Big Eyes
Page 7
(he thinks)
Or the heck with Dick. I met a new guy at UPI…
MARGARET
Maybe you should give her one of your street scenes.
WALTER
(hazy)
You think? I dunno—I thought you could whip off a doodle of Chinatown. With a cute little kid, sort of a big-eyed slanty-eyed thing…
Margaret’s anger is raging. She glares, steely.
MARGARET
No, Walter. She’s a dignitary. Doesn’t she deserve a piece that comes straight from you?
(sharp)
From your experience???
WALTER
Yeah? Maybe you’re right. She probably doesn’t have a Parisian street scene hanging in her palace.
Margaret nods, as if they’ve settled something. She turns to walk away—then suddenly SPINS.
MARGARET
Unless Madame Chiang Kai-shek already has a Cenic.
ON WALTER
He freezes up.
Suddenly sober, smacked to reality.
WALTER
“Cenic”…? Uh, what’s that?
Margaret stares, eyes sharp.
MARGARET
Cenic is the name of the artist who did all your early paintings.
WALTER
Huhhh?
(spinning his lie)
Urgh … oh! CENIC!
(he laughs crazily)
Cenic was my nickname in Paris! All my art school pals loved my scenic views, so they called me “Scenic”! But since those Frogs can’t pronounce a hard “e,” I became “Cenic.”
He looks up at her hopefully.
But she shakes her head.
MARGARET
The more you lie, the smaller you seem.
WALTER
(unyielding, scrambling)
How DARE you accuse me of lying! I’m proud of my early Cenics!
MARGARET
Then why do you paint over the name?
Walter gasps, floored.
Margaret bores in.
MARGARET
A bit of advice: Don’t use a water-base over an oil. It flecks off.
Walter cowers.
WALTER
You sound crazy! For God’s sake. You’ve … you’ve SEEN me paint!!!!
MARGARET
No, I haven’t.
(quiet; strong)
I always thought I had … but it’s some kind of … mirage. From a distance you look like a painter, but up close … there’s nothing there.
CLOSE-UP—WALTER
All life drains from his face. His eyes go glazed. He speaks mechanically. Tiredly…
WALTER
I studied art in Paris. I went to school at the Beaux-Arts. The Grand Chaumiere. I spent hours in the Louvre, gazing at the greatness of the Masters…
MARGARET
Walter?
He turns. She winces, pained.
MARGARET
Have you even been to Paris?
Walter blanches. He shakes, broken up.
He looks away, then staggers to a chair. He falls into it. Trembling. Not able to look her in the eye…
WALTER
I wanted … I so wanted to be an artist. But—it just never turned out good.
Margaret stares, seething.
Then, without comment, she storms away. She SLAMS the door shut. BANG!
Walter doesn’t move.
CUT TO:
INT. KITCHEN—NEXT MORNING
Margaret makes Jane breakfast, scrambling up eggs.
Jane glances over her shoulder—and notices Walter in the living room, asleep on the couch.
An awkward pause. Jane says nothing.
INT. MASTER BEDROOM—LATER
Margaret is making the bed. Straightening the pillows.
In the b.g., Walter silently creeps into view. Shamefully standing in the doorway. Not speaking…
Margaret knows he’s there, but doesn’t acknowledge his presence. Finally, without making eye contact—
MARGARET
I don’t want you sleeping in this room any longer. I—I can’t keep living these lies.
(sharp)
There’s three extra bedrooms. Go pick one.
He nods.
INT. HOUSE—LATER
Margaret sits, unmoving, trapped in the big house. Outside, a JAPANESE GARDENER trims the hedges.
Margaret stares at the walls, a smothering Walter Hall of Fame: Framed magazine articles on Walter, smugly posed with the Waifs.
She swallows, then gently opens a dresser drawer. Inside is an ORIGINAL WAIF from long ago. A small oil of Jane, when she was a toddler.
Margaret stares … and then her face slowly crumbles.
INT. PAINTING ROOM—DAY
Margaret huddles with a SKETCHPAD. Rembrandt is at her feet. She’s drawing. She looks up, as Walter anxiously enters. He’s holding a drink. He clears his throat.
WALTER
What are you working on?
MARGARET
A new MDH. Something for me. It’s about a woman trapped in an uncaring world. I call it, “Escape.”
Walter bites his lip, afraid to talk.
WALTER
I figured out a solution to our problems.
MARGARET
What?
WALTER
Teach me.
(beat)
Show me your tricks. Then you can pass off the Waifs, and we won’t be lying anymore.
She looks up in disbelief.
MARGARET
And then—YOU’LL paint them?
WALTER
Sure! Why not?
MARGARET
(offended)
Walter, this isn’t paint-by-numbers! You think it’s easy?! It took me years to learn—
WALTER
Y-you’re right!
(sheepish)
But you know me! I’m a quick study. And I’ve got the basics…
He trails off, unsure where this is going.
Trying to rouse her, Walter rushes to an easel and throws up a blank canvas. She eyeballs him.
MARGARET
If you knew the basics, you wouldn’t be at the easel. You have to sketch it first!
Walter tightens, feeling stupid. He lets go of the canvas.
Margaret stares, deciding. Then, she tosses him a PAD.
Walter catches it. Slowly, he crosses over…
ANGLE—MARGARET AND WALTER
They peer at each other, like a Mexican standoff. Then, he nervously picks up a pencil.
WALTER
So …? What’s first?
MARGARET
I dunno. You tell me. You’re the creator.
He frowns.
WALTER
It’s a—Keane.
MARGARET
Oh, a Keane! How witty.
(sarcastic)
You know, when we met all those years ago, I never would’ve imagined in my wildest dreams that one day—
WALTER
YEAH YEAH! Point taken. I’m standing here naked and humiliated in front of you. Look … can we just do a crying child?
She gazes at him. Fingering her pencil…
Trying to jump-start things, he starts to draw a circle—
MARGARET
How old is the subject?
WALTER
Huh? C’mon, it’s a head—
MARGARET
It matters! A young child’s head is round. An older child’s head is oval!
He feels pressured. Hand shaking, he draws a crooked circle.
WALTER
The child is this old!
(angry)
You’re trying to make this difficult—
MARGARET
NO I’M NOT! Every line is a decision!
(impassioned)
It’s easy to talk about art, but it’s not easy to MAKE art!!
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. PAINTING ROOM—MONTAGE:
Margaret easily outlines a head, then two circles for eyes.
Again, Walter copies, but he’s wobbly. Angry, he scratches it out.
Margaret tries to help, guiding his hand. Insulted, he pushes her off. He CRUMPLES the page.
NEW TACTIC: Walter grabs her sketch. He puts it on a LIGHT-TABLE. Despairing, he starts to trace it…
LATER
Walter finally paints. We can’t see the canvas, but he’s very meticulous. His expression quite earnest. He adds a final flourish … and then … a flicker of pride crosses his face. He smiles.
We slowly MOVE AROUND … to REVEAL HIS PAINTING. And … it’s … absolutely dreadful. Kindergarten quality.
Walter stares.
Then, he furtively glances at Margaret’s work. Comparing…
The realization slowly sinks in. He has no ability.
A sadness swells into fury … and suddenly Walter GRABS HIS CANVAS and SMASHES IT AGAINST THE EASEL. CRASH!! The canvas SHREDS. The frame blasts into pieces!
Walter spins. He glares at one of Margaret’s finished Waifs … then explodes, even more enraged. HE PICKS UP MARGARET’S PAINTING AND STARTS TO SWING IT AT THE WALL—
MARGARET (O.S.)
Walter!!
Huh? He lurches, startled.
ACROSS THE ROOM
Margaret stares him down.
Sweaty, chest heaving, Walter staggers toward her. His face scowls, untamed. He clenches his fist, like he might attack Margaret—
Then—he SCREAMS and smashes her CANVAS. BAM!!! The painting RIPS apart. Walter KICKS his foot through the remains, then spins and charges from the room.
CUT TO:
INT. KEANE GALLERY—DAY
TOURIST FAMILIES mill about. Suddenly the door SLAMS open. Walter bolts in, wild-eyed. A bit deranged.
The families gawk—glancing from Walter to his photograph all over: “WALTER KEANE! THE WORLD’S TOP-SELLING ARTIST!”
Walter ignores them. He rushes a buxom REDHEADED CLERK.
WALTER
How’s SALES?
REDHEAD CLERK
Oh, you know. Mondays—
Walter MUTTERS strangely. He snatches some paper and starts scribbling. Then he runs into the
STORAGE ROOM
Walter agitatedly paces, circling the stacks of PRINTS.
WALTER
How many posters are back here?
REDHEAD CLERK
Exactly? I dunno, three thousand or—
WALTER
Does the printer owe us more? Do we owe him??
REDHEAD CLERK
Uh, let me—
WALTER
What about the OILS?! Are there more at the warehouse?
REDHEAD CLERK
Mr. Keane, I’d have to make a—
WALTER
For the LOVE OF MUD! What am I PAYING you for?
The girl freezes, rattled. Walter spins, flipping out.
WALTER
Hypothetical question: If you were a man, would you marry Kim Novak or my wife?
What?
WALTER
Okay! Different question! If I got crippled and had to stop painting, how long before the gallery ran out of inventory and went belly up??
REDHEAD CLERK
(rattled)
Do you want a glass of water, Mr. Keane?
Walter sighs. His thoughts drift away…
WALTER
What’s it all mean? Why are we put on this earth? A hundred years from now, will people even know we existed …?
REDHEAD CLERK
(uncomfortable)
I—I don’t understand. You’ll always be famous. You were on the Jack Paar Show…
(she glances away)
Er, excuse me, sir.
The girl hurries away, to ring up some customers.
Walter silently watches. At the register, the Tourists buy a print. A “Madonna and Child,” MDH-style.
BAMMM! Walter’s eyes bulge, like he’s been stung.
WALTER
It’s not even mine! It’s one of hers.
Aching, he staggers off. Sweating, woozy, he sits at a table.
Distracted, he glances down at a newspaper…
INSERT—NEWSPAPER
There’s an article on the 1964 NEW YORK WORLD’S FAIR. A headline says “CONSTRUCTION RACES TOWARD APRIL OPENING.”
TIGHT—WALTER
His eyes narrow, piqued. World’s Fair??? He leans in…
CUT TO:
INT. BISTRO—NIGHT
A return to the charming bistro Margaret and Walter went to all those years ago, on their first date. The Maître d’ BEAMS.
MAÎTRE D’
Ah! Monsieur and Madame Keane! Delighted! Always such an honor!
ANGLE on the Keanes. They are sullen. At wit’s end.
AT THE TABLE—LATER
They stiffly sit at their old table. He snarls, eyes black.
WALTER
This doesn’t change anything.
MARGARET
(trying to hold her ground)
I know the truth.
WALTER
Who cares?! This is all your fault! Maybe it’s time to shake things up. Start puttin’ my name on the MDHs.
Margaret is astonished. A fury crosses her face.
Returning to the scene of their first date, Walter threatens Margaret to keep her from telling the truth.
MARGARET
NO! Absolutely NOT!! I still hate myself for giving you the Waifs!
WALTER
Quiet! Lower your voice—
MARGARET
Oh, I’ll talk as LOUD AS I WANT—
WALTER
NO YOU WON’T! Or—
(flailing)
I’ll have you whacked!
She jerks, flabbergasted.
MARGARET
What??!
WALTER
If you tell ANYONE, if you squeal, I’ll take you out! I—I know people. Remember Banducci’s cousin? The liquor wholesaler?
Pause. Margaret breaks into tears.
MARGARET
You’re threatening me …?! Fine, kill me! My God, I’ve kept our secret for years! I’ve never once—
(crying)
Do you know what it’s been like for me? I don’t have any friends. I’ve lied to my own child…
Margaret shudders, distraught. Mascara runs down her cheeks. Walter squirms, uneasy with this.
WALTER
Christ, wipe your face! You look a mess.
(beat)
It’s life imitating art! A crying Keane!
He hands her his handkerchief. She dabs at her eyes.
A looming quiet.
MARGARET
What do you want, Walter? Everything with you is calculated. We’re back where we had our first date…
Walter’s eyes widen.
We MOVE IN TIGHT on them. He drops his voice. Dead serious.
WALTER
Look, I don’t deny I need you. You’re the one with the gift.
(beat; hushed)
Right now there’s a shot … God, I’m shaking I’m so excited. The New York World’s Fair. Seventy million visitors. Opening day, I unveil my MASTERPIECE!
She is flummoxed.
MARGARET
What masterpiece?
WALTER
Exactly! What have I been missing all this time?! Da Vinci has his Mona Lisa…Renoir has his Boatmen’s Lunch…But where’s my defining statement?
MARGARET
You sound insane. Artists don’t announce a masterpiece—
WALTER
Why not?! Didn’t Michelangelo know he was hittin’ a homer, when he was on his back painting the Sistine Chapel?
MARGARET
He worked on that for FOUR YEARS!
WALTER
Posterity, baby…!!
She empties her drink.
WALTER
And here’s the best part. It’s for Unicef! Unicef is sponsoring the Hall of Education. Aw, we can finally give back to
the children of the world!!
Margaret stares, wavering…
CUT TO:
STOCK FOOTAGE: The 1964 WORLD’S FAIR READIES TO OPEN. Men on cranes hammer away. Fantastic, futuristic pavilions rise. The Hall of Education gets erected…
INT. PAINTING ROOM—DAY
ANGLE—An INSANELY BIG, BLANK CANVAS. It’s eight feet across, filling half the room. Margaret is in the throes of hastily creating the MASTERPIECE.
Sketches are tacked everywhere. Margaret is chain smoking, sleep-deprived. The DESIGN is a staggering multiracial CROWD of children, mournful, extending to the horizon.
Walter enters, silently scrutinizing.
MARGARET
It’s too big. Why’d you promise them Cinerama size?
WALTER
Because it has to encompass all children. All races! One hundred stricken faces! Marching to infinity! The ultimate Walter Keane!
(beat)
At least that’s what I told LIFE magazine.
Margaret ignores this. Walter does a rehearsed turn.
WALTER
Oh, a publisher says it’s good timing to put out a coffee table book. You know, classy: Tomorrow’s Masters.
(awkwardly “casual”)
So they need my … uh, early portfolio. My artistic evolution…
Margaret’s eyes pop.
That’s it. We PUSH IN … as she struggles to contain her frustration. Suddenly—she SNAPS.
Walter pushes Margaret to paint his “masterpiece.”
MARGARET
You’re right! Where are your preliminary sketches?? All that time in art school, and somehow we waylaid your youthful experiments! The half-finished charcoals, the struggles…