Knock, knock. Everybody decent?
Oh, for fuck's sake. Carnations?
Who would dare?
"Brooke Astor."
Relentless.
There.
Hellebores, your favorite.
Better.
Oh.
I'm so tired.
No, it's not a hangover.
In fact, you'll be proud to know I haven't had a drink in three months.
The first weeks were agony,
but now I swear I really don't even crave it.
Just the thought of a drink makes me squirm.
Serenity, courage and wisdom.
There are many wonderful things about sobriety.
The little catchphrases are not among them.
Scooch over, dear. Let me lay down.
Oh.
You're positively frigid, Babe.
Everything's frigid without you.
Is it better in there?
I may be joining you before too long.
Knock, knock.
May I come in?
Let me in, please.
Let me in.
- Hello? - Hey, Jack.
Let me in.
Let me in, Jack. Please, let me in, Jack.
- Tru? - Please, let me in.
- Are you okay? - I just wa--
Wanted to come in.
I need to--
Something smells very good.
Is that garlic? Do you like garlic now?
I like a lot of things now, but I've always liked garlic. Are you drunk?
I am as sober as Pat Boone on a Sunday.
May I please come in?
I'm seeing someone, Truman,
and I would prefer not to inflict you on him,
even sober.
Well, I certainly can't blame you.
Mmm. It smells so good.
What is that? Tomatoes? Rosemary?
It's a Bolognese sauce, Mr. Capote.
- Oh. - I made pasta too.
Please stay. I've always wanted to meet you.
All right. Come in.
No, no, Nick. The drugs, the drink, I can't anymore.
It led to real problems,
as I'm sure poor Jack has no doubt told you.
He only says glowing things about you.
Is that true, Jack?
In fact, it is.
Oh, and yet here we are, trying to live without each other.
Oh, hey, "I get along without you very well."
I think Nick is too young to know that tune.
Are you writing now, Truman?
I know everybody asks you that, but I've read everything you've ever--
I'm going to finish Answered Prayers actually.
But, um-- and Jack may like to hear this--
it's going to be, um, my apology for "Côte Basque."
An apology? Really? You, Truman? Hmm.
- Hmm, and a kind of masterpiece. - Hmm.
An apology and an explanation to all the people that I hurt.
The Swans and...
A confession of my misdeeds, and the reasons, and how I hurt them.
But fiction, you know, as was "Côte."
Well, it's too late for Babe to forgive you.
And Bill Paley won't. Just forget that.
And what if, uh, Lee and Slim say, "Too little, too late. Fuck off"?
Hmm. Well, let me ask you a question, Jack.
Why do you always forgive me?
Who says I do?
Well, I'll tell you why.
Because apologies, when heartfelt, matter.
Because that is how the heart is built.
It wants to forgive.
Hmm. Does it?
I think this may be wishful thinking on your part.
No, I've seen it.
On death row with those boys in Kansas.
I've seen, you know,
people want both to forgive and to be forgiven.
Well, what do you think, Nick?
Uh, well, uh, I'm a bishop's son.
"Do not judge and you will not be judged.
Do not condemn and you will not be condemned.
Forgive and you will be forgiven."
Thank you for letting me in.
At the door, you looked so stricken. Why?
Oh, just old ghosts, you know.
No, I'm happy for you.
You deserve someone good to love you.
And so do you.
Sober, writing, you're just, uh-- You're very easy to love like this.
No, but I don't want love. I want forgiveness.
And not just for what I wrote, but f-- for what I have done.
Whether these people forgive you or not
may have more to do with who they are than anything else. It's--
When you're apologizing,
there is only one person to be thinking of and that is yourself.
Everybody else can figure it out on their own.
It was the end of the world, and I couldn't decide what to eat.
Some version of life would go on for some.
But for myself, P.B. Jones,
the closing of La Côte Basque was an event of cataclysmic proportions.
Usually, when an institution is shuttered,
it takes years for the spirits and poltergeists
to creep from their hiding places.
But at La Côte, they just couldn't wait.
All the ghosts had come for lunch.
There was Sidney Dillon with his wife, Cleo.
The murderess herself Ann Hopkins
at a table with her mother-in-law, Hilda Hopkins.
Lee and Jackie were there.
And in a far corner was none other than Lady Ina Coolbirth herself.
Ina was shunting my gaze.
She was still bitter over how I'd bandied about her story of Sidney
and the governor's wife.
In fact, everyone in the dining room had been a victim
at one time or another of the author's indiscretions.
I had come this very afternoon to dine with one such embittered soul.
Kiki Kasperzak.
Kiki entered with the flushed look of one just in from a polo match.
She wore a red number she picked up in Palm Beach
that only a certain kind of woman could get away with.
She was one of them.
Hello, P.B. Jones.
Kiki.
What does one order for last supper?
The answer to your question, P.B., is all of it.
-We'll take everything, Jules. -Thank you.
We passed the afternoon gossiping and eavesdropping.
At the far table, Lady Ina was being stood up,
though she tried to play it off.
Would you care to order, Ms. Coolbirth,
or prefer to wait for your companion?
Companion?
I'm not waiting for anyone. Of course, I'll order.
Companion. Please.
Though it was plain to see she'd ordered her champagne with two glasses.
Meanwhile...
I'll have a numbingly cold glass of limoncello with a sprig of mint.
Hmm. How refreshing. I'll do the same thing.
In that case, just bring me a Campari soda.
Poor Jackie.
She can't even help herself stealing her sister's drink order.
And at the best table, Cleo Dillon was writing something on a napkin.
A room number at a hotel in Midtown.
Out with it.
Something on your mind, P.B.?
I'm sorry, Kiki.
You should be.
She had spent the last five years waiting to hear only those words.
What I wrote was cruel.
No, you've got it wrong.
It's not what you should apologize for.
What really stung, P.B., was...
where you lied for profit.
On purpose.
You cheapened the nuance of our lives.
You understood how imprisoned I felt in my life.
Trapped.
And what you wrote didn't acknowledge any of that.
It's a two-dimensional cave scratching.
Saying we ate, we drank, we fucked, and, God, we hated each other.
I trusted you to show me I was more than that.
You knew how I felt.
I wanted to go back.
Back to the person I was before life happened to us all.
To me.
You're right.
And I will never do that again.
It may be too late...
but maybe not.
Well, I do have one other small thing I could offer.
What I had was a plan.
A way to set free, in some small way,
the spirit of that goddess in the gilded cage.
To let her be the girl she had once been.
Whoo!
To hide the great symbol of her wildness
somewhere the judges and whisperers could never see it.
But the dreamers and poets and cowboys might.
The farther we drove, the more she changed.
She was becoming herself.
Raw, uncut, pure, concentrated, happy.
She was America.
Whoo-hoo.
The hotel it hung in in Mexico City was shuttered.
A ruin.
But I figured this place had some life in it.
I used to drink and fuck here.
It's another story.
And suddenly, I understood what freedom was.
Real freedom.
It was something that could only be experienced by those who had suffered
and been stifled.
Silenced, forced to pretend.
Ached.
Hey, Diego Phan.
We'd like to sell you this gorgeous nude.
Yeah? How much?
Two whiskeys.
I like it.
It'll look good over the juke next to the armadillo.
The cowboys will love it.
Now, who's the girl? She's a real killer.
Oh, beautiful women.
Women stay beautiful forever unless they're evil.
So many evil beauties.
Well, I wasn't evil.
Well then, cheers.
To late freedom.
It was the product of years and years and years of longing, hoping.
And when freedom came,
it washed over you like a tidal wave all at once
when the universe decided it was your time.
Maybe it wasn't the end of the world after all.
Maybe for Kiki, the world was just beginning.
What do you think?
I don't know. It's out of character for you.
More like your juvenilia, frilly.
The kind of stuff you used to pound out before you found your voice.
What a load of shit.
That's not very kind, Mother.
Here, take this.
I'm on the wagon.
Your writing is a little stiff. It'll loosen you up, okay?
The warmth, that's what you're looking for.
Now take it. Jesus.
Now, that's funny.
The drink, how it helps.
Now your criticisms, which sting like a wasp,
I can barely feel them anymore.
I have to criticize you, Tru.
You represent me, you always have.
Come on.
If it weren't for me reminding you,
would you ever strive to do better?
No.
Let's get to work on the next part,
and let's try to make it a little less fruity.
Right.
- "Less fruity." - Mm-hmm.
You really never change, Nina.
Well, I think the muse has revealed herself.
Oh, you're gonna like this next part, Mama.
Lady Ina's string had run out in the late middle part of her life
amongst the famous and the rich and whatever society was left at the apex.
She was now hungry, bitter, and she sure was lonely.
It was young hustlers, Navy boys and gigolos in assignations
at the Wales Hotel in Carnegie Hill.
But she wanted love again.
Or, if not love, at least power.
And if not power, well, security would do in a pinch.
No, no, no. Not you.
-Stop. Please, just stop. -Fuck off. Leave me alone.
You know, my legs are shorter than yours. I can't keep this up.
- I saw you come out of The Whitney.
Stop, please, would you?
What's on at The Whitney? Is it the Claes Oldenburg giant ice-pack sculpture?
I met a girlfriend for soup in the cafeteria.
Who has time for art now?
-What is it you want? -To be able to talk again.
Talk?
Are you insane?
Why didn't you think of that before you turned me into--
Lady Coolbirth? That person I am now.
Ow.
And then the venom from his deadly snake bite
finally just drained out of her.
And what was left was a lingering sorrowful anger
comingled with a yearning and a bone-deep exhaustion.
Maybe she was just tired.
Maybe she realized how much she regretted.
Maybe she suddenly felt how much energy it had taken to loathe him.
But for whatever the reasons, she let him follow her home.
You're not packing like Cleo taught us all.
These should all be delicately wrapped.
Who has the fucking energy for tissue paper?
Cleo's gone.
And where I'm going, nobody's watching me unpack.
Are you really gonna stay mad at me forever?
You know where I'm moving to?
To a little one-bedroom "cottage" in Santa Barbara.
A place called Hope Ranch.
- Hopeless Ranch. - Oh, fuck.
It's always foggy there.
Perfect. Another old broad on the beach,
collecting sand dollars, drinking cheap vodka.
Nobody around because you made me unlovable.
-Un-fuckable. -No, you're so fuckable, dear.
Nobody even liked your goddamn story,
so it's not like it could've been worth it.
It didn't even get you out of financial trouble.
You gained nothing, but you made me a joke.
You made my dreams and ambitions seem so ugly when it was all I had.
I consisted of my ambitions, you fuck!
And why am I even taking these?
They're from Japan.
I got them, then Betty Bacall did,
and everyone said hers were prettier.
Your story cast its spell and took away everything I had!
Throw it.
Throw the dish at me.
At me, at Cleo, at Bacall, at everyone.
But for Christ's sake, you've got to get rid of this anger.
Throw it!
It's worth a fortune.
And after I picked up
and flung the first priceless piece of china against the wall,
it was open season.
Lady Ina went berserk.
Enough plates.
I've missed you.
And I you.
And I know exactly what you need.
To be the special one for once.
My own Black and White Ball?
-But you'll wear red. -Really?
Bill Blass is waiting to design it for us.
The second Black and White Ball,
and it is to honor Lady Ina Coolbirth!
Yay!
It surpassed the prior ball
in terms of splash, publicity,
exclusivity and glamour.
The guest list was even grander.
The champagne flowed freer.
This time, no soggy chicken hash, but beluga caviar from a Russian in Paris.
And Lady Ina Coolbirth was a dazzling vision. A triumph.
It was rumored that she was about to be named
Chief of Protocol at the White House
or Ambassador to the Court of Saint James.
Or at very least, Head of the Academy of Motion Pictures.
Maybe all the above.
And it was also the night she met her final and most deeply felt love.
The love story she had always been denied.
- What do you think? - Yeah.
This Lady Ina Coolbirth,
she's a trooper.
You've always been drawn to strong women like me.
I'm not sure you were all that strong.
I think it was a very dry teat I was suckling at, Mother.
Let me in!
Let me in! Please!
Hey, F-Fredrick. Freddie.
Would you, uh, run down to the lobby and get me some smokes?
I'm almost out.
Son of a fucking--
Jesus Christ. What is the matter with you?
What?
They're gonna bill me for this.
Why can't I come dance too? Like this?
And do my special thing?
Oh, stop it for God's sake.
My-- Jesus. You are a basket case.
Doesn't it ever bother you, the way people stare?
Mama, I don't like that man.
Let's just be me and you.
Oh, you don't like that man, huh?
You like your little bow tie, don't you, huh?
And your gingham shirt
and your Fauntleroy trousers,
and those suspenders.
-You like those, don't you, huh? -Mm-hmm.
Well, they all cost money.
And money is what Mama doesn't have.
That's why I have to woo and marry a man like that.
Without you messing everything up.
"A boy."
That's the last thing they always say when they're running for the hills.
"Oh, I didn't know you had a boy."
I wanna tell them, "I don't. Have you seen that little thing?
- The way he flounces? - He's not a boy at all."
"Lucky me, I got myself a sideshow attraction."
I told him you were my nephew.
I said I was doing a good turn for my wayward sister
who's on a boxcar train somewhere between here and San Francisco.
It was pretty good, wasn't it? Huh?
All right. Now, listen to me.
You stay in here
and be just as quiet as a little mouse.
And then, Mama's gonna give you the very last dance of the night, okay?
Shut up and just stay in here, all right?
And don't make any more noise. Goddamn it.
Ooh, you look beautiful.
Let me in!
I will say, this chapter is superior to the other.
Stronger.
Here. Have another drink.
You're onto something, don't lose the flow.
Oh. Oh. Wait.
And here. Boy.
Here.
Try a few of these. Hmm?
They'll keep you going.
Look at these pills.
Like lozenges of pure relief.
What a century.
The meds. Boy, oh, boy.
But you--
You just sit here and write.
Come. Make them love you again.
Oh, and here. Take a few more bennies.
Keep you going.
P.B. Jones walked into the restaurant,
and there wasn't the usual collective frisson of worry.
Just ease. He spotted Lee.
Why are you so down on California, for Christ's sake? You used to love it.
-Hi. -Oh, Jesus.
Her latest husband,
a famously gay minor moviemaker with an acid tongue.
More acid even than hers.
Specializing in ballet flicks and flimsy celluloid smart-assery.
Burt Moss. Nobody's idea of a good guy.
No, I've got something for you.
Oh, what could you possibly have for me, you snail darter?
-Look. Read it. It's your memoir. -Oh.
I know you're stuck.
It's got your voice.
I am giving you this book, and it'll be as if you wrote it.
- I know you wanted literary credibility.
I found it very easy to write in your voice because I know you so well.
She knew she'd not been blessed with the talent
or even the force of will to finish such a book.
But that didn't matter because he was doing it for her,
and it was as true and right as if she had done it herself
because P.B. knew where all the bodies were buried.
And she would finally be better at something than her fairy-tale sister.
It's utterly beautiful.
- It's me. - No, it-it's--
Okay, fine. What's the shrink's number?
"And I can give you something else you want,"
says P.B. Jones quietly.
She looked at P.B.
"I can help you get rid of that mistake."
"What mistake?"
-"The film director," he says. -Yes. Yeah.
"I can help you kill the smarmy little fucker."
How did you know?
-That was a mistake. -Mmm.
He likes chorus boys and Bijan of Beverly Hills
- and Jerry Robbins and yachts. That's it.
Well, we can get rid of him.
♪ Woke up this morning ♪
♪ Wanting to cry ♪
♪ Then I remember ♪
♪ Yes, I knew why ♪
Now he was going to help his aggrieved friend remove the latest grief.
And in so doing, reestablish his own primacy in her life.
A friend again.
A friend to warm the phone lines and have someone to gossip with again.
A friend indeed.
There had been too many small and large humiliations to bear in this life of hers.
Enough was enough.
And now she had accidentally on purpose married a viperous homosexual.
And everyone knew.
A dancer turned director. And how that stung.
But P.B. had, in his travels, learned a lot,
including how to poison someone using nicotine.
A Russian sailor had taught him
that parlor trick in a flophouse in the seaport of Split in Croatia.
It was a matter of taking the liquid form of the substance
at a very high concentrate and finding the right delivery system.
Will this really work?
And after feeding the victim some sort of sleeping pill,
in this case, a nicely ground up fistful of Seconal--
Another good title--
In some very good single malt whiskey.
Injecting the concentrate of tobacco behind the ear.
I read your latest story while you were napping.
Did you read the Lee stuff?
The book isn't working for one reason,
and I'll tell you what that is.
You may be writing about the end of society,
the last gasp of a dying class, their habits and foibles,
but there is no discernible raison d'être...
because you are not in touch with your hatred.
All these stories about the Swans,
it's all about them letting you back into their hearts.
You bringing a gift to make up for it.
So write about my suicide.
Why is that so hard for you?
You were in your late 20s when I did it.
You weren't a baby.
Do you think that made it hurt less?
Did you ever even read the police report, huh?
Don't you walk out on me.
You're drunk, Nina. Of course, I'm having affairs.
How else would I survive you?
You walk out on me
and you will never stop paying the bills for it.
Do you understand?
No!
"Accidental overdose."
How did they know? There was nobody there.
That's the story you should tell.
The story of the black swan.
I don't want to tell that story.
Please.
I'm not asking.
I'm demanding.
I'm your mother.
Can you show some goddamn respect?
She's getting ready. I can smell it.
I know this scene.
Oh, boy.
I hope you're prepared.
Please don't-- Please.
You know, you told me that of all your Swans,
of which I was only an honorary member,
that I was the one that reminded you most of your mother.
Well, you had the same exhausted look of terror in your eyes.
Which you have, too.
I recognized it.
Maybe that's why you were so cruel to me.
Could you ever forgive me for what I wrote about you?
Never.
There are some things that are beyond forgiveness.
And the others won't forgive you either.
If you publish the finished Answered Prayers,
even if you think you're being kind, it'll just make it worse.
Those friendships died with "Côte Basque,"
the golden age of society,
which you-- you helped kill.
Perhaps it was a--
- a subconscious final gift to your mother.
And to yourself for never feeling like you truly belonged.
So what can I do now?
I think you know.
Poor Nina.
Don't you wanna say goodbye?
I'm not good at goodbyes.
I can't.
My masterpiece.
The book or your soul.
It's up to you.
Light it.
Go on.
Are you comfortable?
You got your notepads, your pencils, erasers,
alcohol, tobacco, firearms.
You need anything else?
Uh, just a muse to whisper in my ear.
Oh.
I got you. I got you.
Oh, God. Truman, what have you done?
What did you do?
I'm gonna get some towels.
Why did you come, my mother?
Oh, Truman.
Truman.
Mama.
It's so cold.
I'm so cold.
How could this be California?
Beautiful.
What are you saying?
Beautiful Babe.
Beautiful Ba--
No.
Jack, are you still there?
Yes, I'm still here.
So the book, is it there?
He said he was going to finish it out there.
- Huh? - The last time I saw him,
he said he had a grand plan for Answered Prayers.
Oh, Jack. He was in no shape.
I know. I know.
Truman.
"Grand plans."
It just seemed like there might be something to it this time.
No.
I picked up one of his notebooks by the pool.
What was in it?
Gibberish.
It was just one thing written over and over.
"A dream, a dream, a dream.
A dream that's as real as stubbing your toe."
Whatever that means.
Oh, what are we gonna do, Jack?
Now that he's not here anymore to tell us what to do.
Do you wanna plan the memorial?
Um.
No, you should do it.
He was closest to you at the end.
He wanted to be cremated.
I'll take care of it.
Bye.
Up next, this very special item
from the estate of the late Joanne Carson
the second wife of Johnny Carson.
This very unusual item.
Miss Carson was a great and loyal friend of the great writer Truman Capote,
who died at her home in Bel Air in 1984.
And today, we're selling his ashes.
And this is a historic lot, friends,
because this is the first time in the modern era
that a celebrity's ashes have been at auction.
And we're going to start the bidding right now at just $2,000.
2,000 right there in the back of the room, 2,000.
There's 2,500. We have the next bid at 25 right here.
3,000 is the bid right now.
3,000 on the phone.
3,500 is the bid right now.
Friends, remember you are bidding against
an entire world on the phone right now.
3,500 is the bid I'm looking for right now. Thirty-five is the bid.
Friends, think about this.
Miss Carson famously said that these ashes,
having them, gave her great comfort.
In fact, she kept them beside her bed.
4,000 is the bid I'm looking for now.
4,000 right now. 4,500 will be the bid.
45 is the bid right there. Thank you.
5,000 is the bid I have. 5,000 right there, number 110.
-Darby. -$6,000 from a bidder from Hong Kong.
6,000 is the bid, looking for 6,500.
The lady in green, thank you.
7,000 is the bid, looking for seven.
Now I have $7000 looking for eight. Seven--
-7,500 from Berlin. -7,500 from Berlin.
Now we have eight. Looking for nine.
9,000. The lady in green, she's back.
9,000 is the bid right now, looking for $9,500.
Friends, think about this.
If Truman were here right now, he'd be loving this.
I mean, this is a scene, and he loved to cause a scene.
How about $10,000? 10,000 from...
-Can I keep going? -Yes, it's fine. You can afford it.
- Tell me when to stop. - And we're at 11,000 now.
11,500 from the lady in green right there.
12,000 right behind her. Thank you.
12,500 for Mr. Capote's ashes.
12,500 is the bid right now.
13,000 from the lady in green. Thirteen-five.
14,000.
14,500 in the back there.
15,000 right there. Fifteen and a half.
16,000 is the number we're looking for now.
Sixteen is the number. 16,500...
...for Mr. Capote's ashes going once for $45,000,
going twice, going three times
to a mystery buyer in New York confirmed.
And at $45,000,
sold!
$45,000.
I wonder who bought them.
Some oligarch for his library maybe?
- I'm just glad we got out when we did.
Look at all these flip-flops people are wearing.
And to a formal auction.
The world is so graceless now.
I never thought society would simply evaporate.
What happened?
Everything ends.
- Shall we go have lunch? - Mmm.
The Polo Lounge.
It's the only place left that's a little like New York.
Mmm, nothing's a little like New York anymore.
Not even New York.
Jesus. What a dump.
Let's get out of here, hmm?
Amen to that.
Come on, dear.