall I, um...

fetch the photograph?

You go. I'll follow.

-May I take your coat?
-Hmm.

For you.

Would you like a drink?

Later.

Too... too bright.

Uh, I have to get home.

Well, shall I send for the car?

No, thank you.

Here.

Thank you.

Where did you put my coat?

-The coat is here.
-Oh.

You've forgotten something.

Oh.

Look, I'm old, I'm married.

I'm very grateful.

But don't see me again
if it's not something you want.

Are you saying
you don't want to?

You know I'm besotted.

Then... see you tomorrow.

I won't do it again.

Not tonight, not ever.

You'll play as cast, as agreed.
As contracted.

You told me to please him.

I did. He's very grateful.
He doesn't need more.

Our great partnership
is in its infancy.

Brooke expects you tonight.
Don't let me down.

Or what?

Well, if you don't
do my bidding,

I'll be obliged
to withdraw my favour.

And you'd suffer its opposite.

It's not just wrong, it's evil.

I'm fighting for my life, here.

She's done enough.

Once is never enough!

You're the help.
You're my squire.

If you're not with me,
you're against me.

-Nina?
-Go away.

I can't.

You're a good egg,
more or less.

And I'm vain, selfish
and madly ambitious.

And this is news?

I'm driven in ways
I don't understand.

I need things it doesn't
occur to you to want.

I'm trouble. Stay away.

Apologies for the lateness
of the hour.

But it is a matter
of some importance.

Well, it'll have to wait.
I'm busy.

No, you're not.

-I can assure you I am.
-She is not coming.

-Who?
-Oh! Let's not, hmm?

I can confirm she arrived
downstairs, but then...

the flighty little thing
departed.

What?

The vulnerable young actress

you lured to this room
last night.

The poor, innocent woman
that you took advantage of.

The sweet girl you assaulted.

Or... so she will say.

In court.

-That's not true.
-True or false,

it's the same scandal.

But please, don't despair,
good Viscount.

I'm here to help.

Your employment,

a reprieve
with a modest pay rise...

is acceptable?

Reinstate Hugh Morris
as opera critic? No.

He was drowning,
and you know it.

Your re-inclusion
in the portrait is impossible.

We've selected another man.

Get rid of him.

Twelve distinguished gentlemen
of the club.

Are you sure you qualify?

Most certainly.

How on earth do you live
with yourself?

Well, it's a struggle.

Now, returning
to the, uh, portrait,

I have a number of... letters,

stamped and addressed
to your wife, your daughter,

the club secretary,
the editor of The Daily Mail.

And other assorted ghouls.

Now, please...

Don't oblige me to slip them
into the post box downstairs.

I suppose I...

I should assume...

Miss Land doesn't even like me.

Do you know,
we've never discussed it.

Shall I ask her?

Who is he?

Don't ask.

If you ever loved me,
don't ask.

I miss you.

What?

I miss you.

Where were you?

I slept at the studio.

Alone?

No.

So your affair has resumed?

I think so.

Who is she?

I can't say.

Then pack.

He'll be back.

He won't survive poverty.

He'll make a virtue of it.

He's always resented
our wealth.

Our name. Our standing.

I should never have married
a Jew.

Cora!

Spare me your disapproval.

What?

I'd be most grateful
if you'd now include him.

Why?

My father would have wanted it.

He loved a character.

Though he never much cared
for mine.

I'll step down.
It'll be a clean dozen.

You can paint me out
and... stick him in.

I don't mean
to diminish your art.

Fine.

But I don't approve.

Well, I don't deserve
immortality.

All my achievements
have been due to nepotism.

Item two.

Cora.

I know my daughter can be...
tricky, she has her ways,

but the thing of it is...

it's really not her fault.

David. I can't go back.

May I know who she is?

If she's going to be stepmother
to my grandchildren,

I'd like to know something
about her.

But, uh, don't feel obliged.

I... I really shouldn't pry.

Always the gent.

It's a curse.

-She's an actress.
-Oh?

We met last year. She happened
to come to my opening.

Actually, you saw her in those
productions at the Duke's.

Who?

Nina Land.

She was... very fine.

I have to admit, I am...

Well, I'm head over heels.

David?

I really shouldn't say this,
but, uh...

I wish you good fortune.

-For you.
-You open it.

It's personal, miss.

We're intimates.

You see me at my worst
every day.

"Dear Miss Land,

late last night,

I received a visit
from your co-conspirator."

"I daresay you can
imagine my disappointment."

"My personal feelings aside,

"I'm writing to tell you
that I fear no good will come

from your association
with this man."

"I urge you to end it."

Tom!

I've been used.

We all get used, darling.

Use him back.

You've done his bidding,
now get what you want from him.

The whole thing's disgusting.

I'm disgusting,
he's disgusting,

and you're disgusting
for letting him do it.

Sleep on it.

Jim?

Nina Land.

She was... very fine.

My father-in-law
committed suicide.

I know. I'm so sorry.

You knew?

I mean, I...
I didn't know he...

I... I just knew he was dead.

When did you find out?

This afternoon.

His secretary sent a message
to stage door.

And why would Joan do that?

Why would she inform you
of his death?

Did you...

Were you in love with him?

I didn't know him.

Then why?

I'm too ashamed.

Let me explain.

There's no need.

Why be so predictable?

Why be so cheap?

You and I are cursed.

Drawn to weak men.

Let him have the children.

You can have more
with a man who's worthy of you.

Dear Jimmy.

We met in this room.

Oh, and what an occasion,
that was.

You're absolutely full of shit.

You are absolutely right.

Rattle the old memory box.

It was my tenth birthday.

Of course.

You should know
I intend to oversee the paper.

Excellent.

The new Chronicle will be
a platform for common sense

and measured debate.

A source tells me that a few
weeks after you were fired,

my late father reinstated you

with a new contract
on improved terms.

I will honour your contract.

But no more fisticuffs
with the law.

And if you must practise
your perversion...

behind closed doors.

I gratefully accept...
your generous terms.

Must you hum?
The man killed himself.

Don't you read the newspapers?

It was a shooting accident.

You drove him to it.

He pulled the fucking trigger!

Have you no shame?

I merely fought for my job,

as all working men must do
in these dark days.

I'm handing in my notice.

-Four weeks and I'm off.
-Oh, for God's sake.

You've got the second-best job
in London.

-What?!
-Well, in theatrical London.

You write for a...
a right-wing rag!

With readers. Our loathsome
paper has millions of readers.

We are forming the aesthetic
taste of generations.

Fascists may come and go,
but theatre is eternal.

It matters more than politics.

Or the society.
It's life itself!

- Whoa!
- Oh, Christ.

Hey!

Darling,
what a lovely surprise.

I wanna talk to you, Jim.

-Splendid.
-Here's good!

No, no, no. Up here.
Come on. Step. Here.

- Oh.
- Oops. Yes.

Step here. There you go.

Yes, yes. It's a bit slippery
here. Yes. Good.

Excuse me,
is Nina Land still inside?

She was indisposed tonight,
sir. The understudy went on.

Yes, that's right.
You help yourself.

You do know we killed him?

No, we didn't.

Do you even care that
he's dead?

Of course I do.

It's terribly sad.

It really is.

And our indirect involvement
in the matter

is all terribly secret.

He was quite a nice chap.

Sweet, in a way.

He was so excited,
it was all over in a minute.

Have you come here to grieve?

You see, I have been
at the funeral.

And I've done a considerable
amount of grieving already.

- Was Stephen there?
- Hmm?

His son-in-law.

Stephen Wyley?

But... do you know him?

I know him very well.

He found out
about me and Brooke.

You tell him?

No. Why would I?

Cos you're The Beast.

Stop that.

Don't!

I'm going to run you
a cold bath.

And you're going to remove your
makeup, as... professionals do,

and then you're going to lie in
that bath until you sober up.

And then we will have
a constructive conversation

about your wonderful
new career.

It won't be long.

I'm going to the police.

I'm going to the police!

What? You what?

I'm gonna tell them everything
about the case.

Might help with the case.

There is no case.
The man's in the ground.

But it's important.
People need to know the truth.

I'll go to the papers!
That's better.

Stop. Think.

It's over.

He's dead.

-The distinguished thing.
-Precisely.

And what will it say
when we meet it?

How will it judge us?

There's no judgement day.

Here is life.
No God, no justice.

Just... two people and a room.

We did what we did.

And now we have
to live with it.

It's fucking freezing!

It'll do you good.

Do you share your baths
with Tom?

Not for years.

Where is he?

He'll be back soon.

You've got
a little boat.

And you're welcome
to play with it.

Can I add some
hot water, please?

- You're not sober yet.
- Oh, come on!

- Fine.
- Mmm!

Did you really
love my Olivia,

or did you just rave
to enlist me?

I thought you were magnificent.

- I always will.
- Really?

Oh, yes.

Maybe I should tell
Stephen's wife

about her father and me.

And you.

And why would you do that?

Because you've driven me mad!

You've broken my heart.

Yes, I'm going to
confess everything to Cora.

How'd you like that, Jimmy?

Jimmy?

We're here.

I should call for the police.

Oh, no, wait.

Um, think.

-No one knows she's here.
-No. No.

I owe you my life.

But I won't.

Oh. You think
you won't be implicated?

Think the law
won't assume foul play?

A couple of queers
with a corpse?

Well, I don't matter, but you?

Oh, no, no.
Think about your future.

Just one final task,
and then I promise...

I will set you free.

Are you here to visit Nina?

I'm a friend. Stephen Wyley.

I'm, um... Annabel Land,
her mother.

Well, hello.

Hello. Good to meet you.

The dragon says
that she's not here,

so I've been waiting all night.

Are you a close friend?

She... hasn't mentioned me?

Well, we... we've had
a sort of a... falling-out.

But, uh...
I'm completely mad about her.

I've come to beg
her forgiveness.

She was found on a beach
last night in Kent.

The police said her alcohol
levels were really high.

Yeah, she...

She took her own life.

She'd attempted it before

when she was 16.

This drowned actress...

Is her passing a great loss
to the British theatre?

An ordinary girl
from ordinary stock.

A girl like our readers who,
I don't know, lost her way.

Write it up, then.
An appreciation.

The death
of any promising young actress

is always a shock.

Regarding Miss Nina Land's
recent passing,

it's tantamount to tragedy.

I raved about her,

and all too briefly,
she tasted glory.

Who knows what demons drove
poor Nina to her lonely grave?

Perhaps the same demons with
which she summoned greatness

in her final performances
on the London stage.

I'm sorry
if my letter upset you.

Why have you stayed silent
so long?

I was his accomplice.

In telling you,
I risk imprisonment.

And yet, here you are.

I have a conscience.

You seem surprised.

A man with a conscience

would have stopped Mr Erskine
a long time ago.

He was my friend.

I greatly admired him
and he was kind to me.

So...

The letters he used
to blackmail your father.

I assume
you'll be wanting compensation.

No.

Justice.

Tom, did you follow the trial?

Did you see
how I protected you?

"No, Your Honour,
I acted alone."

I do regret the unpleasantness
with Miss Land.

But, you see,
she couldn't be trusted.

I had no choice.

In fact, I rather liked her.

Despite her crimes
against the theatre,

she was sensationally gorgeous
when drunk.

As for Mr Wyley
and his oily little brush,

glad to be out of
his awful painting.

Immortality in their company?
No, thanks!

To the matter.

I've left you my entire estate.

It's not much. Furnishings,
minor works of art, books.

And I've appointed you
my literary executive.

Notoriety
might inspire publication

of my uncollected essays.

You'll find them in the file
you labelled
"miscellaneous shit".

I encourage you to continue
your education in the theatre.

I believe you have
a talent for the trade.

I once thought you were
too kind to plunge the dagger.

Events have revealed

you're made of stronger stuff
than I knew.

Tom, you know where I am.

Do visit.

Please.

I won't be here forever.