Whatever Works

That's not what I'm saying, you imbecile.

God, you completely misrepresent my ideas!

Why am I even bothering talking to such idiots?

- Boris, calm down. - No, don't tell me to... I am calm.

Don't jump on us just because we don't understand what you're saying.

I didn't jump on you.

It's not the idea behind Christianity I'm faulting, or Judaism, or any religion.

It's the professionals who've made it into a corporate business.

There's big money in the God racket. Big money.

- Here we go. - We know, Boris.

Hey, the basic teachings of Jesus are quite wonderful.

So, by the way, is the original intention of Karl Marx. Okay?

Hey, what could be bad? Everybody should share equally.

Do unto others. Democracy. Government by the people.

All great ideas. These are all great ideas,

but they all suffer from one fatal flaw.

- Which is? - Yeah, what's that?

Which is they're all based on the fallacious notion

that people are fundamentally decent.

Give them a chance to do right and they'll take it.

They're not stupid, selfish, greedy, cowardly, short-sighted worms.

They do the best they can.

Speak for yourself, man. Speak for yourself.

All I'm saying is that people make life so much worse than it has to be

and, believe me, it's a nightmare without their help.

But on the whole, I'm sorry to say, we're a failed species.

- I wouldn't go that far. - Not Ed.

That's why this woman you like, Joe,

so what if she's an embalmer's assistant, so she stinks from formaldehyde?

For Christ's sake, you got to take what little pleasure you can find

in this chamber of horrors.

A little formaldehyde, okay, but she reeks of it.

You know, they don't know your story. Boris, tell them your story.

My story is, whatever works. You know, as long as you don't hurt anybody.

Any way you can filch a little joy

in this cruel, dog-eat-dog, pointless, black chaos. That's my story.

No. That's not... Tell them the story.

- Tell them. - Yeah. Tell them.

You just want me to say it again, so they can hear.

- Who? - Them.

- Who? - Who's them?

- You see something out there? - Where?

What are you? An imbecile?

There's an audience full of people looking at us.

- An audience? - What's he talking about?

You feel you're being watched.

They paid good money for tickets, hard-earned money,

so some moron in Hollywood can buy a bigger swimming pool.

Okay, you're saying there are human beings out there who bought tickets to watch us.

Well, mostly they're interested in me, I have to say.

Yeah, they're just sitting there. Don't you see them?

Some are eating popcorn, some are just staring straight ahead

breathing through their mouths like Neanderthals.

So they're there to listen to your story?

- Total delusions of grandeur. - Completely.

Why would you want to hear my story?

Do we know each other? Do we like each other?

Let me tell you right off, okay?

I'm not a likeable guy. Charm has never been a priority with me.

And just so you know, this is not the feel-good movie of the year.

So if you're one of those idiots who needs to feel good,

go get yourself a foot massage.

- Mom, that man's talking to himself! - Come away, Justin.

What the hell does it all mean anyhow? Nothing. Zero. Zilch.

Nothing comes to anything, and yet there's no shortage of idiots to babble.

Not me. I have a vision. I'm discussing you.

Your friends, your co-workers, your newspapers, the TV.

Everybody's happy to talk, full of misinformation.

Morality, science, religion, politics, sports, love.

Your portfolio, your children, health. Christ.

If I have to eat nine servings of fruits and vegetables a day to live,

I don't want to live. I hate goddamn fruits and vegetables.

And your omega-3's and the treadmill and the cardiogram

and the mammogram and the pelvic sonogram

and, oh, my God, the colonoscopy!

And with it all, the day still comes when they put you in a box

and it's on to the next generation of idiots

who'll also tell you all about life and define for you what's appropriate.

My father committed suicide because the morning newspapers depressed him.

And could you blame him?

With the horror and corruption and ignorance and poverty

and genocide and AIDS and global warming and terrorism

and the family-value morons and the gun morons!

"The horror," Kurtz said at the end of Heart of Darkness. "The horror."

Lucky Kurtz didn't have the Times delivered in the jungle,

then he'd see some horror.

But what do you do?

You read about some massacre in Darfur

or some school bus gets blown up, and you go, "Oh, my God, the horror!"

And then you turn the page and finish your eggs from free-range chickens.

Because what can you do? It's overwhelming.

I tried to commit suicide myself.

Obviously, it didn't work out.

But why do you even want to hear about all this? Christ, you got your own problems.

I'm sure you're all obsessed with any number of sad little hopes and dreams.

Your predictably unsatisfying love lives. Your failed business ventures.

"Oh, if only I'd bought that stock!"

"If only I had purchased that house years ago!"

"If only I had made a move on that woman."

If this, if that. You know what?

Give me a break with your "could haves" and "should haves."

Like my mother used to say,

"If my grandmother had wheels, she'd be a trolley car."

My mother didn't have wheels. She had varicose veins.

Still, the woman gave birth to a brilliant mind.

I was considered for a Nobel Prize in physics.

I didn't get it.

But, you know, it's all politics, just like every other phony honor.

Incidentally, don't think I'm bitter because of some personal setback.

By the standards of a mindless, barbaric civilization, I've been pretty lucky.

I was married to a beautiful woman, who had family money.

For years we lived on Beekman Place.

I taught at Columbia. String theory.

What's the matter, Boris?

I'm dying!

What is it?

I'm dying!

Should I call an ambulance?

No! No, not now! No, not tonight! I mean, eventually!

- Boris, everybody dies. - It's unacceptable!

Your panic attacks are getting more frequent and more intense.

You have to go back on your medicine.

I'm not going back on my goddamn medicine.

I won't have my mind befuddled by chemicals

when I'm the only one who sees the whole picture for exactly what it is.

Where's the goddamn vodka?

Boris, I have clients to see tomorrow morning.

- It is 4:00 a. M.! - Clients. Right. Wealthy bankers.

To design their chic apartment, to fill it full of art and expensive possessions,

so they can flaunt their money

and be in the top 1% of this shameful, violent, prejudiced,

illiterate, sexually repressed, self-righteous nation!

Christ, it is 4:00 a. M. Can you spare me this sophomoric tirade!

I'm a man with a huge worldview. I'm surrounded by microbes!

And what about me? Am I a microbe? Is our son at Yale a microbe?

Let's face it, Jessica, okay?

Our marriage hasn't been a garden of roses.

Botanically speaking, you're more of a Venus flytrap.

You are a very difficult man to live with.

- Is that why you had an affair? - I didn't have an affair.

It was a brief interlude of infidelity, and it happened years ago.

You still can't forget it!

I see everything so clearly now. Everything!

- I married you for all the wrong reasons. - What's that supposed to mean?

You're brilliant. I wanted someone to talk to.

You loved classical music, you loved art, you loved literature.

You loved sex! You loved me!

Those sound like pretty good reasons to me!

Yes! Exactly! That's the problem! That's the problem!

It was rational, it made sense!

I don't know what went wrong.

When you examine it, there is so much right about us.

On paper we're ideal.

But life isn't on paper.

Boris? Boris, what are you doing?

Close the window!

Boris!

Can you believe I hit the canopy? I hit the goddamn canopy.

Months in the hospital! Moron doctors! Look. Look at this limp.

I never had a limp before.

Meanwhile, I divorced Jessica, moved downtown and gave up.

I eke out a meager living teaching chess to incompetent zombies.

Checkmate, you little patzer.

Hey! He's only eight years old, Mr. Yellnikoff.

You're supposed to be teaching him...

He'll be an incompetent idiot at 58.

More important than how I make my living, is why I bother to live at all.

Nights, I have trouble sleeping and hang out on Mott Street,

trying to explain to cretins that while a black man got into the White House

he still can't get a cab in New York.

Almost 100 years after the abolition of slavery,

a man couldn't play a game of baseball in the big leagues

if his skin color was black.

You're harping on one point.

Oh, good. Okay, forget blacks. Take Jews.

- What? - Here we go.

For years they restricted the number of Jews in schools, medical schools.

In America, as much as they hated blacks, they hate Jews even more.

Blacks they were scared had too big a penis.

Jews they hated, even with little penises.

For God's sake, I'm eating here.

You! I've been looking for you.

- I want to talk to you. - Who are you?

Did you pick up a chessboard full of pieces

and hit my son with it at his lesson today?

That idiot's your son?

Do me a favor. Don't send that cretin to me anymore.

I can't teach an empty-headed zombie chess.

I'll have you know that he is a very bright child.

In your opinion. In your opinion.

Which is skewed, because he's your unfortunate issue.

So you threw a chessboard at him?

I didn't throw it at him.

I picked up the board and dumped the pieces on his head

as an object lesson to shake him out of his vegetable torpor.

You wait until my husband gets back from Florida.

- What's he doing in Florida without you? - He will punch you in the nose.

Her husband's in Fort Lauderdale.

He's probably hanging out with naked coeds on spring break.

He tells her it's a business trip.