Danny Collins

- Wow, you're Danny Collins. - Yeah.

Jesus H!

- You mind if we listen while we talk? - Sure.

- Is this cool? - Sure.

Smoke?

No. No, thanks.

Well, the album's going to be massive, kid. Who got you there?

- I'm sorry? - Your influences, who do you dig?

Who makes you hard?

Well... I guess, I... If I had to think...

Hold on.

June 30th, 1971.

Guy DeLoach with the apparently pre-pubescent Danny Collins.

For Chime Mag.

More than anything, it's your writing.

You write like fucking Lennon, man.

That's... Thank you.

I guess he's probably the one who... you know, makes me the hardest.

Jesus H!

Well, you're going to be huge, kid.

Richer than rich. Famous as shit.

More women than you know what to do with.

I'm telling you this, and I've got to ask,

why are you sitting there staring at me looking like that information

scares the livin' shit outta you?

Because it does.

Jesus H!

Danny, Danny, Danny, Danny, Danny.

- Break a leg, Danny. - Just tell me whose.

Hello, L.A.! It's good to be back!

Danny!

Excuse me, Mr. Collins? Do you think I could bother you for a quick picture?

Just real quick. Real quick, my mom will die.

I hope not.

- Awesome. - Beauty...

- I will tweet this to you. - Awesome.

It was a good show tonight, kid.

Awesome.

Hey, Sylvia Plath, you okay?

If what I just did qualified as singing, I'd be great.

You know...

Little birthday blues, I guess.

All right, everyone. My guy needs a little rest here.

Bye, Danny.

Sally, thank you for coming, honey. Tell your dad I said hello, Kate.

See those Golden Girls in the front row?

- Eating the licorice the entire show. - Can't choose your fans, Danny.

Three of them. Each one older than the next.

Made one pack of licorice last the whole show.

Just sat there gummin' it for two hours.

New billboard went up on Sunset.

You should check it out on your way home, yeah?

All right, enough of this crap.

So, your birthday's tomorrow. Is that your big problem?

Pregnant women in Africa, feeding half their village from their titties.

Those ladies got problems. Not you.

- You're so right. - Yeah.

Of course I'm right, I'm always right.

So you go home now to your stunning, half-your-age fiancée

who insists on throwing you this massive surprise party tomorrow,

which I didn't just tell you about,

and then go tell the sore-titted African ladies your problems.

Okay?

Okay.

See you at my surprise party, buddy.

- Hey. - Yeah?

It was a good show tonight, kid.

Really.

Okay.

We'll have to get that fixed for you, Mr. Collins. How was the show?

I'm home!

Babe?

I'm in the shower.

Listen, I'll be out in a minute. I'm just finishing shaving.

What'd you do tonight?

Just busywork around here.

You're always doing busywork.

We have a big house. Running it keeps a girl busy, right?

- Oh... hon? - Yeah, just a second.

You know... Jesus, Sophie.

What?

Okay. The kid out front? Could you maybe say something to him?

Because I don't need a half-hour of chit-chat every time I pull into my house.

He's your fan, he's just trying to impress you.

Well, he's failing.

I'm gonna go rest before my surprise party.

God damn it, fucking Frank!

Surprise!

Oh, no! No way! You did this.

You guys should know better, you know, you don't surprise a guy my age.

You'll give me a heart attack.

She looks like a young Jackie O.

- I look absurd with her. - Yes, you do.

We have to make her sign a prenup, don't we?

Yes, we do.

I'm way too old to be putting this much shit up my nose.

Yes, you are.

Jesus, Frank, don't give me all the good stuff at once, will ya.

You're really earning that 10% tonight, pal.

What do you want me to say?

Oh, no, Danny, you look perfectly normal standing next to a coked-up teenager

who can't keep her nipples covered for more than five minutes.

Prenup? Who needs a prenup?

I mean, sure, you've gone through three wives already,

but this one seems like the real deal.

Oh, look, I can see her vagina again.

That's cute.

Thank you, I try.

So,

I know how fanatical you are about Lennon.

So I started futzing around on the Internet,

and I... get in touch with this one guy. He's a collector.

I tell him that I'm looking to get you something special.

Holy shit.

I've been holding onto this for three months.

No, no, no. Wait, wait. Hang on, wait.

You remember doing an interview when you were a kid?

Something called... Chime Magazine.

Fella named DeLoach?

Yeah. Maybe. I don't know. Yeah.

Well, I don't know what you said to the guy,

I mean, you must've mentioned Lennon or something.

But that doesn't matter, the point is

Lennon read it.

The interview.

And...

He wrote you a letter.

What the hell are you talking about?

John Lennon wrote you a letter, pal,

in 1971.

He sent it to you care of this DeLoach guy.

Now DeLoach smells money, so he holds onto it, never tells you.

Then DeLoach dies.

But he's not the point, the point is

he sold that letter to a collector.

Can you believe this shit?

I'm not following this, Frank.

Open the box. Open the box.

John Lennon wrote you a handwritten letter in 1971.

Can you fucking believe it?

Read it!

"Dear Danny Collins.

"Yoko and I read your interview.

"Being rich and famous doesn't change the way you think.

"It doesn't corrupt your art.

"Only you can do that.

"So, what do you think about that, Danny Collins?

"Stay true..."

"to your music.

"Stay true to yourself.

"My phone number is below.

"Call me, we can discuss this.

"We can help.

"Love, John."

It's crazy, right?

I've been holding onto this for months now.

I'm home!

Whatcha doin'?

Packing.

Where are we going?

We're not going anywhere. But I'm going away.

Where you going?

Where?

- Where is he? - Who?

Whoever you were just in bed with. That's who.

Danny, I don't know what you're talking about.

Come on, Sophie.

I didn't pull in the way I usually do,

so the kid outside couldn't call you and stall me.

Okay, listen. I'm not mad, I promise you. I am not mad.

I just want to know who the fuck is in my house. That's all.

Hey! Wherever you are, it's okay, I promise, I'm not mad.

I just wanna see your face.

Jesus, just come out.

It's okay.

Busywork.

- Judd. - No, "Busywork."

I'm going to call you Busywork because she's always doing busywork.

Now, I understand.

Okay, kids, you and Busywork here,

I want you to stay here for a while, if you wish.

It's fine by me. You're young, have fun.

I'm looking for my address book.

'Cause I need an address in my address book, and I found it.

Sophie.

I was going to make you sign a prenup anyway.

You know, so you're not missing out on the big bucks.

If that makes you feel better.

I guess it does a little.

Okay, you guys, I'm off.

And, Busywork?

Take care of her. Okay?

My parents had their first dance to one of your songs.

- Sir. - Yeah.

Well, that's fucked up in all kinds of ways now, isn't it?

Hey, man. Listen. I need a plane.

Jersey.

Yeah, New Jersey.

Yeah. A car... you know what I like.

Make it red.