Here is part two.
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SCENE 1.
INT. LOUNGE ROOM. NIGHT.
THEODORE HESSIAN STANDS BY A RECENTLY RAINED-UPON WINDOW. THE ROOM IS DIM, BUT THEODORE'S FACE IS ILLUMINATED BY MOONLIGHT. HE ADDRESSES THE CAMERA.
THEODORE:
The poet's art is best demonstrated by his poetry. One might say it's what makes him a poet. Hark as I read my piece entitled "Black and White are more than Shades":
I wonder if Luther King would be dead,
If we didn't think in black and white;
I wonder if Othello would be read,
If we didn't read in black and white;
I wonder if Michael Jackson would be mad,
If we didn't see in black and white;
I wonder if Mugabe would be bad,
If we didn't speak of "black" and "white".
Might make no difference.
Racism; people think it's important, but is it really? I mean, is anyone's life really affected by their skin colour? Probably not. "Who cares," I hear you shout. "No-one," I hear you say, suggesting the question may have been rhetorical. Well, friend, someone does care. I care, as a poet, thinker, humorist, lyricist, and dedicated humanitarian.
THEODORE MOVES TO HIS ARMCHAIR AND SITS, FACING THE CAMERA.
THEODORE (cont.):
Philip James Bailey, author of Festus, wrote that "poets are all who love; who feel great truths, and tell them". By that definition, I'm a serious bloody poet. My name is Theodore Hessian. If you're literate, you've probably heard of me. If you're not, you're at a major social disadvantage. Get it sorted. Welcome to Theodore Hessian: On Being, Etcetera.
ENIGMATIC THEME MUSIC. FADE TO:
SCENE 2.
EXT. AGENT'S OFFICE. MORNING.
THEODORE SITS IN THE VESTIBULE OUTSIDE HIS AGENT'S OFFICE.
THEODORE (V/O):
As a big-time poet, I have to keep abreast of reviews. While my agent has no artistic ability, her striking physical attributes have made her something of a muse.
A SECRETARY USHERS THEODORE THROUGH TO HIS AGENT'S OFFICE. CUT TO OFFICE INTERIOR. THE AGENT IS AN UNDERSTATEDLY PRETTY WOMAN OF AROUND 35.
AGENT (glances at camera):
Theodore. Have a seat. You're filming, I see.
THEODORE:
I am. The camera is the window to the soul, you know.
AGENT:
That's the eyes, I think you'll find.
THEODORE:
In this context, that wouldn't make any sense. So we'll say camera; poetic license.
THEODORE SMIRKS AT CAMERA.
AGENT:
Fine. Now, reviews of your anthology, Theodore. I've got the first here.
THEODORE:
Give unto me the word of the critic.
AGENT:
It's by Gavin Reynolds.
THEODORE:
He knows his stuff.
AGENT (reads):
"Hessian's ‘Musings from the Omnibus' is alright,"
THEODORE (to camera):
Endorsement.
AGENT (reads):
"But –", there's a "but"; "it would benefit from an injection of talent –"
THEODORE:
Oh; jealousy.
AGENT (reads):
… "just as the poet would benefit from an injection of cyanide…"
THEODORE:
Stop. A fickle fool doth fluster my ears. Art is subjective, Caroline, and he doesn't get mine.
AGENT:
You should take his reviews seriously.
THEODORE (looks at camera):
I do. He said it's alright.
AGENT:
Well, sarcasm –
THEODORE:
"Alright". That's approval… that is approval. Positive review.
CUT TO:
SCENE 3.
INT. LOUNGE ROOM. NIGHT.
THEODORE ADDRESSES THE CAMERA FROM HIS ARMCHAIR.
THEODORE:
I write what I feel. If I feel lust, I will write something that is powerfully erotic, powerfully sensual. I call this piece "Don't Call Me Nigel". And before I read it, I'd like to point out a couple of things. Firstly, there is no comma between "Me" and "Nigel". I intend no implication of homosexuality between myself and a man called Nigel; I am in fact expressing, to the widow of a deceased individual named Nigel, my desire that she stop whinging, forget Nigel, and engage in a sexual and pseudo-romantic relationship with me. Seriously, any persons drawing homoerotic inferences will be prosecuted. So, "Don't Call Me Nigel".
Don't call me him,
Don't say his name;
Nigel.
Don't think I'm he,
We're not the same;
Nigel.
I gave my all,
You saw my shame;
Nigel.
Your love is dead,
Let's share a bed;
Analingus?
FIN.