Popularity is the slutty little cousin of prestige.
A man becomes a critic when he cannot be an artist, the same way that a man becomes an informer when he cannot be a soldier.
I’m drunk? Yes, I’m drunk! I’m supposed to be drunk! Why aren’t you drunk? This is Carver. He left a piece of his liver on the table every time he wrote a fucking page. If I need to be drinking gin, who the fuck are you to touch my gin, man? Listen, you fucked with the period, you fucked with the plot so you could have the best lines, you leave me the fucking tools that I need! Oh, come on people, don’t be so pathetic. Stop looking at the world through your cellphone screens. Have a real experience! Does anybody give a shit about truth other than me? I mean the set is fake, the bananas are fake, there’s fucking nothing in this milk carton, your performance is fake. The only thing that is real on this stage is this chicken. So, I’m gonna work with the chicken.
You’ve been hanging around here trying to make yourself invisible behind this fragile little fuck-up routine but you can’t. You’re anything but invisible. You’re big. You’re kind of a great mess. It’s like a candle burning at both ends, but it’s beautiful. No amount of booze or weed or attitude is going to hide that.
Okay, just stay with me. “I’m the wrong person to ask,” he says, but what is that, what is the intention in that? Is he fed up with the subject so he’s changing it, is he deflecting guilt over the marriage? And here’s the thing, you’ve got four lines after that that all say the same thing. “I didn’t even know the man, I only heard his name mentioned in passing, I wouldn’t know, you’d have to know the particulars…” The point is, you don’t know the guy, we f – king get it. Make it work with one line: “I didn’t even know the man.” Right?
Riggan, your gun is ridiculous. I can see the red plug in the barrel, so you look like a kid with a plastic toy when you point it at me. I don’t feel threatened at all. Get a better one. Have some self respect, please.
