Me and Orson Welles

By the year of 1592...

...Shakespeare was already an actor and a playwright.

Records of how his stage career began have not survived.

We do know that in 1594, he joined a theatre troupe...

...called...?

Anyone remember?

Not everyone at once, now.

The Lord Chamberlain's Men.

Thank you.

Peanut, peanut, peanut.

Peanut. Peanut.

Extra, extra! Read all about it!

Japanese tanks in Shanghai!

Here you go.

Swell tune.

You play it with real feeling.

God, it's so sad, isn't it?

- You could pick up the tempo a little bit. - No.

I mean Gershwin being dead and all.

They don't like me sitting here and not buying anything.

I really like this song.

Richard Rodgers.

Only guy on earth who can write a melody like that.

They're like lullabies, aren't they?

And he knocks them out in 10 minutes. I heard him on John Gassner.

You listen to that?

Wow, sometimes I think I'm the only person in New York that listens to that show.

Can you imagine just sitting down...

...and coming up with the melody to "Small Hotel"?

I'd give my blood...

...to write anything as beautiful as the first five notes to "Small Hotel."

Yeah.

So, what do you write?

What's your name?

- Gretta. - Gretta.

I haven't written anything very significant yet.

Actually, I'm trying to write a play.

- A play? - Uh-huh.

That's keen, because I'm sort of an actor.

Really? What have you done?

- Well, mostly shows at school. - Oh.

Yeah.

So you're a real writer?

Well, I wish I could convince The New Yorker of that.

And then my parents.

And then myself.

Actually, I'd skip myself and my parents if I could just convince The New Yorker.

I had this creative writing teacher.

Everything I turned in, he'd say, "Possibilities."

Ha, ha. Oh, no.

What I want is for one person on this earth to read something I wrote...

...and say, "You're terrific."

You're terrific.

Swell. I gotta go. Um....

- Richard. - Richard.

Wouldn't this make a great scene for a story?

Just two people meeting like this.

Nothing more.

What do you think?

Possibilities.

All right, I'll see you around.

See you later.

Okay, we're ready.

Let's turn it on!

Come on.

I know.

I've just come in off the train.

Let's go.

Will somebody go find Orson?

Tell him there's a dozen young, well-toned ballerinas out here.

That will get him out.

Wait, wait.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.

This is all the lads coming to you live...

...from the derelict theater on West 41st Street.

- Yowza! - Whoo!

Notice there's no date for the opening.

At least we open in November.

Is this the best drum roll the Mercury Theater can come up with?

Hey, I can do it.

What?

I can play a drum roll.

Oh, yeah? Who are you?

Gene Krupa. And you?

Truly, my name is Cinna.

I am Cinna the Poet.

- Where do you dwell? - By the capital.

- Whither you going? - I am going to Caesar's funeral.

His name's Cinna.

I'm ready to plug it in.

No, wait. Wait for Orson.

Peel the Big Apple, kid.

Goddamn sons of bitches, what the hell is it now?

Is every single person in this company against me?

Is this a goddamn conspiracy to wreck my show?

This is completely inadequate.

Very possibly the worst looking thing I've ever seen.

We've just had 50,000 of them printed.

They're not entirely bad.

Can you play the ukulele?

Mr. Welles, you'd be hard pressed to find someone...

...who could play the ukulele better than me.

Kid's got balls. Will you work for nothing?

- Orson. - Quiet. I'm negotiating.

Have you ever heard anybody so in love with the sound of his own voice...

It's the drawing-room school of Shakespeare. Makes my blood boil.

It has nothing to do with the violence, passion, blood of the Elizabethan stage.

Did you hear my Hamlet on radio?

Yes. On the Columbia Workshop last fall.

What did you think?

Considering the time constraints you were under...

...trying to squeeze Hamlet into two half-hour broadcasts...

...I'd say very close to brilliant.

That is exactly correct.

People criticized me for cutting "To be or not to be."

But dramatically, in terms of pure story...

...that is the most expendable speech in the play.

It doesn't tell us one thing we don't already know.

- Can you sing? - I'm ready.

Hold on a minute.

All right, Mr. Gielgud, sing me something.

Astonish me.

Have you

Tried Wheaties?

They're whole wheat with all of the bran

Have you tried Wheaties?

For wheat is the best food of man They're crunchy--

- You're hired. - Yay!

Okay, Sam, plug it in.

I've got steaks for Mr. Welles.

I'm absolutely starving to death.

See if you can keep this warm.

Vakhtangov, my pineapple juice.

Rehearsal at 6:30, people, and we're gonna need everybody.

John, this kid is gonna play Lucius. The other son of a bitch is fired.

Orson, we positively have to commit to an opening date.

Thursday, I told you.

We let Tallulah open on Wednesday...

...in her $3 million Hindenburg of Antony and Cleopatra.

Then we open Thursday.

A lean, brutal Caesar.

Sonja, teach the kid the part.

Know it by the time I come back, junior, or you're fired.

I'm Sonja. Sonja spelled with a J but pronounced like a Y.

Sonja Jones.

Have you met Miss Jones?

You're probably the hundredth person who's sung me that.

Mercury.

This is she.

Oh, Mr. Ingram.

Orson left just two minutes ago.

He took an ambulance to beat the traffic.

Well, according to Orson...

...there's no law in the books that says you have to be sick to take an ambulance.

Of course, that's according to Orson...

...which probably means it isn't really true, but it ought to be.

Well, this week we have the opening, so it will be hard, but let's talk next week.

Splendid. Thank you.

Bye.

Get that, Richard.

Everybody's gotta answer the phone around here.

Mercury.

Brooks Atkinson from The Times...

...verifying a Thursday evening opening for Caesar.

One minute, sir.

Brooks Atkinson.

Mr. A, it's Sonja. I got the roses. They're absolutely beautiful.

I've never seen that shade of yellow before.

Yeah. No, I'm so sorry we keep changing the opening on you...

...but Thursday's firm.

That means we won't change it again for at least another hour.

No, that's right. Yeah, modern dress.

Everybody's marching around in fascist military uniforms. It's brilliant.

Orson's really outdone himself here.

Okay, and thank you again so much for the roses.

Atkinson sends you flowers?

I did him a very small favor.

Listen, let's take a run-out powder before the phone starts ringing again.

Here you go, Gielgud.

A Vassar education and this is what I'm doing.

If my parents ever found out, they'd ship me back on the next train to Ohio.

I didn't know Ohio actually existed.

I wish there were no rehearsal tonight.

Barbirolli is conducting the Pathetique at Carnegie.

Don't you absolutely love Tchaikovsky?

Adore him.

This guy from Jed Harris' office begged for me to go with him.

So, instead, I'm filling out little 11's...

...with a ukulele player, no less.

"Mr. Welles, you'd be hard pressed to find a better--"

And how did you end up at the Mercury Theater...

...Miss "Sonja with a J, but pronounced like a Y"?

By completely telling the truth?

John Houseman once told me that this whole business is based on BS...

...and the more I work here, the more I think he's right.

You probably can't even spell ukulele.

Y-O-U-C-A--

It ain't funny, McGee.

No, seriously...

...why would anybody even play a ukulele in Julius Caesar anyway?