The Boys in the Band

Synopsis: It's Harold's birthday, and his closest friends throw him a party at Michael's apartment. Among Harold's presents is "Cowboy", since Harold may have trouble finding a cute young man on his own now that he's getting older. As the party progresses the self-deprecating humor of the group takes a nasty turn as the men become drunker. Climaxed by a cruel telephone "game" where each man must call someone and tell him (or her?) of his love for them.
Genre: Drama
Director(s): William Friedkin
Production: Hollywood Classics
  Nominated for 1 Golden Globe. Another 2 nominations.
 
IMDB:
7.7
Rotten Tomatoes:
100%
R
Year:
1970
118 min
4,889 Views


1

Times have changed

And we've often

Rewound the clock

Since the Puritans

Got a shock

When they landed on

Plymouth Rock

If today any shock

They should try to stem

Instead of landing on

Plymouth Rock

Plymouth Rock

Would land on them

In olden days

A glimpse of stocking

Was looked on

As something shocking

Now heaven knows

Anything goes

Motherfucking son of a b*tch!

Good authors too

Who once knew better words

Now only use

Four-letter words

Writing prose

Anything goes

Anything

The world has gone

Mad today

And good's bad today

And black's white today

And day's night today

And most guys today

That women prize today

Are just silly gigolos

So though I'm not

A great romancer

I know that

You're bound to answer

When I propose

Anything goes

Anything goes

Anything goes

Anything goes

Anything goes

Anything goes

Anything goes

Anything will do

Just think of those

Shocks you got

And those knocks you've got

And those blues you've got

From that news you've got

And those pains you've got

If any brains you've got

From those little radios

So though I'm not

A great romancer

I know that

You're bound to answer

When I propose

Anything goes

Anything goes

Anything goes

And it's more than gold

That's what you got

Oh, oh

Oh

It ain't easy...

It ain't easy, no

It ain't easy...

Sh*t.

Hello? Hello?

Hello? Merde!

Here you go.

Hello.

What do you recommend

for a catatonic fit

in a parking garage?

Ask your doctor.

Did you just call a minute ago?

Mm. It must have be Harold.

My doctor just canceled.

Can I come over?

You're about

a day and a half early.

I just got in. I don't think

I'm ready for you yet.

Why did the prick cancel?

Oh, a virus or something.

He said he was

just too sick.

Why didn't you tell him

you're sicker than he is?

Huh. He already knows that.

Okay, come on over.

And bring some ice.

Oh, Michael, don't give me

any responsibility.

At the moment, I can't

cope with anything weightier

than the directions

to your apartment.

Look, if you want a cold martini

when you get over here,

you better cope

with some ice.

I'll cope with some ice.

I thought you said

I was too early.

You heard what I said.

You're too early, and hurry up.

Goodbye-aye-aye.

Seventy-five.

Keep it.

How'd you get in?

The street door was open.

Want a drink?

Nope. Not until

I've had my shower.

I want something

to work out today.

I wanna try to relax

and enjoy something.

I see you managed

to cope with Doubleday.

Or did you meet

a bookmobile on the way?

Ha, ha, ha.

Excuse me.

Are you in a blue funk

because of the doctor?

Christ, no.

I was depressed

long before I got there.

Well, this'll

pick you up.

I went shopping today and

bought all kinds of goodies:

sandalwood soap...

Oh, I feel better already.

Your very own toothbrush,

because I'm sick to death

of you using mine.

Well, how do you think

I feel?

You've had worse things

in your mouth.

And also for you,

something called Control.

Now, notice.

Nowhere on the label

is it called hair spray.

Just simply Control.

And the words "for men"

are written about 37 times

all over the goddamn can.

Hm. And it's called

butch assurance.

Still hair spray,

no matter if

they call it "Balls."

It's all on your very own shelf,

which is to be labeled

"Donald's Saturday Night

Douche Kit."

By the way, are you

spending the night?

Nope. I'm driving back.

Why didn't the prick

call you and cancel?

Suppose you'd driven

all this way for nothing?

Why do you keep

calling him a prick?

Whoever heard of an analyst

having a session with a patient

for two hours

on Saturday evening.

He simply prefers

to take Mondays off.

Works late Saturdays

and takes Mondays off?

What is he, a psychiatrist

or a hairdresser?

Well, actually, he's both.

He shrinks my head

and then combs me out.

Besides, I had to

come in town

to a birthday

party anyway.

Right?

You had to remind me.

If there's one thing

I'm not ready for,

it's five screaming queens

singing "Happy Birthday."

Who's coming?

Well, they're really

all Harold's friends.

It's his birthday,

and I want everything to be

just the way he'd want it.

I don't wanna have to

listen to him kvetch about how

"Nobody ever does anything

for anybody but themselves."

"Himself."

Himself.

I think you know

everybody anyway.

It's the same old

tired fairies

you've seen around

since the day one.

Actually, there'll be seven,

counting Harold and you. And me.

Are you calling me a screaming

queen or a tired fairy?

I beg your pardon.

There'll be six tired,

screaming fairy queens

and one anxious queer.

Listen, I'll be out of

your way in one second.

I've just got

one more thing to do here.

Surgery, so early

in the evening?

"C*nt."

That's French, with a cedilla.

I just have to

comb my hair again.

For the 37th time.

Hair. That's singular.

My hair,

without exaggeration,

is clearly falling

on the floor, baby.

And fast.

You're totally paranoid.

You've got plenty of hair.

No. What you see

before you

is a masterpiece

of deception.

My hairline

starts about here.

All this is just

tortured forward.

Well, I hope for your sake,

no strong wind comes up.

Well, if one does,

I'll be in terrible trouble.

I will then have a bald head

and shoulder-length fringe.

Look.

Not good, huh?

Hm. Not the greatest.

Tsk.

It's called getting old.

Well, there's one thing

to be said for masturbation:

you certainly don't have to

look your best.

Oh. Will you get

out of here?

What are you

so depressed about?

Other than the usual

everything, I mean.

I really don't wanna

get into it.

Well, if you're

not gonna tell me,

how can we have

a conversation in-depth?

A warm, rewarding,

meaningful friendship?

Up yours!

Why, Captain Butler, how you talk.

It's just that, today,

I finally realized

that I was raised

to be a failure.

I was groomed for it.

Naturally, it all goes

back to Evelyn and Walt.

Christ. How sick analysts

must get of hearing

how Mama and Daddy made

their darling into a fairy.

It's beyond just that now.

Today, I finally began to see

how some of the other pieces

of the puzzle relate to them.

Like why I never

finished anything

I've started in my life.

My neurotic compulsion

to not succeed.

Donald, you're

so serious this evening.

Forget your troubles

Come on, get happy

You better chase

All your cares away

What's more boring than a queen

doing a Judy Garland imitation?

A queen doing

a Bette Davis imitation.

Meanwhile, back at

the Evelyn and Walt syndrome.

Failure is the only thing

with which I feel at home,

because...that's what

I was taught at home.

Where did you get

that sweater?

This clever little shop

on the Right Bank called Herms.

I work my ass off

for 45 lousy dollars a week,

scrubbing floors,

and you waltz around

throwing cashmere sweaters on.

The one on the floor

in the john is vicua.

Why, I beg your pardon.

You can get a job doing

Rate this script:5.0 / 1 vote

Mart Crowley

Mart Crowley (born August 21, 1935) is an American playwright. more…

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Submitted on August 05, 2018

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