Park Row

This is Johannes Gutenberg...

Who invented moveable type 500 years ago...

...and printed the first Bible.

Recognised as the father

of modern printing

Gutenberg stands on Park Row...

...the most famous newspaper street

in the world...

..where giants of journalism

mix blood and ink...

...to make history across

the front page of America.

The story takes place in New York...

...in the lusty days

of the 'Golden Eighties'...

...when Park Row was the birthplace

and graveyard of great headlines.

The street of America's

first world-famous journalist...

...a printer's devil who helped draft

the Declaration of Independence...

...and was one of its signers...

Benjamin Franklin...

...patron saint of Park Row.

And, it is the street of Phineas Mitchell...

It'll be alright, officer...

The new licence will be here

first thing in the morning.

What've you got?

Gin fizz Rainbow Egg Nog Mint Julep

Tom & Jerry Tom Collins Whisky Sour...

What'll you have?

Beer!

If you want to make such progress

in our profession...

...why don't you go work on 'The World'?

Pulitzer's introducing

a lot of new things.

It's a fine newspaper, Mr Hudson...

...but I'm not a journalist...

...I'm a machinist.

I'm interested in the problems

of setting type by hand...

...and how slow this is.

Why, Hackett's getting his out

faster than any paper in the country.

Gentlemen always manage to become involved

in katzenjammer over journalism.

I have learned there are 4 subjects

one should never argue about...

Anthropology, bird-calls, romance...

...and of course, newspapers.

You have become a wonderful legend,

Mr Davenport.

It's tragic to remain a living legend,

Mr Mergenthaler...

People only respect the dead.

Often I feel guilty...

...in taking such a long time to die.

But I shall not die...

until I am ready to forsake Park Row...

...which has already forsaken ME.

Mitch!

How about being your pleasure...

Jenny...a keg-drainer...

Stick of straight...schooner chaser.

Mitch...you've got brains...

How can a character like me

get to be a character enough...

...to be written up in your paper?

The prime minister stole

a photograph idea from you.

Look, gentlemen, I'm serious...

I can sing and dance...

I got a wonderful personality...

In fact I've got all the makings

of a delightful character.

Just because I'm not famous...

...people think I'm a bummer.

Jump off the Brooklyn Bridge.

It'd push Ireland's Home-Rule

off the front page.

You'd be cock o' the walk!

The talk of New York!

That's a wonderful idea...

The splash 'd be heard

round the world!

And I'd be happy for the fellow

who jumped off Brooklyn Bridge...

...to marry my Jenny.

I'd be a widow before I got married...

Don't listen to him, Steve!

He's taking you serious.

You know...it's only 120 little feet

from the bridge to the water.

Now, that isn't much of a leap...

...but long enough to make you a celebrity.

And when you open your own place...

You can advertise...

"The Longest Bar in the World!"

Steve Brody's 120-foot bar!

- See it, Steve?

- Yeah...I can see it.

Hogwash!

Longest bar in the world!

I'll have a couple of drinks

and think it over.

Certainly, me boy...certainly...

Jenny!...

A couple of 'Anniversaire'...

for Mr Brody.

The story really bothers you...

doesn't it?

Yeah.

What are you going to do about it?

- Write a 'hankie'?

- No.

Who's crying in your beer

about Charlie Mott?

He's dead.

They've hanged the wrong person.

Should've broken Hackett's neck

on the gallows.

Where are you going?

To the cemetery.

Gonna claim a body?

Nope...gonna lose my job.

The grave people reported

that a habitu of this 'concert hall'...

had the gall to sneak into Potters Field tonight...

...and nail a plaque

to the cross of one, Charles Mott...

...executed by the state, for murder.

I had it removed.

It would have been very simple

to have despatched someone here...

But I personally would like to confront

the man responsible..

...for this accusation against me

and my newspaper.

Every man's entitled to an epitaph.

I nailed it to his cross.

Ah...the ghoul himself!

I'm a newspaperman.

On what paper?

Your paper.

He works for 'The Star', Miss Hackett.

What do you do?...

Shuffle refuse behind the circulation wrap?

Editorials department.

What's your name?

Phineas Mitchell.

Phineas Mitchell?

There is no Phineas Mitchell on my paper.

Firing me won't help the way

you've prostituted journalism.

I'm not running the gallows...

I'm running a newspaper.

He was tried by your paper.

He was tried by a jury.

You sprung the trap.

I simply broke the story.

The story broke his neck.

What was Charles Mott to you?

Nothing.

I just don't like trial by a newspaper

I call a contemptible publication.

I call it peddling papers.

You'd use corpses to peddle papers,

till the readers found out

what a frustrated journalistic fraud

you are.

It's publishers like you that give

anarchists the ammunition

to try and stifle a free press.

Mr Spiro...

Yes, Miss Hackett?

This...defiler of graves...

Who employed him?

I did!

Why?

He's a newspaperman.

And the best!

Oh, I have seen this global monument

somewhere.

He's Jeff Hudson...editorial.

There's no Jeff Hudson on MY paper.

This?

I don't know him.

That?

Thomas Guest, cartoonist...unemployed.

Mr Davenport...

It displeases me to see YOU

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