The Boys in The Band - Part - Three - Out of five

There. Feel better? I'm not ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille. Nor will I be for the next two weeks. ( Alan grunting ) Oh, my God, he's after me again! Turning on. Anybody care to join me? Many thanks. No. How about you, Tex? Yeah. Michael, I left the casserole in the oven. You can take it out anytime. You're not going. I couldn't eat now anyway. Well, I'm absolutely ravenous. I'm going to eat until I have a fat attack. I said, you're not going. Beware the hostile ***. When he's sober, he's dangerous. When he drinks, he's lethal. Attention must not be pai. I'm starved, Em. I'm ready for some of your Alice B. Toklas ***-baked lasagna. Are you really? Oh, that makes me so happy. Maybe I'll just serve before I leave. Nobody's going anywhere. You are going to have schmertz tomorrow Do a figure eight on that. I'm turning on, and you're just turning. Michael, is there any air spray? Hair spray? You're supposed to be holding his head, not doing his hair. "Air" spray. Not hair spray. There's a can of floral spray right on top of the john. Right. Thanks. I keep my grass in the medicine cabinet, in the Band-Aid box. Somebody told me it's the safest pla. If the cops arrive, you can always lock yourself in the bathroom and flush it down the john. Very cagey. Makes more sense than where I was keeping it: in an oregano jar in the spice rack. I kept forgetting and accidentally turning my hateful mother on with the salad. Hm. But I think she liked it. No matter what meal she comes over for, even if it's breakfast, she says: ( as mother ): "Let's have a salad." ( laughs ) I bet you move your lips when you read. I bet you sit in the steam rom and say things like, "Hot enough for you?" I don't use the steam room when I go to the gym. It's bad for you after a workout. Flattens you down. Just after you've broken your back to blow yourself . Like a poisoned dog. Yeah. Oh, Harold, he's beautiful. Yeah. Beautiful. He has unnatural natural beauty. Not that that means anything. It doesn't mean everything. Keep telling yourself that as your hair drops out in handfuls. Faggots are worse than women about their age. They think their lives are over at 30. Physical beauty is not all that *** important. Of course not, how could it be? It's only in the eye of the beholder. And it's only skin deep. Only skin deep. And it's transitory too. It's terribly transitory. Oh, yes. It's too bad about this poor boy's face. It's tragic. He's absolutely cursed. How could his beauty ever compare with my so? And although I've never seen my soul, I understand from my mother's rabbi that it's a knockout. I, however, cannot seem to locate it for a gander. And if I could... I'd sell it in a flash... for some skin-deep, transitory, meaningless beauty. Forgive him, father, for he know not what he do. Michael, you don't know what side of the fence you're on. Say something pro-religion, you're against it. Deny God, you're against that. One might say you have some problem in that area. You can't live with it, and you can't live without it. Hot stuff coming through. One could *** you with very little effort. You hang on to that great insurance policy called the Church. That's right. I believe in God. And if it turns out there isn't one, okay, nothing's lost. But if it turns out there really is, I'm covered. Harriet Hypocrite, that's who you are. Right. I'm one of those truly rotten Catholics who gets drunk, sins all night, and then goes to Mass the next morning. Gilda Guilt. It all depends on what you think sin i. Will you just shut up your *** minty mouth and get back in the *** kitchen? Say anything you want. Just don't hit me. Well. Is it bigger than a bread stick? He's lying down for a minute, Michael. How does the bathroom smell? Better. Before, it smelled like somebody puked. Now it smells like somebody puked in a gardenia patch. Dinner is served. MICHAEL: Bread. Isn't that great? Emory, it looks absolutely fabulous. I'd make somebody a good wife. I could cook. I could do an apartment and, um... I could entertain. Kiss me quick, I'm Carmen. One really needs castanets for that sort of thing. And a getaway car. What are you having, big boy? Alan McCarthy, and don't hold the mayo. EMORY: Oh, I can't keep up with you two. First you're mad at him, now he's ***' you. What gives? LARRY: Never mind. Lasagna. Uh, it looks like spaghetti and meatballs, all sort of flattened out. It's been in the steam room. It has? ( all laughing ) It looks like spaghetti and meatballs, all sort of flattened out. Oh, yes, Harold. Truly enviable. As opposed to you, who knows so much about haute cuisine. Raconteur, gourmet, troll. You like it? Eat it. Stuff your mouth so you can't say anything. Turning! No, thanks. Water. Oh, go on, kiddo, force yourself. Have a little vin ordinaire to wash down all that depressed pasta. Sommelier, connoisseur, pig. BERNARD: Aren't you gonna have some of that fantastic sauce you made? No. My lip hurts too much to eat. ( in exaggerated black accent ): I hear that if you puts a knife under the bed, it cuts the pain. I hear if you put a knife under your chin, it cuts your throat. Is anyone going to bring a plate up to Alan? The punching bag has now dissolved into Flo Nightingale. ( banging on glass ) Ladies and gentlemen. Oh, correction. Ladies and ladies. I would like to announce that you have just eaten Sebastian Venable. Uh, just eaten what? Well, not what, stupid. Who. A character in a play. A fairy who got eaten alive. I mean the chop, chop variety. ( others snicker ) Emory, how much did you pay for him? He was a steal. He's a ham sandwich. Fifty cents, any time of the day or night. King of the pig people. Would you like some more, Donald? Uh, no thanks, Emory. It was very good though. EMORY: Did you like it? I'm not a steal. I cost $20. ( men snicker ) ( whispers ): The cake? ( whispers ): Well, you go get it. ( normal voice ): Isn't anyone going to have seconds? I'm having seconds, and thirds, and maybe even fifths. I'm absolutely desperate to keep the weight up. You're absolutely paranoid about absolutely everything. Oh, yeah? Well, why don't you not tell me about it? You starve yourself all day, living on coffee and cottage cheese, so that you can gorge yourself at one meal. And then you feel guilty, and moan and *** about how fat you are, and how ugly you are. When the truth , you're not fatter and no thinner than you ever are. Polly Paranoia. Just great, Emory. Thank you. Connie Casserole, no trouble at all. Oh, Mary, don't ask. And this pathological lateness. It's downright crazy. Turning. Standing in front of a bathrom mirror for hours and hours before you can walk out onto the street? And then looking no different. After Christ knows how many applications of Christ knows how many ointments, and salves and creams and masks. I've got bad skin. What can I tell you? Who wouldn't after they deliberately take a pair of tweezers and deliberately mutilate their pores. No wonder you've got holes in your face, after the hack job you've done on yourself. Year in and year out. You hateful sow. Yes, you've got scars on your face, but they're not that bad. And if you'd leave yourself alone, you wouldn't have any more than you've already awarded yourself. You'd really like me to compliment you now for being so honest, wouldn't you? For being my best friend, who will tell me what even my best friends won't tell me. ***. And the pills. Harold has been gathering and storing and saving up barbiturates for the past year like a *** squirrel. Hundreds of Nembutals, hundreds of Seconals. All in preparation for and anticipation of the long winter of his death. Well, I'll tell you something, Hallie. When the time comes, you won't have the guts. It's not always like it happens in plays. Not all faggots bump themselves off at the end of the story. ( bottle clanks ) ( liquor pours ) What you're saying may be true. Time will undoubtedly tell. In the meantime, you've left out one detail. The cosmetics and astringents are paid for. The bathroom is paid for. The tweezers are paid for. And the pills are paid for. ♪ Happy birthday to you ♪ ALL: ♪ Happy birthday to you ♪ ♪ Happy birthday, dear Harold ♪ ♪ Happy birthday to you ♪♪ Blow out your candles, Mary, and make a wish. ( all cheer ) Aw, he's 32 years young! ( all cheering, chattering ) Come over here, Harold. ( giggles ) EMORY: Take one. All right, I'll take the red one. I'll take... Where's the card? Oh, what'd you do with it, Emory? It's between my legs. Heh. "From Larry." ALL: Ohh! ( all giggle ) ( men speaking indistinctly ) Oh, it's heaven. I love it, Larry. ( laughs ) It's the deed to Boardwalk. Gay pop art. Butchest thing you've ever seen. It is super, Larry. Did you blow it up yourself? ( all laugh ) It goes up the minute I get home. ( all chuckle ) I don't get it. You cruise Atlantic City or something? ( all laugh ) MICHAEL: Will somebody get him out of here? Oh. What a nifty sweater. ( chuckles ) Thank you, Hank. Well, you know, if you don't like it, I-- You can always take it back and-- And exchange it for something else. No, I think this one's just nifty. EMORY: It's gorgeous. BERNARD: Who wanted cake? Quick. Oh, none for me, please. No, I'd just like to sleep on mine, thank you. ( chuckles ) Oh, Bernard, ( laughing ) Look, everybody. Bejeweled kneepads. ( all laughing ) Monogrammed. ( all laughing ) Bernard, you're a camp. ( Bernard laughs ) You all heard of Gloria De Haven and Billy De Wolfe? Well, this here is Rosemary De Camp. ( laughs ) HANK: Into the sack. Thank you, Michael. MICHAEL: Wha? Oh. You're welcome. Well, what is it, Harold? It's a photograph of him... in a silver frame. And there's an inscription engraved, and the date. BERNARD: What's it say? Just something personal. Say, Bernard, what do you say we have a little music to liven things up? BERNARD: Okay. EMORY: Yeah, I feel like dancing. Uh-oh. How about something good and ethnic, Emory. Uh, one of your specialties. Like a military toe-tap with sparklers. ( chortles ) I don't do that at birthdays. Only on the Fourth of July. ( Burt Bacharach's "The Look of Love" playing ) Come on, Michael. I only lead. Well, I can follow. No, thanks. I'll just sit this one out. ( thunder rumbling ) Come on, Tex. You're on. Later. ( thunder rumbling ) ( thunder rumbling ) ( rain falling ) ( thunder crashes ) Come on. Let's get this sf off the terrace. ALL: Hey. ( all shouting ) ( yells ) ( all shouting ) ( laughs ) ( Harold laughing ) ( all shouting ) ( thunder crashes ) Come on, Cowboy. ( all shouting, laughing ) ( thunder crashes ) BERNARD: Whoo-hoo. ( all groan, chatter indistinctly ) Wanna dance? ( scoffs ) Uh-oh. Ivan the terrible is back. ( Bernard chuckles ) ( Burt Bacharach's "The Look of Love" playing ) Oh, hello, Alan. Feel better? This is where you came in, isn't it? Don't rush off in this inclement weather. You'll never get a cab. Revolution complete. You've missed the cake... and you've missed the opening of the gifts... but you're still in luck. You're just in time for a little party game. ( turns music off ) Hey, everybody. Game time. ( thunder rumbling ) Why don't you just let him go, Michael? Oh, he can go if he wants to... but not until we've played a little game. What's it going to be: movie-star gin? ( giggles ) No. That's too faggy for Alan to play. He wouldn't be any good at it. What do you wanna play, Michael? The Truth Game? Cute, Hallie. Or do you wanna play ***? You all remember that one, don't you? Very, very cute. As I recall, they're similar. The rules are the same in both. You kill somebody. Mickey, I'm leaving. Stay where you are. Michael, let him go. He doesn't really want to. If he did, he'd have left a long time ago. Or he wouldn't have come in the first place. Mickey, I don't feel well. My name is Michael. I am called Michael. You must never call anyone called Michael, Mickey. Those of us who are named Michael get very nervous about it. I'm sorry. I can't think. You can think. What you can't do is leave. It's like watching an accident on the highway. You can't look at it and you can't look away. ( rain pouring outside ) ( thunder crashes ) MICHAEL: Well, now... who's gonna play with Alan and me? Everybody? I have no intention of playing. Nor do I. Well, not everybody's a participant in life. There are those who just stand on the sidelines and watch. Well, what's the game? Simply this. We all have to call on the telephone the one person we truly believed we have loved. ( thunder rumbles ) Oh, well, I'm not playing then. Oh, yes, you are. Oh, you'd like me to, wouldn't you? You bet I would. I'd like to know who you'd call after all those fancy speeches I've been hearing lately. Who would you call? Would you call me? ( puts drink down ) And who would you call? Don't think I think for one minute it would be me or that one call would do it. You'd have to make several, wouldn't you? About three long-distance... and God only knows how many locals. I-I-I'm glad I don't have to pay the bill. Oh, don't worry. Michael won't pay it either. Now, here's how it works. If you make the call, you get one point. If the person you're calling answers, you get two points. If somebody else answers, you only get one point. And if nobody answers at all, you're screwed. You're screwed if you make the call. You're a fool if you screw yourself. And when you get the person you've called on the line, if you tell them who you are, you get two more points. And then if you tell them that you love them, you get a bonus of five more points. Hateful. Therefore, you can get as many as ten points and as few as one. You can get as few as none if you know how to work it. Hank, leave with me. You don't understand, Alan. I can't. Well, if he doesn't understand it, why don't you explain it to him? I'll explain it to him. I had a feeling you might. Although I doubt that it'll make any difference. That type refuses to understand that which they do not wish to accept. They reject certain facts. Alan... Hank and Larry are lovers. Not just roommates, bedmates. Michael-- No man has a roommate after he's 30 years old. If they're not lovers, they're sisters. Hank's the one who's over 30. You're pushing it. Hank? Yes, Alan. Larry is my lover. But you're married. ( all laughing ) I think you said the wrong thing. Don't you just loe that quaint little idea? If a man is married, he's automatically heterosexual. Alan, Hank swings both ways... but with a decided preference. MICHAEL: Well, now... who's gonna make the first call? ( thunder rumbling ) Emory. You go, Bernard. I don't want to. I don't want to either. I don't want to at all. There are no accidents. MICHAEL: Then may I say, that on your way home, I hope you will yourself over an embankment. Go on. Call up Peter Dahlbeck. That's who you'd like to call, isn't it? Who is Peter Dahlbeck? Boy in Detroit whose family Bernard's mother has been a laundress for since he was a pickaninny. I worked for them, too... after school and every summer. I think I've loved him all my life. Hmm. But he never knew I was alive. Besides, he's straight. Oh, so nothing ever happened between you? Oh, they finally made it... in the pool house one night after a drunken swimming party. With the right wine and the right music, there are damn few that aren't curious. And afterwards, we went swimming in the nud. How romantic. And the next morning you took his coffee and Alka-Seltzer up to him on a tray. It was in the afternoon. I remember that I was worried sick all morning about having to face him. He pretended like nothing at all had happened. Christ, he must have been so drunk, he didn't remember a thing. Yeah. Heh. I was sure relieved. Odd how that works. Now, for ten points, get that liar on the phone. ( sighs ) ( dialing ) You know the number? Sure. He's back in Grosse Pointe, living at home. He just got separated from his third wife. D.A. or B.Y.? He didn't even give it time to find out. Come on, Bernard. Pick up the phone and dial. You'll think of something. You know you want to call him. You know that, don't you? Well, go ahead. Your curiosity has got the best of you now, so go on. Call him. ( chuckles ) ( dialing ) Hateful. Oh, what's "D.A. or B.Y."? Operator lingo for "doesn't answer" or "busy." One point. Who's speaking? Oh, Mrs. Dahlbeck, um-- One point. It's Bernard. Francine's boy. Son, not boy. How are you? Good. ( chuckles ) Oh, just fine, thank you. Um...Mrs. Dahlbeck, is... Peter at home? Oh. Oh, I-- I see. ( mouths ): ***. No, no, it's nothing important. I-- I just wanted to tell him that I, um... That I love him. I've always loved him. I just wanted to tell him that I was sorry to hear about him and his wife. No points. BERNARD: My-- My mother wrote me, yes. Yes, it is. It really is. Well...would you just tell him that I called and said I was very, very sorry to hear, and I hope they can get it straightened out. Yes. Yes. Goodbye. Two points total. Terrible. Next? Are you all right, Bernard? Why did I call? Why did I do that? Where was he? Out on a date.