(pleased)
So what’s your mom like?
LILY
She’s pretty. She drives a Buick. She cries a lot.
JANE
Yeah, mine’s the same.
(beat)
Except she drives a Packard.
Lily nods. Jane lowers her voice naughtily.
JANE
I have some peanut butter hidden in my sock drawer. Do you wanna eat it?
Lily smiles: Sure. Jane opens a drawer and removes a jar of Skippy. The two girls sit on the floor, happily eating the peanut butter with their fingers.
CUT TO:
EXT. KEANE GALLERY—NIGHT
Klieg lights streak the sky! A crazed CROWD is packed INSIDE. A big sign announces: “NOW APPEARING: AMERICA’S FIRST FAMILY OF ART—‘We paint truth and emotion.’ ”
INT. KEANE GALLERY—NIGHT
The place is filled with Big Eyes. Waifs waifs waifs! Cash registers RING. Money changes hands. “Sold” stickers go up.
Walter works the room.
WALTER
Yeah, Walter Keane and Gauguin have a lot in common. They both walked away from successful careers to travel the globe, live on a boat…
We move … finding Margaret alone in a small ANNEX. It displays a few of her sad blondes, alongside Jane and Lily’s paintings of flowers and Mr. Potato Head. Margaret sits, seeming like an adult at the children’s table.
An urbane RICH MAN glides by … and is taken with one of Margaret’s nubile blondes. He gazes at the lounging figure.
Margaret sits up. Alert, pleased with his interest.
She tingles. Then, happily excited, unable to hold it in:
MARGARET
I painted it!
RICH MAN
Really?
(impressed)
It’s very evocative.… Sensual…
He smiles flirtatiously. She smiles shyly and shrugs.
He steps forward—then peers closer at the painting. The SIGNATURE is a feminine scroll: “MDH Keane”
RICH MAN
“MDH”? You’re so…mysterioso.
MARGARET
Yes, we don’t use my name, since people don’t take women’s art seriously.
(beat)
“MDH” are my initials. And more! I’m interested in numerology … and as you know, seven is a very good number.
RICH MAN
(puzzled)
Er … seven?
MARGARET
Luckily, my maiden name is Margaret Doris Hawkins! “M” is the thirteenth letter of the alphabet, “D” is four, “H” eight! If you add up one and three in thirteen, that gives you four, making four plus four plus eight equals sixteen, then one plus six equals seven!
The man’s head is spinning. He’s lost all interest.
Across the room, Walter sees this debacle. He marches over.
WALTER
Psst! Maggie! Can I have a second?
(he PULLS HER ASIDE)
Good grief! What the hell are you babbling about?! Long division?? Could you please help the world and shut your mouth? You want just one number in his head: the sales price!
Her face drops, hurt. Acquiescing.
WATCHING THIS
Two SNOBBY ARTISTS smirk and GROAN at this scene.
SNOBBY ARTIST #1
Two nuts that fell from the same tree! It’s insufferable. Why are we starving, while they print money?
SNOBBY ARTIST #2
Because that nut’s a genius! He sells paintings! Then he sells pictures of the paintings! Then he sells postcards of pictures of the paintings.
They stare bitterly. Then, a terrible, shameful idea forms:
SNOBBY ARTIST #1
I’ll bet I could bang one out in ten minutes.
SNOBBY ARTIST #2
It wouldn’t have the dopey sincerity.
SNOBBY ARTIST #1
The customers won’t notice…
They peer sheepishly at each other…
CUT TO:
EXT. STORE WINDOW—DAY
Ruben is walking past—then stops, pained. A window display of Keane Big Eyes shares space with paintings of CUTESY KITTENS lapping up milk.
We WIDEN, revealing a whole wall of rip-offs! All with odd anonymous signatures: “Gig.” “Eve.” “Igor.” A cavalcade of WIDE-EYED ANIMALS AND KIDS … DANCING WITH GUITARS … DRESSED AS HOBOS … PLAYING IN PAJAMAS. But these children aren’t sad. They’re just … blank.
Ruben gasps at the dead-eyed pictures.
RUBEN
Christ. It’s a movement.
CUT TO:
INSERT—TELEVISION—FULL FRAME
“The Tonight Show” opening CREDITS:
ANNOUNCER (V.O.)
It’s “The Tonight Show!” With guests Jerry Lewis, the Everly Brothers, artists Walter and Margaret Keane—
The CHANNEL CHANGES: A children’s toy commercial (STOCK). A tear-streaked, crying plastic DOLL, a flagrant Waif rip-off:
FEMALE ANNOUNCER (V.O.)
She’s “Little Miss No Name,” the doll with the tear. From Hasbro.
The CHANNEL CHANGES: Spanish TELEVISION. A Keane painting gets hung in Madrid’s National Museum of Contemporary Art.
CUT TO:
INT. PAINTING ROOM—DAY
The Margaret sweatshop is going full-blast. Canvases are everywhere: Melancholy MDH ladies. Woeful Keane kids. Even a portrait of Natalie Wood, copied from a photo. Margaret dips a tiny brush, quickly detailing the tear on a child’s cheek … when the doorbell CHIMES.
Hm? Margaret puts down her brush, wipes her hands, then hurries out. She opens the door … REVEALING THAT WE’RE IN A DIFFERENT HOUSE. A GIANT, PHENOMENAL 1960s EXTRAVAGANZA.
INT. WOODSIDE HOUSE—SAME TIME
Margaret runs across the marble floors, past the swooping, modern lines of a California ranch … all-white furniture … a kidney-shaped pool glistening blue outside the glass … a cute TOY POODLE barking at the door.
MARGARET
Rembrandt, shush!
In the foyer, Margaret opens the front door. And standing there is Dee-Ann. Dazzled. She laughs with surprise.
DEE-ANN
My God! I thought I misread the address.
MARGARET
Yeah. That driveway is long.
(she giggles, embarrassed)
Honestly, I can’t believe I live here.
Dee-Ann glides in—then freezes, agape.
DEE-ANN
Whoa.
MARGARET
I know! Two acres, a pool, five bedrooms—
(pause)
Though I thought that was excessive, since there’s only three of us here.
DEE-ANN
Three? I thought there were four.
MARGARET
What?
(confused; beat)
Oh—you mean Lily! No, she doesn’t really live with us. That was just in the articles.
DEE-ANN
Crazy. A fake daughter…
Dee-Ann’s eyes take it all in. Astonished.
DEE-ANN
It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.
MARGARET
I know. North Beach is thirty miles, but it might as well be three hundred…
DEE-ANN
You’re probably busy, hanging out with your new rich buddies.
(barbed)
Kim Novak.
MARGARET
Oh, please! She’s Walter’s friend.
(a quiet shrug)
He brings people by … the Beach Boys were here. But, it’s pretty isolated.
Dee-Ann goes silent. Margaret seems dwarfed by the house.
MARGARET
Jane has nice friends. Sometimes I pick them up at the junior high, and we all get pizza.
(awkward)
But she’s busy … Are you hungry?
DEE-ANN
I’m thirsty.
MARGARET
Good! I’ll whip us up two gin fizzes.
Margaret forces a smile and
scurries behind a giant curved wet bar. She pulls out ingredients: gin, lemon juice, soda…
MARGARET
When we moved in, I thought a wet bar was extravagant … but it’s surprising how much use you can get out of it.
Dee-Ann watches the drink-making.
DEE-ANN
How’s Walter?
MARGARET
He couldn’t be happier. He has everything he ever dreamed of.
DEE-ANN
And so do you! Fabulous.
Dee-Ann smiles archly. She glances away—and notices Margaret’s STUDIO, the door half open.
DEE-ANN
Oh, is that your studio?
Margaret turns—and gasps.
MARGARET
No—! You can’t go in—
DEE-ANN
I just want a peek. See what the workspace of a wildly successful artist looks like—
MARGARET
Dee-Ann, please! STOP—
Margaret rushes to block her—but Dee-Ann pushes open the door, revealing…
INT. PAINTING ROOM
A room full of MDHs and Keanes.
Dee-Ann stops, puzzled. She glances at Margaret—who has turned as white as a ghost.
Immensely curious, Dee-Ann slowly enters. She peers around at the two styles of paintings…
A strained silence. Finally, Margaret whispers.
MARGARET
W-Walter paints in here too.
Hmm.
Dee-Ann walks about, examining the canvases. Then, her gaze settles on the Big Eye that Margaret was working on.
Below the easel is the wet brush on the open jar of paint.
Margaret sucks in her breath. Dee-Ann sees this.
DEE-ANN
Is Walter home??
Margaret has no answer.
The two friends look at each other … Dee-Ann waiting … wondering if Margaret is going to lie to her…
When … SLAM!
WIDE
Both women startle. FOOTSTEPS. Then … Walter strides in!
Margaret’s eyes pop.
Walter’s pop even bigger. He glares at the ladies.
WALTER
What the hell’s going on here?!!
MARGARET
(timid)
Uh … Dee-Ann was just … she…
Margaret trails off. Walter thinks, then SNAPS.
WALTER
You KNOW I don’t like anyone seeing my work before it’s done!
Walter rushes to the Waif, then for show grabs up the wet brush and quickly starts to “finish” the painting.
Suddenly—an odd expression crosses his face. He eyeballs the canvas, realizing he doesn’t know what to do.
A furtive glance. Then, unbowed, he hastily dips the brush and slaps a little black onto the shaded background.
Walter spins, victorious.
WALTER
There!
Walter gets between Margaret and her good friend Dee-Ann.
CUT TO:
INT. LIVING ROOM—LATER
The three sit silently, tension thick, sipping gin fizzes.
Nobody speaks.
Walter finishes his drink and pours a fresh one.
CUT TO:
INT. FOYER—NIGHT
They are drunk and SCREAMING. Walter pushes Dee-Ann out the door.
WALTER
You and your whole non-representational crowd are FRAUDS!!
DEE-ANN
SHUT UP! You’re so full of shit, Walter!
WALTER
Get outta my house! My big house!
(livid)
Go back to sellin’ your coat hanger sculptures on Fisherman’s Wharf!
DEE-ANN
Fuck you!
Dee-Ann staggers outside, then hops in her car.
OUTSIDE
Dee-Ann GUNS the engine and squeals away. The car peels down the very long driveway.
Margaret and Walter watch the car disappear into the distance.
Without looking over, Walter speaks.
WALTER
I don’t want her ever invited here again.
Margaret nods, terribly sad.
MARGARET
I won’t.
CUT TO:
INT. MASTER BEDROOM—LATE NIGHT
Margaret and Walter lie in bed, awake. Arms crossed. Unspeaking.
EXT. WOODSIDE HOUSE—ANOTHER DAY
Margaret and 13-YEAR-OLD JANE play on the lawn with the poodle. Jane laughs as the dog chases in circles.
JANE
Go, Rembrandt! Get the ball!
She tumbles, and Rembrandt licks her ear. She giggles.
MARGARET
Okay, honey. I have to go work.
JANE
Can I come?
(an awkward silence)
No. I can never come. No! I shouldn’t even ask.
Jane glares glumly.
Margaret peers hopelessly at her daughter … then goes inside.
INT. WOODSIDE HOUSE
Margaret strolls to her studio. WE SEE the poodle scampering behind her on its cute little legs. She enters the
INT. PAINTING ROOM
Margaret doesn’t notice the tiny dog follow her in. She LOCKS the door, then turns—surprised.
MARGARET
Where did you appear from? Didn’t you hear? No visitors!
Rembrandt wags his tail, his little eyes bright. Margaret peers.
MARGARET
Is this what it’s come to? You’re the only living soul I can tell my secret?
(she lowers her voice)
Well—I painted them all!
(she shudders with release)
It’s TRUE! I did every single one—
She gestures, then catches sight of a Walter street scene.
MARGARET
Well, every one except that street scene.
(beat)
But I did the rest. Every Big Eye! And nobody will ever know. But YOU.
Rembrandt pants and BARKS.
Margaret chuckles, then goes to work. She pulls a CURTAIN across the sliding glass door. At her easel, she squirts a tube into a well and starts mixing colors.
Rembrandt jumps on the couch.
MARGARET
No you don’t! It’s nice to have company, but that sofa is new.
(she pushes him off)
Let’s find you some carpet to lay on.
Margaret goes over to a CLOSET. Rembrandt follows, curious.
IN THE CLOSET
Margaret turns on the bare bulb inside. It’s filled with old easels … cans … junk…
MARGARET
I think there’s a scrap back here…
She rummages, sliding the junk aside. In back is a TATTERED WOODEN CRATE.
Hm?
MARGARET
Well what’s this?
Margaret swings the bulb closer. The crate is covered with SHIPPING INSTRUCTIONS and international markings.
Margaret’s interest is piqued. She tugs at the lid, pulling it off. Revealing inside a STACK OF STREET SCENE PAINTINGS. Ten or fifteen of Walter’s canvases.
Or so it seems.
TIGHT—MARGARET
She peers closer.
TIGHT—THE PAINTINGS
The top painting is a typical Parisian street scene: cobblestones, a man carrying baguettes, an old lady selling roses…
But down in the bottom corner is the signature: “S. CENIC”
TIGHT—MARGARET
She sucks in her breath, shocked. She examines the painting.
Then, she hurriedly grabs the next canvas. It’s another sunlit scene: A quaint Parisian café, a man playing accordion, and in the bottom right corner…the signature: “S. CENIC”
WHAT?! Margaret grabs the next canvas. “S. CENIC”
The next canvas.
The next canvas!
They all are signed “S. CENIC.”
Margaret starts hyperventilating.
She thinks, then suddenly bolts from the closet.
INT
. PAINTING ROOM
Margaret races, rushing up to Walter’s painted street scene, hung on the wall. We PUSH IN TIGHT, as she shoves her face up to the canvas, so close we can see the brushstrokes—
As we MOVE IN TO THE SIGNATURE. Simply, “W. KEANE.”
Margaret’s face is flushed. She gazes at the name … then rushes back to her work area. She manically hunts: brushes, tubes, rags—and an EXACTO KNIFE.
Ah! She runs back to Walter’s painting. Heart pounding, she grazes the knife up against the signature, then DIGS.
And—the “W. KEANE” flecks off. Revealing … underneath … the name “S. CENIC.”
CLOSE-UP—MARGARET
She trembles, overcome. Music SWELLS. Her eyes spin back—
SERIES OF QUICK FLASHBACKS:
Walter painting at the Palace of Fine Arts. His canvas is blank.
Walter in the apartment, signing his name to a finished piece.
Walter spattering paint on his clothes.
Walter the day we met him. He shows off a rack of finished paintings at the Sunday Art Show.
BACK ON MARGARET
She collapses.
CUT TO:
INT. WOODSIDE HOUSE—THAT EVENING
A grandfather clock says 10:15. Margaret sits gloomily, staring at the clock. Clutching a drink.
LATER
2:30 a.m. Margaret still stares at the clock. She’s stewing.
Suddenly, keys in the door. Walter swings in, tanked and full of life. He skids across the marble, humming to himself—when—he’s startled by his wife. He jerks.
WALTER
M-Maggie! What’re you doin’ up?
Margaret glares. Not speaking. He shrugs.
WALTER
I had a helluva night. Worked three or four clubs.
(he winks, loosey-goosey)
Stumbled onto some hot gossip: Madame Chiang Kai-shek is coming to town! Straight from Taipei! I think we should present her with a painting—get Dick to flack it…
Big Eyes Page 6
