Cradle Will Rock Page #3

the Scottish play in the Caribbean.

- Ah, yes.

- Carlo commented afterward he'd never seen anything like it.

And he's from Vienna,

you know.

I would be very interested to cultivate a

relationship with yourself, Mr. Welles and Carlo.

- What's the name of your opera, dear?

- Le Cordonier Desespere.

The Cobbler In Despair. He sings

passages from it to me all the time.

- He can't seem to get it out of his head.

- Yes.

- Poor Carlo. Such a sad man.

- Shh!

His store of pleasures

must be sauced with pain!

Now, worthy Faustus,

methinks your looks are changed.

- Gentlemen.

- What ails Faustus?

Look, sirs, comes he not?

Comes he not?

Yet, Faustus, look up to Heaven.

- Hey, cue lightning! Goddamn it, Abe.

- Cue lightning!

That's late. If the cue is late,

it will get a laugh.

We do not need this laugh.

It's a stupid, embarrassing laugh.

Concentrate, folks.

Now, do it again.

Yet, Faustus,

look up to Heaven!

Which one

is Mr. Welles?

He's the, um, ranting madman

with the Blue Boy wig.

I gave up my soul

for my cunning.

That's my cue.

- It's not your line.

- What's my line?

- It's Bert's line. Bert, say your line.

- No, it's his.

- Say the line!

- Oh, God forbid!

- Oh, God forbid!

- Break time. Break time!

Union break! Fifteen minutes!

The date is expired. The hell with

the theater, and the hell with you.

I've got to go have

a coffee and a fart.

Never mind that for the first time

in this goddamn rehearsal process...

we were in the middle of a discovery

essential to making the play work!

I... need... a smoke!

You're not actors,

you're smokers!

You wouldn't know the church of the

theater if it smacked you in the mouth!

- Shut up, Orson, or I'll smack you in the mouth.

- F*** you, john!

You're not a believer,

you're a worker.

Damn right. And you're not a director.

you're a dictator!

You're atheists!

You have no respect for the theater!

This isn't a game!

This isn't a goddamn cocktail party!

- This is work! It's hard work!

- Blah, blah, blah, blah.

And if you're not willing

to give your blood to it,

then it isn't worth it

because you'll never make theater...

with your coffee klatch

union breaks.

You will make...

pageants...

without truth,

without soul!

Bloodless,

sweatless, shallow,

lily-white pageants...

signifying nothing!

I'm going, Jack!

You can give them a two-hour-long smoke.

We'll pick up...

with the Seven Deadly Sins.

Right!

He has his moments.

He is busto,

multidissimo.

It's so fascinating. I've always wanted

to observe the process of art-making.

- So what happens now?

- Now we wait for the prima donna to return.

- Willie!

- Sandra!

- Baby!

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