Ed Harris Monologues

I planted evidence on a guy once, back in '95. We were paying $100 an eight-ball to snitches. We got a call from our pal, Ray Likanski. He couldn't find enough guys to rat out. Anyway, he tells us there's a guy pumping up in an apartment up in Columbia Point. We go in, me and Nicky. Fifteen years ago, when Nicky went in, it was no joke. So it's a... it's a stash house, right? The old lady's beat to shit, the husband's mean, cracked out, trying to give us trouble, Nicky lays him down. We're doing an inventory, but it looks like we messed up because there's no dope in the house, and I go in the back room. Now, this place was a shithole, mind you? Rats, roaches, all over the place. But the kid's room, in the back, was spotless. No, I mean, he swept it, mopped it; it was immaculate. The little boy's sitting on the bed, holding onto his playstation for dear life. There's no expression on his face, tears streaming down. He wants to tell me he just learned his multiplication tables.

I mean, the father's got him in this crack den, subsisting on twinkies and ass-whippings, and this little boy just wants someone to tell him that he's doing a good job. You're worried what's Catholic? I mean, kids forgive. Kids don't judge. Kids turn the other cheek. What do they get for it? So I went back out there, I put an ounce of heroin on the living room floor, and I sent the father on a ride, seven to life.

Fucking A! You gotta take a side. You molest a child, you beat a child, you're not on my side. If you see me coming, you better run, because I am gonna lay you the fuck down! Easy.

Is the kid better off without his father? Yeah. But okay, I mean, could be out there right now pumping with a gun in his waistband. It's a war, man. Are we winning? No.

Kids forgive, they don't judge, they turn the other cheek, and what do they get for it?

It's the kind they give you in Lousiana.

Well, it all depends on how you look at it. I mean, you might think that you're more from here than me, for example. But I've been living here longer than you been alive. So who's right?

That's the worst thing we could do.

Because I don't want to see Cheese kill Amanda after he opens a bag full of newspapers.

I don't see a note. Do you see a note?

We're investigating a missing children's case here. Kidnapping has nothing to do with it. The fastest way to get Amanda home is go to Cheese, swap the money for her, and walk away. Plain and simple.

Just keep your mouths shut, okay? We'll get her back. It'll be fine.

We're all so frightened by time, the way it moves on and the way things disappear. That's why we're photographers. We're preservationists by nature. We take pictures to stop time, to commit moments to eternity. Human nature made tangible.

People are taking more pictures now than ever before, billions of them, but there are no slides, no prints. Just data. Electronic dust. Years from now when they dig us up there won't be any pictures to find, no record of who we were or how we lived.

Let me tell you something. Happiness is bullshit. It's the great myth of the late 20th century. You think Picasso was happy? You think Hemingway was? Hendrix? They were miserable shits. No art worth a damn was ever created out of happiness. I can tell you that. Ambition, narcissism, sex, rage. Those are the engines that drive every great artist, every great man. A hole that can't be filled. That's why we're all such miserable assholes.

Let me tell you something, happiness is bullshit. It's a great myth of the 20th century. You think Picasso was happy? You think Hemingway was? Hendrix? They were miserable shits. No art worth a damn was ever created out of happiness. I can tell you that much.