Hi.
Okay, here she is, folks. Kitty Dean.
That a girl, Kitty.
It's 38 degrees in New York this morning. The time is 10:49.
Should I call and get our table for lunch?
Goodie-good.
And Big Mama? Bring lots of gossip.
Everything about him is designed to rivet:
The appearance, the demeanor, and, of course, the voice.
The voice?
To the lucky person who has never heard it...
I can only say imagine what a Brussels sprout would sound like...
if a Brussels sprout could talk.
He's so magical...
you soon forget the most unforgettable sound in the world.
Here's a word I loathe: eccentric.
Eccentric is a word that boring people use to describe someone I think of as interesting.
A great many people think of me as eccentric simply because...
when I have my shoes polished I have the entire shoe polished...
top, sides and soles.
Some people think it eccentric...
that every morning I have my maid iron my money.
When I told Truman I had my maid iron my money, do you know what he said?
Here's what he didn't say, "How eccentric."
Here's what he did say, "How wonderful!"
You can forgive a person a lot who really enjoys you.
He's loads of fun wherever you go.
He's the rarest thing in the world, a good talker who is also a good listener.
How could Leland have been bored with you?
Even someone who doesn't speak English can look at you.
He listened to me the way you'd listen to announcements in a train station...
just enough to hear if there's an emergency.
Oh, well. He's with Pamela, and I need to move on.
Maybe you can...
but tout New York is dividing into the Slim or Pamela camps.
Babe and I are the head Slimites.
Tru Heart.
Oh, have you heard about Tracy?
Yeah. Having her eyes done, I know.
Well, a little more than that. She's gone off to have an abortion.
Oh, who's the father? I presume not Dick.
Chas Fitzgerald.
Oh, perfect. Does Dick know?
I think she should just tell Dick it's his.
- She can't. Dick's infertile. - What?
- Everybody knows that. - Well, I'm sure they do now.
Did you see the paper?
Yes. There's a story that's stuck in my teeth like a little piece of pull candy.
What is it?
Well, these well-to-do farm people out in Kansas...
were murdered in the middle of the night in the most gruesome way imaginable.
- Do they have any idea who did it? - No idea.
But that won't affect the piece I want to write for you.
I want to explore how a crime like this affects a town...
where everyone trusts each other.
It may be preferable that we don't know the identity of the killers.
Exactly. Because what I imagine everyone is now afraid of is:
"Who among us did this horrible thing?"
It used to be you'd look at someone and think, "There's old Mr. Busybody."
Now you think...
"Did you do it?"
Oh, I can't bear the thought of you going to Kansas.
Whom will I talk to?
Oh, that reminds me. Did you hear about Tracy?
- The eyes? - More.
Abortion.
Oh, I just saw her at Sotheby's. She bought an adorable Degas.
I wanted it for the guest bath...
but Bill wants to put the little Giacometti man we have in the hall there.
Tell him nobody wants to go to the bathroom and find a little man in there.
- I know it from bitter personal experience. - T-Bone.
How did you find out about Tracy?
Slim. But I'm absolutely sworn to secrecy.
I'm only telling you because you're my dearest friend.
Nelle, as my oldest and dearest friend, do you think the Kansas thing is good?
Are you joking?
That small town stuff, that suspicion, that gossip?
That is your world as much as this, maybe even more.
- How were they killed? - Shotgun.
But there's a caretaker not a hundred yards from the house.
How could he not hear four gunshots in the dead of night?
Maybe he did it. Did you consider that?
Maybe. Though the victims were bound and gagged...
which suggests at least two in the killing party...
one with the gun to make them cooperate...
and one to tie them up and make them sorry they cooperated.
The father and boy were shot in the basement...
the mother and girl in their beds.
- How do you know all this? - I called the D.A.
May I tell him who's calling, please?
Yes, dear. This is Truman Capote.
I'm sorry. The district attorney doesn't take calls from strange women.
And what did you say?
Who says I'm strange?
They can judge for themselves soon enough. I'm going down there in a week.
Which of your pillbox hats do you think they'll like best?
Why didn't Jack come tonight? If he's your fella, he's always welcome.
Truman and I...
had a taste for one another's company above all others...
but we weren't a together-wherever-we-go couple. He's very social.
I'm not...
especially with that crowd.
Jack didn't...
approve of us.
He has the social graces of a syringe.
Jack is just so iron, you know, he's so, "That's that."
Before he knew Truman...
he was married to a darling actress named Joan McCracken.
They were dancers together in Oklahoma! and he was mad for her.
And then the war came, and he went away and he came back.
And she told him that she'd had an affair.
Well, he was so humiliated...
that not only did he end their marriage that night...
but he stopped sleeping with women altogether and he switched to men.
Can you imagine?
Curing your distaste for infidelity by turning to men?
What if one of the people you interview is the killer?
And what if he thinks you know?
He's already committed four murders, you think he'll spare you?
Honey, is this your funny way of saying you're worried about me?
- Doesn't it seem dangerous? - Come with me, then.
I can't. I'm trying to write my book.
Well, then it's O sole mio, off I go!
- I don't want anything to happen to you. - Honey, I'm indestructible.
- Much to everyone's regret. - Not mine.
Come with me. Your book's all done.
Well, I am intrigued...
but I want to get started on my new book before Mockingbird comes out.
How near did you say the caretaker lived to the main house?
Nelle grew up with him in Alabama.
She based the other little boy in To Kill Mockingbird on Truman.
Aptly enough, she named the child Dill.
People always mention his effervescence...
but one must remember that at the center of any bright flame...
there's always that little touch of blue.
Truman's parents deserted him at an early age...
leaving him with elderly relations in my town.
And Truman always disguised his shame over the absence of his parents...
with grand tales of adventure and glory.
"My daddy can't be here, he's an aviator."
"My mother's a photographic subject, but they're coming for me"...
he would always say. "They're coming for me."
Every year at Christmas...
our elementary school did a pageant through the center of town.
And one year, Truman wrote his parents that he was the star of the pageant...
though he was only a snowflake like me.
But, no matter, it worked.
They wired him to say they'd take the train from New Orleans...
and get there just in time for the pageant. They even said...
they'd stand right by the cannon in the square so they could cheer him on.
Well, we marched through town and as we got closer to that cannon...
I could see him straining to see his parents.
When we got to that cannon, he stopped...
forgetting we were supposed to be marching in time to the music.
He stopped and he stared.
They had not come.
I thought for a minute he might break.
And then he threw his arms up in the air...
and twirled himself all the way over.
A cartwheel.
And then again. And again...
all the way down the street...
till his tears were gone.
Truman adored Nelle.
She and Jack were just about his only non-society friends.
I will say it stung him when she won the Pulitzer.
He might not have minded her winning one, but only if he'd already won two.
I've always been interested in crime.
Daddy was a lawyer, and sister too.
I studied the law as well...
but I either lost my nerve or came to my senses before taking the bar.
But when Truman asked me to go to Kansas...
it was deep calling to deep.
Detective Dewey!
- Do you have any leads yet? - Nothing I can discuss.
- Detective Dewey! - Jimmy.
Yeah. Will you confirm that there is more than one killer?
I will not.
Well, of course there was more than one, unless the killer was a hypnotist.
Beg your pardon, ma'am?
It's illogical to suppose there's only one killer.
The Clutters were tied up. To tie them up...
he'd have to put his gun down.
Once he put the gun down, the Clutters would run for the hills.
- I don't believe I know who you are. - Or what.
I'm from out of town.
- What's your paper? - Ladies Home Journal?
Oh, I'm not a reporter. I'm a writer.
May I see your press card?
Good heavens, I don't carry any such thing.
But I do have a passport back at my hotel room.
Would you like to come back and look at my little picture?
I'll need not only the facts of the case...
but how this terrible crime has eaten away at the foundation of trust...
that makes up your community.
- I see. No. - And I... What?
No reporter has special access.
Sir, I'm not writing a news story. I'm from The New Yorker magazine.
I'm writing a psychological study of a village...
and how that place is affected by a vicious crime.
I will not be careless in my depiction.
I shall labor over every word, every sound.
The final result must be just so...
as dazzling and unique as a Fabergé egg.
Right. And I got a crime to solve.
But I don't care whether the crime is solved or not.
I sure as hell care.
The Clutters went to our church. They were friends of my family's.
No access.
Oh, you are very, very foxy.
I can see I'm gonna have to work extra hard...
to get around that foxy manner of yours.
Isn't he foxy? But don't you worry, I...
It was lovely how you didn't care whether or not the murder was solved.
- Lovely. - Quiet.
Would you folks care for a cocktail?
Yes, a gin and tonic, please.
I'll have J/B on the rocks...
with a tiny curl of lemon and a splash and a half of water.
A what, on the rocks?
J/B.
It's a type of Scotch, dear.
You want me to see if we've got any?
That would be a wonderful beginning.
Yes, ma'am.
I think we need to come in a little under the radar here.
I know where you are headed...
but you of all people know how impossible it is for me to modify myself.
I'm not saying get married and have kids...
but maybe come in on little cat's paws.
It's no use. This cat has long, noisy nails.
Anyway...
I'll call Dewey's office in the morning and request a proper interview.
- It might better suit his vanity. - Thank you.
- Let's start talking... - Thank you. Thank you.
Thank you.
In the meantime, let's start talking to people.
We don't need his blessing for that.
I think we should just speak to people on the street.
Yes, and in our nicest way, the way that would most put people at ease, say...
Madam!
May we ask you about the gruesome murders out at the Clutter home?
Maybe you should drop the word "gruesome."
Sir!
Excuse me, sir.
My friend and I would like to talk to you about the tragic events of November 15th.
Sorry, ladies.
Do you think everyone keeps calling me "lady" to be mean...
or can they honestly not tell?
I know I'm not Charles Atlas, but even Ethel Merman doesn't have this.
No. Hers is thicker.
Mr. Capote.
Is this all? No messages?
No, sir.
I simply don't understand why Alvin Dewey won't return my calls.
I've telephoned three times.
Nelle!
Care package from Babe!
It's beluga!
Let's get some Ritz crackers and eat it right now.
Let's. And you know what I think you should do tomorrow?
Go see the Clutter place.
Honey, if Alvin Dewey won't return my calls, I'll never see the house.
You know everybody on the planet. Call somebody.
And please tell the duke and duchess I am sick to miss the dance.
I will.
Bennett hears wonderful things about your book.
I almost don't care what the critics say...
as long as I can be allowed to write another.
Your dream of being the Jane Austen of Alabama will come true.
Anyway, Bennett knows the head of Kansas University...
who knows the Clutters' lawyer.
The killers came in this way.
Any messages?
Princess Margaret...
and Noël Coward.
No Dewey. Again.
They're in both ways over there.
Right, but this particular form goes under last name.
- That whole stack? - That's the one, yeah.
Is this a good time?
Yeah. Come on in.
Ma'am.
What can I do for you folks?
Well...
you can begin by serving me a large slice of humble pie.
I've come to apologize for acting too big for my britches.
As you see, I even got new britches.
Yeah, well, no harm done. Real nice of you.
I wanted to explain myself.
I'm trying to create a new kind of reportage.
Have you read my book The Muses Are Heard?
Well, it was very well received.
It's about an American opera company going to Moscow to perform Porgy and Bess.
Now, if I relied only on what the press managers told me...
it would have been no different than a newspaper article.
But I treated the people with the emotional and psychological detail of a novel.
I see, so you're doing something different than a regular reporter.
Yes.
And I can't really know how people feel without your help.
Oh, well, I can tell you how they feel. Terrible.
They'll feel better when this is solved.
Yes. I agree. And that's...
Look, I wish you well with your project. But no access.
I'm sorry, but Nelle and I will have to stay for Christmas.
Why?
Because no one will talk to me.
I've got to stay until they forget about me and can open up.
No one forgets about you.
What will you do for Christmas?
Of course, everything will be closed...
so I thought before I'd go to the market and get a nice cheese...
some ham and olives.
Slim sent a wonderful Burgundy.
Nelle and I can make a picnic at the hotel.
VELVEETA
Excuse me?
- Could this be all the cheese? - Well, how much do you need?
Mine is a matter of quality, dear, not quantity.
Oh, you mean other types of cheese. Goodness, no. Not here.
- Are you staying for Christmas? - Yes, we are.
What will you and Mrs. Capote do for your Christmas supper?
If this is the only cheese I find, Mrs. Capote and I might try cyanide.
Would you like to come to our house for Christmas supper?
Really? Like for a party?
It's just not right you don't have Christmas supper in a home.
That is so kind of you.
Nelle will be thrilled. May I ask your name?
Hi.
What?
We are spending Christmas with the Deweys.
This just isn't right.
What isn't right is for two people to spend Christmas alone.
If there's two of them, they won't be alone.
Hi. We're here.
- Merry Christmas. - Merry Christmas.
I know you said not to bring anything...
but my daddy would kill me if I showed up for company empty-handed.
We brought you fruitcake.
And she doesn't mean me.
My wife, Delores.
- Truman. - Foxy.
- Thank you. - My wife, Delores.
And here is our son, Paul.
Hello, Paul. Merry Christmas.
You gonna watch the game?
I got $25 on it.
Truman, you like football?
Not much.
Though I must admit it always sends shivers up my spine...
when the men get inside that little huddle and whisper.
We have treats.
I have kind of a party question.
I hope it's not too awful or mean.
That sounds fun. Let's play.
Paul Dewey. Don't you wanna come in here and sit with the grownups?
Since it's Christmas...
I thought we could all take turns telling what is the worst present you ever got.
Mine was a shawl from an elderly neighbor lady. I'm not a shawl lover.
- Me neither. - They're never warm enough.
Are my ears working properly?
Am I the only one here who loves shawls?
Don't look at me.
My goodness, I love shawls.
I have several.
I think the prettiest one is the one Jennifer Jones gave me.
Jennifer Jones? The movie star?
Yes. We were in Rome making a picture called Beat the Devil...
and I was struggling to write a scene for Bogie...
when I began to feel the most inhuman pain.
Bogie? You mean Humphrey Bogart?
I mean Mr. Lauren Bacall, yes.
I was trying to write a scene for him and Peter in which they both...
Wait a minute. Who's Peter?
Peter Lorre.
But I had a terrible impacted tooth, and so John...
- Wayne? - Garfield?
Kennedy?
Huston?
John Huston, the director?
John told me he didn't care if we had to shut the movie down...
I was going to the hospital.
So I thought:
"Well, if I have to be in a Roman hospital for God knows what length of time...
I may as well have something with me to make me feel good."
So I wore the beautiful Balmain shawl that Jennifer gave me...
and, if I do say so myself...
I felt and looked dreamy.
- Did you meet Humphrey Bogart? - Meet?
My dear, every night we had drinks and dinner...
and, once, poker!
You played poker with Humphrey Bogart?
I had a disadvantage in that...
I didn't know the game in the way that Bogie or Frank did.
Frank?!
Sinatra.
Experience had taught them things...
a relative novice such as myself may not know, like, well...
did you know that three of a kind beats a pair?
So, I did not defeat Mr. Humphrey Bogart at cards...
but you may be interested to know I soundly beat him at something else.
Arm wrestling.
Hold on now.
You expect us to believe...
that you beat Humphrey Bogart at arm wrestling?
Twice.
You're good.
Good match, sir. Thank you.
Hey. I just beat the guy who could beat Humphrey Bogart.
Cool. You wanna come over and see what I got?
You didn't beat Humphrey Bogart, did you?
You don't think I'd defeat your child on a Christmas afternoon...
with everyone here thinking what they do about me?
That would be a gift of switches and ash.
But you didn't beat Humphrey Bogart, did you?
All right. Roll up your sleeve.
No, no, no.
Scared?
Well, I'll be.
Listen, Foxy. When you're tiny you have to be tough.
This world isn't kind to little things.
So glad you could make it.
- Hope you'll come back. Thank you. - Thank you. Merry Christmas.
- Merry Christmas. Good night. - Come on.
Bye-bye.
Foxy, check under the tree.
Hello?
No, they just left.
Well, I know it, but the time flew. Guess what?
He knows Ava Gardner.
And Humphrey Bogart.
And Betty Bacall. That's Lauren Bacall.
And she got right into the kitchen and helped. They are so sweet.
Anything good?
Merry Christmas from the queen mother.
She loves me.
Babe.
Slim.
Who's this?
"Mrs. John Stimmell called to invite you and your friend to dinner."
Who's that?
It says she's a friend of the Deweys.
How nice.
Look, here's another. "Please call Mrs. Dorn about dinner.
Friend of the Deweys."
Well, that sounds lovely.
Nelle.
These are all invitations!
Then Ava said:
"I'm not afraid of the police. It's Frank who scares me!"
And Marilyn said, "Better sorry than safe!"
Marilyn Monroe.
Bonnie Clutter is such a dear and I...
Was such a dear.
Oh, goodness.
It's hard to put a friend in the past tense.
It seems so sad, especially since Bonnie wasn't well at that time.
What was the matter?
Oh, well, I shouldn't say.
I just don't think she liked to be with folks so much.
But if you ever did see her, if you ever did...
oh, she was always good old Bonnie.
She was going through the change of life.
That's all?
You try it. It's enough.
Well, there were four of us went to the house to clean up...
clean up...
all the damage and the mess.
We used to go out to Herb's to hunt pheasant.
It was strange driving out there knowing what was waiting for us.
The couch where the boy had been.
It was just, I mean the bodies were gone, but...
good Lord, just seeing that couch.
Or the mattress box where Herb had been.
There was so much blood.
Sometimes in big, wide pools.
Sometimes in little spatters. I was going up the stairs...
and then I saw a big spot on the banister...
and I almost...
I swear...
well, that was worse than the big stuff on the floor. Because I thought:
"It made it all the way up here?"
I can only say I was a Marine...
and nothing ever got to me the way this did.
Herb was one of the most respected ranchers in this state.
If there was a list that told you how to succeed with honor...
well, he just did everything on it.
You see, he worked hard, he took care of his family...
and when he went to church, he just didn't get his time card punched.
No, he went in and he listened.
And I've always believed that whenever you do something right...
it gives you a little bit of weight...
so that you come to feel rooted to this earth, you know? Solid. Secure.
Now what scares me is that...
well, sometimes, out of nowhere...
a bad wind blows up.
Now it could be cancer, could be drink...
could be some woman that don't belong to you.
And despite the weight that's holding you to the ground...
when that wind comes, it picks you up light as a leaf...
and it takes you where it wants.
We're in control until we're not.
Then we're helpless.
"If you ever saw her, she was always good old Bonnie."
No, no. She said, "If you ever did see her, if you ever did, she..."
That's right.
"...she was always good old Bonnie."
Good ear.
Drink?
Well, obviously the mother wasn't right.
Oh, I don't know. It just sounds like menopause.
I hope not. That's a little grubby for my novel.
Your novel?
What are you talking about?
I think this story is bigger than an article. I think it's a book.
I can see that. But non-fiction, right?
Yes, of course it will all be true, but...
- But what? Either it is or it isn't. - You're not understanding.
I wanna to bring fictional techniques to a non-fiction story.
What fictional techniques? The ones where you make stuff up?
Excuse me, if I were gonna make stuff up you think I'd bother taking all these notes?
You obviously plan to turn Bonnie Clutter into some faux poetic recluse...
when what it sounds like is that she was just thrown off by her menopause.
What is your stupid fucking point?
That you shouldn't be doing what you're doing.
The truth is enough!
I must say I don't appreciate this lecture from you of all people.
Mockingbird was based on true things, and you sure improved that.
Right. It's a novel!
Reportage means re-creating, not creating.
This is a new kind of reportage!
I'll say.
Okay. "But if you ever did see her, if you ever..."
- I remember. - Fine.
- It's your book. - Yes.
My seventh.
- Okay, okay. - How's your book coming?
It'll take me a long time to shape, but...
thanks to Nelle, who's been a gift from heaven...
and you all...
we'll probably only need a week more here.
- Well, I'm gonna miss your Kansas steaks. - Well, we'll be sorry to see you go.
Is there any news? You know I can't give you special access.
We got them.
- What? - What?
We caught them. Just like you said, there were two of them.
The killers? We caught the killers?
Who are they? Are they in jail right now? Can...?
They're in Las Vegas. I got to get right out there.
- Can I come? Oh, please, Foxy?! - Not this time, partner.
Well, there isn't gonna be another time. How many times you gonna arrest them?
I'm sorry.
Honestly, Marie...
how can you stay married to such a mule?
Maybe now you'll get a whole night's sleep.
Congratulations, Foxy.
This kind of changes your book.
You're telling me.
Of course, if I thought it was hard getting the townspeople to open up...
how in heaven's name will I ever get the killers to talk?
Look, look. They're here.
Pardon me. Pardon me. Pardon me. Excuse me.
I can't see the other one.
There he is.
No way. No press inside the prison.
I have many connections in government.
Perhaps I could have someone call, explain what I'm doing?
You'd pretty much have to know the president of the United States...
before I'd let you visit these boys.
Suck my cock, you cocksucker!
I never snack.
You want to kiss my asshole, bitch?
I'd prefer it to your face.
You want to write a book about me?
If my jackass teachers could hear you say that!
- Did you ever write a book? - Certainly.
My first novel, Other Voices, Other Rooms, was heralded by critics...
as the most exciting literary debut since...
Yeah, okay.
- You a queer? - Yes.
Because I'd let you suck me.
I'm not a queer, but letting you suck my dick don't make me queer.
It makes you queer. A mouth's a mouth.
Well, thanks, I guess, but no.
- So then what's in it for me? - Money.
I'd give you a share of my royalties.
I got two kids by my first marriage.
Maybe I can give the money to Lacy, my ex. Would you help me write her a letter?
I'd be glad to.
Okay, I'll do it. The Clutter deal was my idea.
I shared a cell with a piece of rat shit called Floyd Wells...
who told me old man Clutter had a safe with $ 10,000.
Dick says you first heard about the Clutter safe from his cellmate...
Floyd Wells.
- Is that right? - Well, he told you, didn't he?
Yes, but can I trust him?
He's in jail.
I wouldn't trust him.
You don't want the only perception people have of you to come from Dick.
- I can help get your side out. - Don't bullshit me.
You don't care about my side.
- You're not trying to help me. - Well, this would be helpful.
You'd be entitled to a share of the royalties.
And what would I do with royalties in here?
- You might get out, and you could use... - We're not getting out!
I said no bullshit and you gave me more bullshit.
Go away.
He'll loosen up. How's Dick?
Dick? He just goes on and on and on.
Perry probably shot the Clutters just to get Dick to be quiet.
I have to have both sides.
How do you get your New York lady friends to tell you everything?
My swans?
I figure out what they need.
Gossip. Comfort. And I give it to them.
So find out what Perry needs. In the meantime, get all you can from Dick.
Surely he'll shed some light on Perry, hm?
The man and the boy we took to the basement.
Now, here's something.
When I wanted to enjoy myself on the girl, you know, knock her box out...
Perry says for me not to touch her.
But then, when he's tying up that boy, he put a pillow under his head.
And told the old man to lay on a mattress box...
because he said the floor was cold.
Too cold to get shot on?
Why do you think he did that?
And I said, "You losing your nerve? 'Cause we can't leave no witnesses."
And he said, "No," but I thought, "Are you a faggot?"
Putting that pillow for the boy, telling me not to crack the girl.
But other times he's okay.
Didn't seem like a faggot when he splattered their hair on the wall.
No, we didn't want to kill them.
We wanted to get in and get out without a trace!
Perry wanted us to get stockings for our faces.
But that shit-ass store where we got the gloves only had light-colored ones.
You could see my eyes through them. Pick me up out of a lineup. That was no go.
So Perry says we should go to the hospital and buy black ones off the nuns.
And I thought that was a damn crazy idea...
but I didn't feel like fighting with him...
so I went and huddled behind the door, and I came out and said:
"Catholic bitches wouldn't sell me none."
And what did Perry say?
He said:
"Any.
Catholic bitches won't sell you any."
Really?
- He corrected your grammar? - Listen, sugar.
Perry Smith...
fancies himself an artiste.
Hey, baby. You wanna suck my dick through the bars?
Yours couldn't reach through the bars.
The only way to deal with vulgarity is to rise above it.
I had a similar experience with my friend, Tennessee Williams.
The artist and intellectual?
Never mind.
Nobody here likes this kind of thing.
I do.
I'd like to hear it.
Well, Tennessee and I were in this bar once...
when this very drunk woman came up to me and said:
"May I have your autograph?" I said, "Why, yes, dear."
She said she didn't have a piece of paper.
So she pulled up her shirt, pointed to her bellybutton...
and asked me to autograph that.
So then she hands me an eyebrow pencil...
and I write my name all the way around her navel like a sundial.
All of the sudden appears her angry and very drunk husband who says:
"Since you're in the mood for signing things, why don't you sign this?"
And with that, he unzipped his fly and hauled out his manhood.
Well, what'd you do?
Well, the room was graveyard silent.
I looked him up and down and said, calm as I could:
"Well, I don't know if I could autograph it, but perhaps I could initial it."
What kind of stuff does Tennessee Williams write?
I know his name, I just can't think what are his books.
He's a dramatist. He wrote A Streetcar Named Desire.
- That Brando was in? - The very same.
Marlon Brando is the fucking king!
Now, he's one of my two favorite actors.
- Who's the other? - Humphrey Bogart.
I beat Humphrey Bogart.
And Alvin Dewey too.
This is the most black-hearted thing you have ever done, Nelle Harper Lee...
and I will never forgive you.
Oh, hush your silliness. You're all set now. Perry's ready to talk.
I need my life back.
There are a few fires I need to rekindle.
Well, goodbye. I hate you!
Thank you. You too.
- How's the vanquisher of Bogart? - Okay.
Tell me more about him.
Well, I think we should talk about some other things first.
Like what?
Nothing. I just don't have a lot more about Bogie.
I do have a very amusing story about Marlon Brando.
I once spent an entire evening with him, just the two of us...
and he told me all about his life before he became a star.
Are you guys friends?
Well, I wouldn't say that. He's told people he wants to kill me.
What for?
He didn't like the way I portrayed him in my article.
He claims he told me certain things off the record.
Well, you couldn't just check your notes?
I never take notes.
I employ a memory technique that gives me almost a hundred percent retention.
Well, "almost" is the key fucking word.
I may miss a word, but never a meaning.
If you miss the right word, you will.
You've got a hell of a fucking nerve.
What are you trying to bother a great actor like Brando for?
You misunderst...
See, this is why I don't wanna to talk to you!
If you want to make me look like some asshole, you will.
Perry, I never judge my characters.
Well, here's something for you to remember all 100 percent of...
I am not a character.
I'm a human-fucking-being.
- Guard! - Perry Edward Smith!
I am writing this book with or without you.
You can get involved, so I can make you a three-dimensional human being...
or you can continue this foolishness...
and I will head straight back to New York and write what I want!
Is this my party?
Truman!
Welcome home, my darling. We missed you so much.
I don't believe I've ever said this:
Tell us about the killers.
Well, their names are Dick Hickock and Perry Smith.
- Have you met them? - Met them?
My dear, I've been in their cells.
I have goose flesh.
When you're talking to them, they seem like perfectly nice boys.
To be frank, I'm much more concerned for my safety around Norman Mailer.
Dick speaks about what happened without any sense that it was wrong.
- It was just something that happened. - What about Terry?
No, it's Perry. As in Antoinette.
He's an enigma.
You know, before he killed the Clutter boy he put a pillow under his head.
And he wouldn't let Dick rape the girl.
- He's not all kind. - Jack's right.
After these demonstrations of gentility, he did shoot them dead.
And cut the old man's throat.
There's something...
I can't quite put my finger on it.
It seems insane to say that he's tender...
but he does have the tender and the terrible side by side inside him.
He's very...
He's very?
Never mind that. Let's go around the table...
and you can all tell me whom you're having affairs with.
Oh, goody.
Bennett?
In his letters, Tru Heart always says: "What's the new thing that everyone loves?"
And, as any of us with children know...
the big new thing is not on Broadway or even on CBS.
Sorry, darling.
- It's this. - And you see your child bring it home...
and you think, "I am simply gonna have to slit my wrists."
And five minutes later...
you're doing it.
Doors closed, of course, but you just can't resist it.
I did.
Well, assholes aren't much for dancing.
Oh, dear.
How's your writing coming, Jack?
Well, let's hear it.
Well, when Babe told me anyone could learn it...
I bet her $ 100 she couldn't teach me, and I now owe her $ 100.
Slim and I will show you how it's done, and then we hope you'll jump right in.
- You, especially. - Needle's on.
Oh, my word.
- Come on, my protégé. - All right, teacher.
When she taught me, I said, "What are the other steps?"
She said, "There are no other steps."
- Who's next? - Who else?
No, how do I?
That's what I said. It's not a dance.
- You're putting the cigarette out. - Oh, putting the cigarette out.
Truman?
- Just put your foot out there. - Oh, wonderful.
What are you doing there?
You're doing something with your arms.
- Then we go down. - Oh, my word. What is that, flamenco?
I'm so sorry about Jack. I almost fainted when he insulted Bill.
Bill can take it, believe me.
Jack has a moral certainty that's so oppressive.
Moral in what way?
Just that anything fun is a crime against my art...
certainly not moral in a personal way.
We have an understanding that if we need something sexual...
and the other isn't there to provide it, that...
I understand.
I hardly ever wander, but he does.
We don't discuss it. I can allow it more if I know less about it.
But doesn't even the idea upset you? I mean, how can you bear to think of...
or keep yourself from picturing...?
Honey, what is it?
Bill is having an affair.
Babaling, no.
Please, you absolutely must not breathe a word of this to anyone.
It will die inside me.
How did you find out?
Our bed sheets were stained.
- Okay, well, now I could vomit. - Of course, he couldn't give it to the maid.
Well, no.
So, he got on his hands and knees in front of the tub, and he scrubbed them.
But it didn't quite come out.
And when I got back I noticed this odd outline on the sheets.
And I said, like a fool, I mean, not even suspecting, I said...
I said:
"What on earth is that?"
I thought Mary Lee had bleached them.
But then I looked at Bill and there was that...
that look on his face. And I thought:
"Thank heavens he is such a bad liar...
or I would have been most unjust to Mary Lee."
It doesn't seem possible that a man who owns a television network...
can be such a bad liar.
It seems so essential to his success.
What am I gonna do?
You are going to call me whenever you need me...
even if it's 3 in the morning and war has broken out...
between Brooklyn and Manhattan. I'll come over the bridge, bullets flying...
to let you know you have a lifelong friend in me.
T-bone, you are so dear.
I can't picture Bill Paley washing sheets!
He must have been frantic.
- Poor Babe. - I know, I know. Bless her.
Check.
Will you come while I find a newsstand?
I'm trying to bribe Perry into liking me so I'm sending Dick and him dirty magazines.
Sure.
Oh, I wish I'd find a man like you. Sex and the money, I wouldn't care.
We could always have fun like this.
- Oh, thank you, Big Mama. I love you. - I love you too.
- Do you? - Well, how can you even ask?
- You never confide in me. - No, I don't darling. You're right.
Why don't you?
- It's very simple. I can't trust you. - What? I'm speechless.
Paralyzed and speechless.
Good afternoon.
I need two copies of Playboy, Party Doll, Stag Night...
Baby Doll, Hotsy Totsy, French Flip, Pink Lace, Busty and Juggle.
Jiggle.
Why on earth can you not trust me?
Well, you know why. Because someday you'll use it.
That will never be true.
I may not be a monk, but I certainly have a moral code.
Good heavens! Look at this! This is revolting.
Women look much better in clothes, much, much, better.
Goodness gracious, look at this messy thing.
I'm glad to see you've recovered.
How are things coming?
I found a superb structure, going back and forth...
between the Clutters and Dick and Perry drawing near.
But if I don't find some emotional depth it's just another police drama.
Who needs it?
Well, face it, without Perry, you're dead.
- I'd cut your losses. - Nelle!
Here's your mail.
Something from The New Yorker.
Something that looks like invitations, and something...
Do you know anyone at the Kansas State Penitentiary?
He must be writing to thank me for that revolting pornography.
Well, you won't believe this.
What?
Dear Mr. Capote...
it was extremely solicitous of you to send me those periodicals.
He reads the dictionary.
But I regret to inform you that the reading material was repellent.
My future will soon be determined.
But there are only two outcomes: life in prison or death.
So, whether I have a short time remaining or a long time to come...
I owe it to my mind to fill it with things of beauty and intelligence.
And how about that handwriting?
Well, if he wants beauty and intelligence...
you're his man.
I waited so we could open it together.
Dear Mr. Capote: Thank you for the reading material.
It was much more intellectual than the pussy pictures you sent before.
However...
However?
Though the stories are told well...
I, ultimately, did not like them, because I thought the writing lacked kindness.
I have never!
Maybe you should go back to sending him porn.
Imagine being told your work lacked kindness by a four-time killer!
My writing is dispassionate and unsentimental...
but I wouldn't say it's unkind.
I've never thought about it in those terms exactly.
- What a thing to say. - Yes.
I came all this way back, three days on the train...
because there's something I want you to know.
I have given my whole life to one effort...
the creation of a great work of art.
Please don't laugh at me.
My whole life...
all I've wanted was to create a work of art.
I sang, nobody listened.
I painted, nobody looked.
Now, Dick and me, we murder four people.
And what's gonna come out of it?
A work of art.
I'm laughing at me.
You want me to open up, but I don't think you can understand me.
- Why not? - It was your books.
I thought you looked down on the people you were writing about...
like you were sneering at them.
I would never sneer at my characters.
If I'm gonna put my heart in front of you...
I need to know I'm doing it with someone who will listen to it...
and not make a joke out of it like you did with Holly Go-fucking-lightly.
You can't write my story...
because your idea of suffering is so far from mine.
It's not. I promise.
Goodbye.
Okay.
The reason this is hard for me to say is that...
I've never said it out loud before.
He told everyone she was sick, but...
my mother committed suicide.
- Is this a trick? - No!
- Are you bullshitting me? - No!
Have you been talking to Dick?
No.
What happened?
Why'd she do it?
All my mother ever wanted...
was to be a Park Avenue lady...
which isn't easy when you're in Alabama with no money.
So she married my father to get out.
But before they could go, I came.
So she deserted me...
leaving me with my aunts.
And when my father failed to deliver her to Park Avenue...
she deserted him too.
Because she was beautiful...
so beautiful.
She married again, this time to Joe Capote.
He had a job in New York...
and worked all hours until her dream came true.
We moved to 1060 Park Avenue. Mother was thrilled.
It seemed to extinguish some sort of anxiety in her.
But the way Joe got us there couldn't keep us there.
He'd embezzled the money...
a hundred thousand dollars.
He was fired and tainted. He told Mother we'd have to move.
But not to a smaller place on Park Avenue...
but to a cold-water flat in the Bronx.
She couldn't take it.
She frantically tried to save money in any way so they could stay...
eating less, not buying lipstick.
She'd stopped drinking when they moved to 1060, but now she stopped stopping.
And when that failed to restore a sense of calm...
she swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills.
I'm sorry about before.
I thought you were trying to trick me.
Trick you?
My mother killed herself too.
How?
The slow way. Drank herself to death.
Drinking.
Suicide for the faint of heart.
My brother couldn't wait. He killed himself too.
My God.
- So you're all alone? - No.
I have a sister.
You want to know what I think about her?
I think she's one evil bastard.
You want to see the ball-busting letter she sent me?
Pay attention.
This could be good for our book.
I don't feel like talking.
I thought we were off to a good start.
After you left, that asshole next door said:
"Hey, Smith, how come your mother and brother never visit?" He'd heard.
Fuck him, who cares?
You see, when I'm talking to you, I forget other people are gonna read it.
And then I think abut how you stabbed Brando in the back.
Perry, what I'm gonna write about you will help people think more of you.
You're not thinking clearly. How can you?
You're under the most unimaginable pressure.
Aw, doesn't wittle Perry wike it here?
- Shut the fuck up, Andrews! - Hush now.
Be above him.
Come.
This can be our little tree house.
How come y'all are so quiet?
Now...
I want you to relax.
I can't. Not here. Not with him.
I may be wrong, but there was something in your letter...
that made me think you have the soul of an artist.
Artists have the power, through our imagination...
to escape a degenerate world and create a better one.
How?
- Close your eyes. - Why?
Trust me.
Now I want you to picture the most serene...
and relaxing place you know.
Mexico.
I know it well. Water like liquid turquoise.
Feel that hot sun beating down on you...
warming all the tension out of you.
Feel the heat soaking into you.
And then...
gentle as a feather falling past your cheek...
there's a breeze.
Close them.
Good.
Feel the breeze...
that sensual breath from heaven.
Just let go...
relax every muscle.
I'm ready.
When I was a boy, we were always moving around.
His parents were rodeo performers.
It was a hard life in lots of ways...
but it sure looked good once we lost it.
Mom and Dad had to quit.
That kind of riding wears your bones out.
But that's what they were: riders.
So, when that went away...
everything went with it.
Jesus, Flo.
Fuck off! It's just beer.
Fucking asshole!
So Mom left him, and she took me and my brother and sister with her.
I dreamed Dad would rescue me.
How funny.
Me too.
Every day I waited for him, but he never came.
And then one day I was walking to school...
Please be real. Please be real.
Please be real.
Dad.
Are you here to take me with you?
I wish I could, but I can't.
I don't know how to take care of you.
I came to tell you to be the best boy you can be.
And he made me get down.
He hated his old lady. Never forgave her.
She took his daddy away.
A boy needs his daddy.
And did he hate the father too?
He always said he hated his old man, but he used to do this thing...
this excruciatingly poignant thing.
Dick says that sometimes when I'd be sleeping...
Dad!
Where you been?
I've been looking everywhere for you.
Years later, after the Army...
I got a letter from Dad saying he had an idea to make money.
Wanted me to come help him.
And I'd be lying to you if I told you I wasn't pretty jazzed up when I got his letter.
He finally had a place for me.
I was gonna sing and play my guitar in the bar.
I painted all the pictures. I even painted the sign.
Nobody's coming here!
Nobody!
Know why?
It's because of you, you useless piece of shit!
Your fucking sign is no good!
I said, "Buy a neon sign"...
and you said, "I'll paint us a good one."
Fucking sissy.
Come on.
He killed me, this guy.
Over and over my whole life, the things he said and did to me.
It was always like having a knife in me.
So I decided to kill him right then, in cold blood.
Sissy.
But I couldn't do it.
And all this stuff about Dad and everything...
it's gonna make me look like a fucking crybaby.
No! It will help people see you as a complete person...
not just as someone who has caused suffering, but as someone who has suffered.
Can I see what you've written so far?
Not till it's perfect. But I promise, it's sympathetic.
No one's ever treated me like you have.
Is it just to get me to tell you stuff?
No.
It's because I respect you.
All right. Time's up.
- Thanks for that beautiful thing you said. - What beautiful thing?
About respect.
So, I'm sympathetic, am I?
You been looking out for me, have you?
What's the title of your book? The "sympathetic" one about me?
I know the title. The fucking guard told me, and it's not sympathetic.
It's called In Cold Blood, isn't it?
It is, isn't it? It's called In Cold Fucking Blood!
You sold me out, you shit...
after I opened myself up and gave you everything.
Well, you're not gonna get away with it.
One sound out of you...
and you'll join the Clutters in hell.
Okay?
Open your mouth!
Open your fucking lying mouth!
You're gonna pay for that title now.
You fucked me, so now I'm gonna fuck you.
I'm not gonna rape you...
because you can trust me.
But look.
Look
That's how your fucking title made me feel.
Don't let him in.
I need to talk to you, please.
From there.
Can we have some privacy?
In Cold Blood is the title of my book, but it's not exactly what you think.
You boys did a monstrous thing.
And the public and their prosecutors are calling for your blood.
If they get what they want, they will kill you...
not in a senseless moment of passion, but with scrupulous premeditation.
That is the legal definition of "in cold blood."
This title is a condemnation of their plans.
But not only their plans.
No. No, not only.
Look, you did a terrible thing. You're not innocent.
That doesn't mean you're not a human being. I want people to see that.
I'm not talking to you until I've read what you've written.
It's tough to read the family stuff.
- But you told it to me. - Not my family.
The Clutters.
There better be more than this in this house, or you'll sure be sorry.
Get him to the basement.
I'll get the old man.
You don't think about it if someone has a boyfriend, or is in 4-H.
Why don't you put some clothes on? It's gonna be cold down there.
Yes, sir.
We didn't know anything about them.
Except that they had a safe.
But I don't have a safe.
How old are you, baby? Well, now don't be scared.
- Let me help you down with these covers. - Hey! Out here, now.
Now!
- You touch her, and I'll kill you. - You can ride her when I'm done.
Let's just go. There's no safe. You fucking blew that!
We're not leaving, baby. They've seen us plain.
Get down to the basement so we can take care of that. I'll be there soon.
I'm not leaving you here.
Fuck you, then!
Let's go.
I know this is crazy...
but when I looked in his eyes, I was thinking:
"Too bad we couldn't be friends."
He had 4-H stuff in his room.
And, I could have told him about my folks and the rodeo.
- Why don't you kiss him? - Fuck off!
You never like anything to do with girls.
- You never want a whore. - Shut up!
You won't even watch me when I'm on one.
- You like boys better? - Shut up!
- Go ahead. Then I can break his sister's box! - Shut up!
Go ahead, sugar, kiss him.
Or would you rather kiss his daddy?
Shit, Perry! His hand came free!
Now, now you kill the women.
I wish I could have saved them...
but at least...
I knew what he wanted to do to that girl.
Least I spared her that.
About the best example I can give you of his split nature is this.
He told me what he thought of Herb Clutter.
He said, "Right before I cut his throat I was thinking how nice he was."
"He was a nice soft-spoken gentleman.
I thought that right before I cut his throat."
"I thought he was a very nice gentleman. Soft-spoken.
I thought so right up to the moment I cut his throat."
What an extraordinary thing to say.
Extraordinary.
So how's the book?
Well, it's coming. I have to leave in a couple days for their trial.
That's all pro forma, right? They're not contesting anything, are they?
No, they hope for life, not death.
Death would be better for the book.
It would satisfy the readers more, and it would make the title work too.
Honey, I've worked harder on this than anything my whole life.
I don't want it ruined just because a jury makes a dumb decision.
Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?
We have, Your Honor.
Will the clerk please bring the verdict up?
We, the jury, find the defendant, Perry Edward Smith...
guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree.
And the punishment...
is death.
- Will you appeal? - Dick wants to.
But we'll hang. We should.
You think hanging is fair?
It's funny. Last night I was laying awake...
and thinking: "What is punishment?"
Being in jail isn't punishment, if you didn't like it on the outside.
And neither is death, if it was painful to live.
I'll tell you what punishment is for me.
What?
It's hoping there's someone for you.
And after years of no one you find him and you can't have him.
- We really connected, didn't we? - Of course, we did.
You weren't being nice to me just for the book, were you?
No! I think about you all the time.
- Dick too? - Only for the book.
You're the only person I ever feel real around.
Me too.
I don't have to act like a little wind-up toy with you.
Perry...
I don't want you to die.
Look, Ron and Nancy Reagan we're not.
We're apart for long times. We know we have to have sex.
But we're men. We can have sex just to release the desire to have sex.
What's not allowed is falling in love.
You see, that would be a betrayal.
A terrible breach of a very mature...
and very sensible arrangement.
After the verdicts, Truman buried himself in the book.
By mid-'63 it was done.
Perfect as a diamond, as tough, as multi-faceted...
only this time...
it had kindness.
But we couldn't publish it until it had an ending...
until something had been settled about the boys.
There were four appeals, all the way to the Supreme Court.
It took five full years for a final judgment.
That was hard on the killers, which doesn't make a dime's difference to me. But...
Do you have any word yet about when the book is coming out?
I don't know.
You simply cannot conceive of the agony.
I've worked on this book ceaselessly for four years...
pouring the whole of myself into it, head and heart.
And then to be waiting like this...
unable to publish what I've done until they're hanged.
I can hardly wait.
Do you feel that your book is worth a human life?
- Well, it's certainly worth Dick's. - What about the other man?
His name is Perry.
I mean, it's just an intolerable position.
Because to get an ending for the book means an end for...
On death row, you may only write two letters a week.
Every week, for five years...
Perry wrote both letters to Truman.
Friend Truman, cold in Kansas today...
though not as frigid as I imagine it is in Switzerland.
How big are those Alps?
Friend Truman, do you know the song "Gold Mine in the Sky"?
It was Dad's favorite.
Maybe you could use your influence with the authorities in this shithole...
and get me a tape recorder so I could sing it for you.
Not much to say today.
Awful blue.
God, I miss you. Please write soon.
You can't imagine what it does to me when they bring the mail...
and there's something from you.
Friend Truman:
It's all over.
Our last appeal has been denied.
Dick and I are allowed to have a witness at the hanging.
We both pick you.
- You have to come with me. - I can't.
I'm getting desperate about my new book. It's not coming together.
Anyway, I thought this was what you wanted.
I know I said that...
but to see him killed?
It's too much.
- I don't suppose Jack would? - No.
He wouldn't anyway, but...
for some reason, he gets funny about Perry.
It's like he's jealous.
Truman...
are you and Perry?
Please, Nelle.
I'm begging you.
But I couldn't.
And I wouldn't.
I'm sorry, he can't take the call.
It was the boys again.
They want me to help...
but I can't help them.
Maybe they want you for comfort.
Rain is good.
I hope he apologizes.
That would really make him sympathetic.
Hey, Truman. Where you been?
I thought you were gonna spend the whole day with us.
I couldn't get here earlier. I was making calls on your behalf.
It's just so late now.
- Hickock, let's get ready. - We have some time.
I have something I want to tell you.
They're gonna ask if you have anything to say, and you must apologize.
- That won't bring them back. - No. It restores your humanity to you.
It's time.
Anyone saying goodbye needs to say it here.
Bye, Truman.
Thanks for it.
Did he say anything to you?
He said he loved me...
and he always had.
Richard Eugene Hickock. Do you have anything to say?
Just that I hold no hard feelings.
You people are...
sending me to a better world than this one ever was.
"The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.
He restoreth my soul.
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...
I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me."
Not dead yet.
I still hear breathing.
Okay, he's ready.
Perry Edward Smith. Do you have anything to say?
Friend Truman...
I don't know what you did, but the tape recorder arrived.
There's a gold mine in the sky Far away
We will find it You and I, some sweet day
There'll be a clover just for you Down the line
Where the skies are always blue Pal of mine
Far away
We will find that long lost gold mine Some sweet day
And we'll say hello to friends Who said goodbye
When we find that long lost gold mine
In the...
sky
"The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want.
He maketh me..."
Was he able to speak?
Yes, he spoke.
What did he say?
Smith did not speak.
He apologized.
Just chewed his gum.
You saw those two men hanged. It must be...
Isn't it painful for you?
Babaling, life is painful.
It's the one experience that unites rich and poor.
I suppose I'm able to endure it...
because I can alchemize what wounds me into art.
Yes, but...
at what cost?
It made him the most famous author in America and very, very rich.
He moved to Manhattan where, oddly...
he had a very good view of the place he had left.
Who ever knows what our hearts will want?
Who can...
defend themselves from it?
Seeing what's happened to him since...
well, despite the bravado that only appears to be confidence...
I have come to feel with great heart-sickness...
that there were three deaths on the gallows that night.
He never wrote anything big again.
Just collections, fragments pulled together.
God knows he didn't have to write, not after all that money on In Cold Blood.
It's funny.
It made him, and it ruined him.
You know, in his will...
Perry left everything to Truman.
America is not a country where the small gesture goes noticed.
We're not a country like France...
where charm, something light or effervescent...
can survive.
We want everything you have...
and we want it as fast as you can turn it out.
friend TRUMAN
I read an interview with Frank Sinatra...
in which he said about Judy Garland:
"Every time she sings, she dies a little."
That's how much she gave.
It's true for writers, too...
who hope to create something lasting.
They die a little getting it right.
And then the book comes out...
and there's a dinner.
Maybe they give you a prize.
And then comes the inevitable and very American question:
What's next?
But the next thing can be...
so hard...
because now you know what it demands.
Hi, Nelle.
I just began my novel and I had such a good morning writing...
that I want to celebrate.
Want to come to lunch?
No, honey, I don't care where.
Just someplace pretty where we can have fun...
and be ourselves.