[THE TURK'S HEAD INN, a clean commodius well-appointed tavern, but by no
means luxurious. Candlelight, fireplace, bottles, glasses, punchbowl; tables,
chairs, booths. It is ca. 1790 in LONDON, about 10:00PM on a September day. A
meeting of THE CLUB is in full swing, about 20 men of various ages and
conditions are sitting and standing in groups, talking and drinking.
[PAN across the room. As we pass the broad back of a sitting man we hear
his voice raised as he speaks to a waiting POT-BOY. We do not see his face.]
JOHNSON: Tea, please. Another pot of
tea.
[Continue PAN, then focus in at a group of three. These are JOSHUA
REYNOLDS, a snuffy old painter, kind, secure; DAVID GARRICK, a successful
actor/manager, vain but approachable; and EDWARD GIBBON, a historian, fat,
fussy, superior. We hear GIBBON more clearly as we come in closer.]
GIBBON: I only wonder if he has the
mental capacities required for membership. He seems unstable, if you ask me.
And frivolous.
REYNOLDS: Well, he's a good young
fellow. Very amusing. And he did write a book.
GARRICK: Yes. What was it about
again? Crimea? Sicily?
GIBBON: Corsica. Another shallow
travels book, neither history, geography, or politics. Every young idiot who
goes abroad must write a book about it nowadays.
GARRICK: That's right. Wants to be
called 'Corsica' Boswell. He's turned up several places dressed in the national
costume.
REYNOLDS: He's young and
enthusiastic. He amuses Sam, and that's the important thing. We founded this
club, Mr. Gibbons, to help Mr. Johnson, not to rival the French Academy. Or to
assist social climbers.
[Gibbon is stung. He was blackballed the first time he applied.]
GIBBON: That's as may be. But
unless he produces better work, the only claim James Boswell will have in history
will be that he was known in the Club. [His eyes are suddenly fixed across the
room at a burst of laughter. He lifts his glass primly.] As its jester. [He
drinks.]
[PAN across to the fireplace, where JAMES BOSWELL, the young son of a lord,
early twenties, is just finishing a bawdy tale to an appreciative audience, in
a broad Scots accent. When he speaks again, however, it is in carefully studied
English.]
BOSWELL: "...I maun nae for
all yair kin beat ye, but I may beat my ain sheep-skin." And he did, too!
[He joins in the laughter, pleased with himself and the attention. He picks
up his glass, sips. An idea strikes.]
Thank you. Thank you all. Indeed, I would like to address the whole Club.
[Picks up a spoon and strikes his glass.]
My friends. My friends, and members of the Club!
[Conversations die down to murmurs as attentions are turned.]
My friends, first I would like to thank you all for my election to this
prestigious 'band of brothers,' if I may quote the Swan of Avon. It is a great
honor, great beyond my years and talents. Indeed, I would not be exaggerating
if I said it is an honor I covet above all others that kings or courts can
bestow. I only hope that the company of such wise friends but improve me as the
years pass so that I may come to deserve what is so generously given me now...
GIBBON: [Sotto] Pigswill. No one
thinks higher of Jamie Boswell than Jamie Boswell.
BOSWELL: And now, most of all, I
want to thank my greatest friend and benefactor in the anxious striving and
achievement of my life, the best and wisest man I know, [Raises his glass] Mr.
Samuel Johnson!
[Calls of 'Hear, hear!' and murmurs of approval.]
BOSWELL: And furthermore, to wish
him on this most happy day, the most heartfelt congratulations on his birthday,
and many more to come!
[There is silence at this, except for a few groans and gasps. A quick PAN
to SAMUEL JOHNSON, who is rising as if at bay from his chair to face BOSWELL.
JOHNSON is a man of some bulk but with a 'gigantick' frame to hold it, and
though in his late fifties is not a man to be trifled with. He pauses a moment,
his face expressionless, then picks his hat off the table.]
JOHNSON: Gentlemen, I bid you good
night.
[Claps his hat on his head, takes his stick, and marches out.]
[General hubbub of disapproval as people turn back to talk and drink.
BOSWELL, crestfallen, joins REYNOLD's group. REYNOLDS looks distressed, GARRICK
disapproving, GIBBON smug.]
BOSWELL: Mr. Reynolds, what have I
done? Why was he so angry?
GARRICK: He wasn't angry, my lord.
[Relents somewhat.] I don't suppose it's your fault. Someone should have warned
you.
BOSWELL: Warned me? Of what?
REYNOLDS: Sam doesn't like any
mention of his birthday, lad. Or of time passing, or of old age coming, or
indeed, of our future state.
BOSWELL: Future state?
GARRICK: Heaven or Hell, sir.
GIBBON: Or the grave.
REYNOLDS: Once I said at a gathering
that some of us might not be there next year and he belabored me for ten
minutes by the clock for being a skeleton at the feast.
BOSWELL: But why? Can it be that a
reknowned philosopher and a religious man, one who has written about the vanity
of human wishes, can he be...well, vain about his age?
REYNOLDS: Lad, no one I know has
less care for his appearance, or his body, than Sam Johnson. No, it isn't
vanity, but a great melancholy that descends on him at such times. We made the
Club, in fact, to get him out of his solitude and into society.
BOSWELL: But why is he so
melancholy?
GARRICK: He has always been so,
since I first knew him, when I was a child and he my teacher. I used to pull
such saucy tricks to make him smile again!
REYNOLDS: Who knows why? Perhaps he couldn't tell you
himself. Something in his past...
BOSWELL: [Truly puzzled.] How could
you be Samuel Johnson and not be happy?
SCENE 2:
[The LONDON STREETS. JOHNSON moves like an icebreaker through the crowd of
rich and poor, virtuous and vicious. He is taller and broader than most. He
walks from jostling to less crowded streets, finally ending in the lonely,
foggy confines of JOHNSON'S COURT. He pauses to take a deep breath in the
quiet, then opens the door to NO. 7.]
SCENE 3:
[Inside is pandemonium. Down a long dark passage to the kitchen comes the
noise of a huge quarrel. PAN down the hall as if in JOHNSON'S perspective till
we come to the kitchen, where we turn the corner and are in the thick of it.]
[The kitchen, though warm and small, is in disarray and crammed with
people. Chief among these are FRANK BARBER, a black man about 30; MISS
WILLIAMS, a blind spinster; MR. LEVET, a stiff elderly practitioner of physic;
MRS. DESMOULINS, the ineffective housekeeper; her 30ish DAUGHTER; two ELDERLY
SERVANTS; and POLL CARMICHAEL, a 'reclaimed' creature of the streets. As
counterpoint to the human quarrel, HODGE, a huge gray cat, is wawling with a
will.]
POLL: [Stamping her foot.] Why? Why
can't I go out?
FRANK: There is only one type of
lady out at this time of night...
POLL: I want to see my friends!
WILLIAMS: Friends, indeed.
Customers, more like. If my old father, the Reverend, were alive to see me
share a roof with such a...
DESMOULINS: [At the cat. Or is it?]
Filthy creature here in my kitchen!
LEVET: [Disapprovingly.] It's not
been the same since you took over, Mrs. Desmoulins.
DESMOULINS: Hark at you, you old
drunk!
WILLIAMS: I can smell it on 'im
from here.
LEVET: A drink is all many of my
patients can offer for their doctoring. It would be an insult to refuse.
POLL: Can I go?
FRANK: No, you will stay quiet.
Tomorrow morning you can go.
POLL: They'll all be asleep!
FRANK: [Who has been repulsing
HODGE's demands throughout this exchange.] Will someone throw this beast out?!
[He gives a sweeping kick that propels HODGE to the hall door. He lands at the
feet of JOHNSON.]
[JOHNSON reaches slowly down and picks HODGE up. He straightens and sternly
surveys the inmates of his house.]
JOHNSON: Good evening. Dr. Levet.
Ladies.
[There are muttered and chastened greetings. JOHNSON soothes HODGE, walks
over to the table and pours cream into a saucer. He takes it and turns to the
door to the back stairs.]
JOHNSON: Frank, I'm going to the
attic. Would you bring me some tea in a few minutes.
FRANK: Yes sir.
JOHNSON: [Turns in the doorway.]
And Frank. Poll may go out. To see her...friends.
FRANK: Yes sir.
[JOHNSON lets HODGE down, takes a candle, and starts up the stairs with the
cream. The cat follows. FRANK glances over at POLL who has a complicated
expression of sorrow, shame, and defiance. She runs out the door. MISS WILLIAMS
reaches out blindly for her tea and sips it with a shake of her head.]
SCENE 4:
[The attic room. We face the door as it opens to frame JOHNSON. HODGE runs
in by his feet. He stands and surveys the room. We reverse angle to see the
room. It is a working library, with three tables and one desk covered with
papers and calf-bound books. There are books in shelves, lining the room. Pens,
slips of paper, inkwells, pencils, candles are everywhere. Dust and cobwebs in
corners and edges.]
[JOHNSON walks into view to the main desk, where he sits, absently sets the
milk down, and lights two more candles. He puts the first candle high on the
desk. He looks at the candles a moment, then reaches to the bottom drawer and
pulls out a journal. He sets it on the desk, opens it, and flips by a few
pages. He stops and reads.]
JOHNSON: [VO] One of my earliest
recollections is of a journey on which my mother carried me to London to be
touched by Queen Anne, it being the belief at the time that such could cure the
scrofula from which I suffered.
[Cut to MEMORY TABLEAU of SARAH JOHNSON and YOUNG JOHNSON at 3 years old,
filmed very close and obscure. An arm dressed in a sweeping black sleeve
reaches toward them, the hand is covered with rings.]
JOHNSON: [VO] I have a confused,
yet somehow solemn, remembrance of a lady in diamonds and a long dark hood.
[The YOUNG JOHNSON looks up in awe as the lady's hand approaches his head.
We see the scrofular scar tissue on his face.]
[Return to attic. Stoic face of JOHNSON as he reads.]
JOHNSON: [VO] It did me no good. We
returned to Lichfield and my father's bookshop with a royal medallion as a
souvenir of the experience, but nothing more.
[JOHNSON takes up pen and begins to write. As he does we FADE into the
past.]
JOHNSON: [VO] My parents were both
well past the age when most people have children, and I was born more dead than
alive.
[SCENE of the JOHNSON HOUSE. SARAH brings BABY JOHNSON through the streets
to the front door. His father MICHAEL, a large melancholy man, meets them, at
first with a glimmer of hope, then after a look in the blanket, with gloomy
acceptance.]
JOHNSON: [VO] My mother, doubting
her ability to nurse me, sent me out to a blacksmith's daughter for that
purpose. Unknown to all she was tubercular, and I drew in disease where it was
intended I gain health. I returned to my parents a poor diseased baby almost
blind.
[Inside the JOHNSON HOUSE, the dining room, 13 years later. MICHAEL is
dithering with several large account books, as he, Sarah, and YOUNG JOHNSON
eat. Slips of paper, scribbled, torn, fall from the books as he flips dazedly
though them.]
MICHAEL: I just can't keep them
balanced, my dear. Juggling the book shop with the tannery. Keeping the orders
straight. I just hope Cornelius can help us get right. Once set correctly I
believe we can keep on, but it's...overwhelmed me.
SARAH: He's done wonders with the
estate that Uncle Neely's left, they say. And he has influence...the Earl of
Chesterfield, just new made, was his friend at college.
MICHAEL: Oh, Sarah, you could have
done much better than me. Better than this poverty...
SARAH: What nonsense. [Fondly.]
Now, you get to work, and when my nephew comes I'll give him the books and see
what he makes of them. [To YOUNG JOHNSON.] And you get to school.
JOHNSON: [Bolts his food.] Yes,
ma'am.
