All language subtitles for The.Critic.2023.2160p.WEB.H265-MatureStylishMastodonOfBliss

"Critic".

From the Latin "criticus".

And the Greek " kritikós".

"Via krités", a judge.

- Your seats, Mr Erskine.
- Tom.

- Curtain?
- 10:40

- Oh.
- Provided we go up on time.

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

The drama critic is feared

and reviled for the judgement
he must bring.

But the truth

is imperative.

A critic must be cold
and perfectly alone.

Only the greats
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 do 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, eh?

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.
Hmm?

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.

Mm-hmm.
- Fascists.

Loyalty!

I've been with
this festering organ 40 years!

Forty-three.

Hmm.

Mm.

He should show loyalty to us.

He's Robespierre in a top hat.

- Madame la Guillotine, salut!

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

- Stephen.
- Good afternoon.

Oh.

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, er, lunch... No, dinner.

And he squeezed
my young cheeks,

and, "Jimmy,

"I hereby anoint you
my chief drama critic."

Hmm.

Working tonight?

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.
- All right, Lennie.

Tell him half.
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,

two dozen white roses would
appear on the first night.

Have them.

"Unto my lord the duke,
The best of welcome.

"More lights!
Attend the duke."

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.

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!

Duchess of Malfi.

Jew of Malta.
Duchess of Malfi.

Same era, though.

Webster is Jacobean.
Marlowe, Elizabethan.

Oh, 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.

She's such
a mercurial actress.

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

dipping that famous nib
in nectar tonight.

No need for the prussic acid.

- Excuse me.

Meadows!

Will you remove
that lunatic baggage?

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

Ah, 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!

Move her, move her.

Run!

O, happy they
who never saw the court,

Nor ever knew great man
but by report.

- 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 limb'd this night-piece
and it was my best.

Remove the bodies.

See my honoured lord.

Let guilty men remember
their black deeds

Do lean on crutches
made of slender reeds.

No...

Replace with, er, "succubus".

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?

- Er, "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.

Mm.

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.

Not if she makes you happy.

I love your mother.

Said unconvincingly.

Your father
seemed to enjoy it.

Mm.

Brutal play.

- Mm.
- 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.
- Well, if we don't...

I mean, we are representative
of everyone.

Oh, must you?

All right,
come on, Tom, hurry up.

Ah, thank you.

"The Duke of Bracciano'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. 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. Hmm.

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.

Stop there!

Get off! Get off me!

And you,
you little pansy, come here!

- No baths after 10:00.

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 nor subtlety.

After three long hours,

when Miss Land finally,
blessedly, expires,

her death is akin
to a deflated dirigible.

Miss Land?

Visitor!

It's a disaster.
He's so important.

I know.

What did you think?

Last night?

Well, I... I told you.
I... 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 10 days
before you open Twelfth Night.

Do it now!

I wish you'd stop meddling.

I'm not meddling.

I'm mothering.

No, 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 10 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 Elvestad
is glamourous 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?

Oh, 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... Oh, tell.

Please.

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 are 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...
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'm 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 if you wish.

Dorothy.

Joan! Good afternoon.

Jimmy.

Yes.

Good luck.

La commedia è finita.

Jimmy.

Tone it down.

Er, what exactly?

The unpleasantness.

The extravagance.

Less.

C... 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 you be."

Were as I would...

would you were
as I would have you be.

Break them.

Lunch, everyone.
That's 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
any more.

We were lovers.

You were my lover.

Go home to your family.

More! More!

...well, I say...

- More!
More!

If I can't write freely,

I can't write at all.

- Don't resign.
- Well, there's 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. How are 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!

Go on, now!

Stop it!

I'm... I'm gonna die!

You could've got us killed!

Oh, don't be silly.

They could've 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, fuck!

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.

That's it, you filthy queers!

Get hold of him.

Get up, you dirty old sod!

Round!

I'll check 'em 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 is 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.

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'm the chief drama critic
of The Daily Chronicle.

His lawyer's here, sir.

Lambert, thank you.

The police were in the mood
to charge you.

Hmm.

I had to tell Brooke.

Needed him to pull strings.

- Had to, Jim.
- Yeah.

Can't have you two
going to prison.

Dorothy.

- Terms.
Uh-huh.

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.
Oh, Jim...

No first nights.

No dinners.

No life.

I'm walking dead.

Oh, come on. Enough self-pity.

Well, 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?

Well, yes, but...

Perhaps you should contact
Viscount Brooke's office.

Are you going
to eat that chop?

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,
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?
- Mm-hmm.

For two years.

My zenith was Laertes.

In Dundee.

Oh.

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. Hmm.

Henry James.

Well, attributed.

His last words.

"So here it is 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.

Whew!

- Not too fast.

Soft, soft.

Unless the master
were the man.

How now?

Even so quickly
may one catch the plague?

O, 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.

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

for you through here.

I do hope it will suit.

Well, thank you, Graham.

That's really
very thoughtful of you.

Erm, I didn't catch your name.

- Ivan.
- Ivan.

Would you invite the Viscount

to join us
in the private room?

Mm.

We should throw a dinner
for you.

A celebration
for your retirement.

I would be honoured.

Will you continue to write?

Oh, no, no, no.

I couldn't work
for another paper.

But, er, 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, er...

Hmm?

I was going to say,
I thought, er,

the Olivia and Viola
were both excellent.

Oh, Miss Nina Land.

Er, 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 Elvestad.

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, hmm.

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 depth of feeling
that I fear...

Miss Land!

Go.

- 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.

- Er, Nina?

Yes,

Jimmy?

I have something
a little delicate to discuss.

One could say it's a part.

In a play?

No, no, no. Er, a performance.

Consider a man of around 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?
- Mm-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 is 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 yearn
to meet my standards.

Well, here they are.

Miss Land.

Hello.

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... 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, er,
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?

Just there, please.

- Thank you. Thank you so much.
- Thank you, Miss Land.

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.

Er, I have to get home.

Well, shall I send
for the car?

No, thank you.

Here.

Thank you.

Where did you put my coat?

- Your 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.

Well, 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'd 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, er, 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?

Let's not, eh?

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 reinclusion
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, er...
the portrait. I...

I have a number
of, er, 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.

Well, 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've 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.

And 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, er,
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.

Oh?

Nina Land.

She was...

very fine.

I have to admit, I am...

I'm head over heels.

David?

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

I wish you good fortune.

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, now what an occasion
that was.

You're absolutely
full of shit.

You are absolutely right.

Rattle the old memory box,
will you?

It was my 10th 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, man.

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.

And we are forming

the aesthetic taste
of generations.

The Fascists may come and go,
but theatre is eternal.

It matters more than politics.

More than society.

It's life itself!

- Whoa!
Oh, Christ!

Hey!

Darling,
what a lovely surprise.

I want to talk to you, Jim.

- Splendid!
- Here's good.

No, no, no. Up here. Come on.
Yes. Yep.

- There.
Oh. Oh.

It's slippery.
No.

There we are, 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?

Do you know him?

I know him very well.

He found out
about me and Brooke.

Did you tell him?

No. Why... Why would I?

'Cause you're the beast.

- Stop that.

Don't!

I'm going to run you
a cold bath.

And you're going
to remove your make-up,

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.

I 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.

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 t...

two people in 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!

Mm.

Did you really love my Olivia

or did you just rave
to enlist me?

I thought
you were magnificent!

- I always will.
- Really?

Well, yes.

Maybe I should tell
Stephen's wife

about her father,

and me, and you.

And why would you do that?

'Cause you've driven me mad,
and you've broken my heart.

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

How do you like that, Jimmy?

Jimmy?

We're here.

I should call
for the police.

Oh, no, wait. Now, 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?

Huh?
Well, I don't matter, but...

Oh, no, no, man,
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...
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, er, I'm completely
mad about her.

I've come
to beg her forgiveness.

She was found on a beach
last night in Kent.

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.
- Hmm.

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 executor.

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.