The President's Analyst

( drums, trumpets play stirring theme )

( chorus vocalizing to jazz theme )

( jazz theme building in intensity )

Okay, Don. We'll take it from here.

Good.

I gotta hurry. I'm going to be late for my analyst.

You're early, Don.

How about that sound?

Uh-huh.

You know, you shouldn't come in here like that.

I may have had another patient.

I know.

But I had to find out about that sound.

What's that all about, doctor?

I don't really know what it's all about, Don.

It's beautiful.

Beautiful sound.

You're a remarkable man.

Should we begin?

I had a weird dream last night.

Good. Tell me about it.

I can and I can't.

I woke up.

No, it was a nightmare, and it woke me up.

But I couldn't remember it.

Uh... when you couldn't remember it,

did you think about anything?

That was weird too.

I suddenly remembered something

that happened to me when I was a kid.

Mm-hm.

Something I haven't thought about since it happened.

What was it, Don?

It was the day I found out about niggers.

Mm-hm.

I don't feel like lying down.

You mind if I sit over there?

No, go ahead.

I was 5.

And I knew there were colored people and white people.

But then Mama took me to school.

And it was almost all white kids.

And nothing much happened on the first day.

But on the second day,

I was walking to school alone.

My big brother, he was already in third grade,

and when you got a kid brother in kindergarten

it can be kind of an embarrassment,

so he ran on ahead to be with his buddies.

Anyhow, there was a group of white kids

on the street up ahead.

And as I came up,

they started laughing and running and yelling.

"Run, run, here comes the nigger!

"Run, run!

Here comes the nigger."

And I looked around.

And I didn't see any niggers.

But if they wanted to play, so did I.

So I started laughing and running and yelling.

"Run, run, here comes the nigger!

Run, run, here comes the nigger."

And suddenly there was my big brother.

And I ran up to him.

And I started yelling,

"Run, run, here comes the nigger!"

And he hit me.

Then he did something worse.

He told me what a nigger was.

And that I was it.

How'd you feel about that, Don?

A hate flashed in me.

And I started to hit my brother.

I hated him, and I hit him.

I hated me.

And I hit him.

And I rammed that knife into his heart.

What?

The Albanian.

I killed him.

I stuck that knife into him.

And he was my brother,

and he was me, and I hated him.

What are you talking about?

He was an Albanian double agent.

He had secret information

that threatened the security of our country.

My assignment was to kill him.

And I did a while ago on Seventh Avenue.

So much for my cover. Your cover?

Doesn't make any difference.

I had to tell you today anyway.

I'm glad.

What are you glad about, Don?

I don't have to lie to you anymore.

Lie?

I'm a CEA agent.

You are a CEA agent.

Then you really did kill someone?

Mm-hm.

It's fascinating, isn't it, Don?

Well, I suppose it's the conditioning

of motion pictures or television,

or perhaps it's the time we live in,

but killing is serious,

and yet this little card somehow makes it less shocking.

And acceptable in a way.

You mean you can actually legally kill someone.

Yeah.

And it bothers me sometimes

because I don't feel guilty about it.

Don't you think that's psychotic behavior?

No, I don't.

No, it explains your utter lack of hostility.

You can vent your aggressive feelings

by actually killing people.

It's a sensational solution to the hostility problem.

Doctor, are you trying to tell me

it's all right to kill people?

It's simply a moral question.

And morality is a social invention.

And in this case society has decided

that it's not only morally acceptable

for certain people to kill other people,

but it's even commendable.

Don, I got to write a paper for the institute on this.

I don't think the CEA would like that.

Oh, yes, the CEA.

I can't imagine why they'd allow an agent to enter analysis.

They didn't allow me. They assigned me.

Assigned you, why?

It's the last phase of a complete rundown

we've been doing on you.

On me? Shall we go for a drive, Sidney,

so we can talk? This place could be bugged.

Bugged? Nonsense, Don.

The sanctity of a psychiatrist's office

is like a confessional.

You know that. Now, why--? Oh, really?

I put this one there myself.

God knows what else could be in here.

Shall we go for a drive, Sidney? My chariot awaits.

This is a, uh...

Uh...

You're putting me on.

Uh-uh.

The president of the United States?

We only got one.

President, that's fantastic.

Oh.

Well, uh...

look, Don, I don't know how the selection fell upon me,

but analysis is a very personal thing.

I'll have to meet with the president,

we'll have to talk,

much like you and I did when we first met.

Then if we show some rapport, then it's--

No time. It's all been determined.

Dr. Lee-Evans, he's your analyst, right?

Yes, that's right.

But what does that have to do with it?

Most of what you're asking, he can answer better than I.

What are we doing at the Whitney?

You play the gong, he digs art.

Go ahead, he's waiting for you.

So they finally decided to tell you.

Bunch of damn time-wasters.

You ought to have been with the president three months ago.

But why me, not you?

Look at this thing.

Pile of junk.

Shock you?

No, not shock. Surprise.

No, I think it's a, uh...

A beautiful piece of contemporary sculpture.

That's why you and not me.

I'm just too damned old.

You like this?

Beautiful.

And you think I can handle him?

I've known them all.

Freud, Jung, Wright, Pavlov, Sullivan,

all the old giants.

They were men of their time.

You're a man of your time.

The president's analyst.

Beautiful.

He's a vital man.

You'll need every bit of your strength.

What kind of shape is he in?

There's no manifestation of illness,

no real neurosis,

certainly not psychotic.

Well, then what is it?

Pretty, isn't she? Yes.

The president is overworked, overtired, overburdened.

He needs to talk to someone

outside the stresses of his supercharged life.

He needs to talk to someone

who doesn't want anything from him.