The Dark Half

(whispers) Miss Bird...

...said...

...brightly.

(birds twittering)

(twittering reverberates)

(doctor)

Does that make you feel funny, son?

You don't feel woozy?

Like you might faint?

- No, sir.

- Good.

I know it's writin', Thad.

This all started just about the same time

you started with your stories.

- Sittin' in the dark, squintin' to see.

- (doctor) Hm.

Couldn't that be it, Doctor? Couldn't

all this come from strainin' his eyes?

Possibly. But these sounds,

these bird sounds he's hearing.

Sometimes a smell or a sound can be

a sign of something more than eyestrain.

I don't think we have an emergency,

but we'll have to watch it, Thad.

- Wanna be a writer, do ya?

- Yes, sir.

If he's so determined,

you oughta buy the man a typewriter.

We have our eye on a used one.

Been savin' up for it.

Maybe we ought to go ahead

and buy it, huh, Thad?

Seven-thirty, Thad. You'll miss your bus.

Let's go, hotshot.

Thaddeus.

My Lord. All this in one mornin'?

(whispers) Thaddeus!

Polly! There's something

wrong with Thad Beaumont.

Stay in your seats. Stay in your seats.

Thad? What's wrong, honey?

Three-by-five-centimetre window in

the upper-left anterior portion of the skull.

- (nurse) BP is steady at 120 over 80.

- I'm opening.

- Oh, my.

- (anaesthetist) Slight fluctuation.

Hilary! Remember where you are, please.

(nurse) Respiration normal at 65.

(screams)

- Get someone in here.

- What in the world is it?

It's nothing. Once it was a twin.

- Now it's nothing.

- A twin?

Unborn, but absorbed into the system.

We'll continue with 18 units of valium,

packed cells.

We have an eye...

...part of a nostril...

...two teeth.

Hm. One of the teeth has a small cavity.

A year ago this was probably

submicroscopic in size.

Somehow it... got itself going again.

The damn thing actually started to grow.

- Incredible.

- Don't ask me why.

All I know is that we've located

a very rare sort of... tumour.

Close call, folks,

but I think we got here just in time.

I'm getting

a slight elevation in blood pressure.

What the hell...?

Beautiful in Atlanta, no delays. Dallas,

Fort Worth, experiencing thunderstorms.

Watch out for serious weather in this

area. Could be some tornado activity.

Strong thunderstorms back through

the central Rockies as well.

Honey, can I... Can Mommy have that?

Thank you very much.

William. Don't... don't do that, buddy.

- Oh, I'm sorry.

- A born editor.

- It's not that bad, is it?

- (William gurgles)

Guess it is. Just a sec.

I got something for you.

I act like a pure klutz.

There. Play with these things.

- What do you think, Mommy?

- Sh. Just a minute. I'm on the last page.

- Not much?

- Not much?

- It's wonderful.

- There's not a lot there.

I stay up all night

and produce nine lousy pages.

- Nine perfect pages. It's great.

- But is it a best seller?

Who cares?

It's gonna be a great book, Thad.

You're doing it.

You are actually really doing it.

Oh...

It's not comin' outta me easy.

(Thad) We are human beings. Plural.

Each one of us is two separate beings.

There's the outer being,

the one we show to the world at large.

Inhibited, timid...

- Often a pathological liar.

- (laughter)

And then there's the inner being.

The truthful one.

Passionate, uninhibited, even lustful.

And most of us keep that inner being

hidden away, locked up.

But the fiction writer doesn't have to hide

it, doesn't have to keep it from anything.

He can let it out,

bring it out in the open, let it live.

Hell, he can give it the car keys, let it ride!

Yes!

In fact, he has to do that.

It's essential. The writer has to let

that inner being out of the lockup.

He has to let it have a voice in his work

otherwise the work itself will be inhibited.

Timid. Without passion.

It'll be a pack of lies.

I think we'll cut it short today.

I was up all night working.

- That inner being kept me awake. I...

- (laughter)

Your stories are due on Wednesday.

Don't forget.

Uh, w...

would you autograph your book for me?

Just make it out to Fred. Fred Clawson.

- That's not my book.

- Isn't it?

No. Look here.

Hm?

The picture's a phoney.

The name too. "George Stark. "

Phoney.

I know all about it.

(Clawson)

It's my turn to be storyteller, OK?

There's this writer, see?

Let's call him "Beaumont".

He writes a coupla highbrow books

about yuppies and faggots.

The critics rave but nobody buys,

so he changes his style.

He starts writing

about tits and tough guys.

- He dreams up this badass character.

- Machine.

- Yeah.

- Alexis Machine.

He calls himself George Stark, so his

mother won't find out he writes this sh*t.

He slaps a phoney picture on the back,

boom! He sells a million copies.

So he writes three more of these things.

Boom, boom, boom. He gets rich.

- Not that rich.

- Rich enough, I think. Rich enough.

So, what's he gonna write next?

A nice big cheque, if he wants me

to keep my mouth shut about this.

And if he doesn't want?

- What if he doesn't care what you do?

- Oh, he wants. He cares.

And if he doesn't,

the people around him do.

They got a major-league scam goin' here.

There's a million Americans out there just

waiting to lay out their 29 and change...

...for George to give 'em another hard-on.

They believe in George Stark. They

believe he's writin' about sh*t he knows.

They find out they've been lied to, that 29

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