Some Kind of Beautiful

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It's important you understand.

It's not you, it's me.

What we have is so special.

I love you more than I can say,

but I'm sorry, truly,

because... I f***ed up.

Look...

I owe you an explanation, but honestly,

I don't know where to begin.

Well...

maybe there, at the beginning.

You see, I grew up above a great party.

- Gordon!

- Mommy?

- She's in the kitchen.

- What are you doing?

I'm waiting for your mother to bring out

the hors d'oeuvres. Now bugger off.

After school, I used to love

to listen to my father lecture.

Now the faculty would have me

teach you it was Wordsworth,

Keats, and Coleridge,

who in writing about love,

defined the Romantic age.

And they've told me to ignore Byron.

Mad, bad, and dangerous to know was

how one of his many lovers described him.

He was controversial.

Now did you know,

this esteemed establishment told Byron

that he wasn't allowed to bring

his beloved dogs to college?

So he said screw the rules. He went out

and he bought himself a bear.

Brought it to class on a chained leash.

He tied up to that very pipe just there.

So you see, it was Byron who defined

the Romantic age, which wasn't about love.

It was about going your own way,

defying authority

and following your heart,

sticking it to the man,

and as many women as possible.

Now that... that is Romantic.

And if the faculty

don't like me saying so,

well, they can take this job

and they can shove it.

Because like Mr. Bob Dylan, I ain't gonna

work on Maggie's farm no more.

Dad hated authority,

and everyone loved him for it.

All I wanted was to be just like him.

Forget the critics.

Let them have their opinions.

Let them publish their books and brag

about them at tedious faculty parties,

and let university librarians

file those books away.

The faculty has called this class

"The Romantics and Literary Theory."

I want you all to forget

the second half of this sentence.

There's nothing theoretical

about the romantics.

"Where true love burns,

"desire is love's pure passion.

"It is the reflex

"of our earthly frame...

"that takes its meaning

from the nobler part

and but translates...

the language of the heart."

Wakey, wakey, Professor Haig.

Oh, sh*t. It's Saturday, isn't it?

No, don't look like that.

Are you sure about this?

I mean, I make a terrible

first impression.

Will you relax, Richard?

My dad is gonna love you.

- Really?

- Yeah, you'll have lots to talk about.

Yeah? Corporate hard-nosed raider

meets libidinous lit professor.

- It's a match made in heaven.

- I just want my dad

to meet the wonderful man

I've been dating for the last six months.

- Six months?

- Broke your record, didn't I?

- Crazy.

- "Love is begun by time,

and time qualifies the spark

and fire of it all."

Relax, you're still very sparky, darling.

Really sparky, I mean...

Well, my liege, I must hie me

to Heathrow, thou to London,

- chimes of 6:
00 sharp.

- Sure, of course.

- Sharp.

- Sharp. 6:
00. Chimes.

Sal.

Sal, I've got to go. Why?

Because we've been talking for so long

I've lost track of time, space, and myself.

Hello? Hello? Olivia?

- Not to worry, madame.

- I'll call maintenance.

- We'll fish it out later.

- Are you there? Can you hear me?

- Please don't.

- Hello?

Olivia?

Apa!

There you go. They fishing

your phone out of the drain?

No.

I told them not to.

I am cutting myself off from the world.

Footloose, fancy-free.

Won't that be lonely?

An island unto yourself?

- No.

- Madame?

- Can I have a glass of red wine, please?

- Yes, madame.

No. I would populate the island

with all new people.

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