The Abridged Script
EXT. UNION STATION – TORONTO
ROBERT PATTINSON and KEVIN DURAND are STANDING AROUND.
We’re in Toronto.
I know this. That we are in Toronto, this is a true thing that I know. The Complex says we are in New York. The licence plates on your stretch limo are New York plates. New York is, what? The place where we will pretend we are. I know this.
I need a metaphor.
You mean a haircut.
Yes. My haircut will be the metaphor. Like a rat. My accent is, what? Sometimes New York, sometimes not. Who invented the word accent? How did he talk? Where did he go pee?
The Complex says your haircut is across town. The town is New York, I know this. But there is a huge ocean of pretentious theatre-school bullshit between us and your haircut. This is true.
We must go to my haircut anyway, across town. There must be several pointless, meandering cameos that we encounter as we, what? Drive in my stretch limo? What is it, to stretch?
INT. ROBERT’S ADMITTEDLY AWESOME LIMO
You are, what? Rich. Crazy rich and you run a company, I know this. The biggest company, that we made together. So big if you made a company as big as how annoying my voice is, it would still be bigger, this is a true thing.
Where do they park companies at night? How old are they? Where is my prostate?
These horribly artificial speech patterns, these pseudo-profundities on the meanings of random words, are what? Self-indulgent? Meandering? Pointless? What is all of the above?
ROBERT sees SARAH GADON in a CAB and goes to there.
You are in a cab, this cab, where I now am. I know this.
I enjoy talking with drivers of cabs. They say things and I listen to them. Then we haggle for change, and they pretend they have no change for a twenty, which is, what? Where do bulls park their shit for the night?
We should fuck.
For this, this is why we married our fortunes? No, I am blonde and icy and distant, this revolutionary combination of attributes which has never been attempted before, not by anybody ever, even here, in New York, where we pee.
INT. BACK IN THE LIMO
ROBERT is FUCKING JULIETTE BINOCHE.
Are we fucking? Is there such a thing as fucking, any more, now that we have Euros?
What is money? What does it mean to slide around the floor of a limo as though, what, doing some actor’s exercise where I imagine myself as a worm on acid? Money has no meaning, they will use rats as money, and movie buffs will watch The Color of Rat and Brad Pitt will star in Ratball and James Bond will hit on Ratpenny. I know this.
I am concerned with many things, with futures and stocks. I must know where my stock as an actor is going. I have done the worst kind of populist trash, so to have a future I must, what, do the worst kind of elitist art-house wankfest? Is this where I can park my career at night?
KEVIN DURAND knocks on the window.
There are reports of incidents.
This does not seem possible.
I agree, the idea of tangible plot points already seems beyond ludicrous, this is true. But the Complex is reporting incidents, and we must stay far away from them, we must continue to babble endlessly while submerging in this festering shitvat of verbiage.
Hey, that was Paul Giamatti over there. Huh.
ROBERT makes a stop to collect EMILY HAMPSHIRE and SOME GUY who SHOVES HIS HAND UP ROBERT'S BUTT.
This man, the man behind me, he is examining my prostate.
I should find this situation, what? Awkward? Repulsive? But no, we are in a David Cronenberg movie, and so everything must turn me on, even moldy dog vomit is a powerful aphrodisiac, this fact is true. And so, I am furiously aroused, we should fuck.
First, the loudest club in this city, I must go to it, perhaps I have parked my haircut there for the night.
INT. VERY LOUD CLUB
ROBERT and his guard ZELJKO KECOJEVIC watch people having WAY MORE FUN THAN ANY POOR BASTARD WATCHING THIS GARBAGE IS.
My words, with a thick Russian accent and techno remixes blaring over them, are indecipherable. I know this. Whoever mixed the sound for this scene, did not.
INT. OH BOY KIDS, IT'S THE LIMO AGAIN
I am your Chief of Theory, this is a true thing. So now we get really hip-fucking-deep in the shit. Consider the computer. It was distinct, now it is shapeless and formless and all over the place, yet without moving. In this way the computer is, what, like this movie.
This film is made of many minutes, each of which is like an hour.
And the seconds are like unto minutes. And they have even smaller units now, they have microseconds, they have nanoseconds, femptoseconds, and we will drag out each and every possible unit of time until each goddamn one feels longer than all the Twilight movies put together.
I have vodka here, in my car that stretches, stretching into the ever more tedious future. Enjoy this vodka with me, it is Sobeiski, it is the vodka of Bruce Willis. I know this, and the audience must also know how much I enjoy Sobeiski vodka, truly it is the rat prostate of vodkas.
INT. SOME ROOM SOMEWHERE
ROBERT PATTINSON is FUCKING PATRICIA MCKENZIE.
My nudity is what, essential to the artistic vision, I know this. It is also true, that I am not famous like Juliette Binoche or Samantha Morton, their tits shall remain unviewed. Perhaps in the future, that stretches back to look on me and my nudity, I will also be famous enough to remain clothed.
The taser you have, it is yours, and I do not know it. What is it to be tased? Please, I must know this, please tase me, bro.
On a TV we see CIVIL UNREST and VIOLENCE and PEOPLE GETTING THEIR EYES STABBED OUT and FOOTAGE OF THE TORONTO G20 RIOTS and basically RANDOM STUFF THAT WOULD ALL BE FAR MORE INTERESTING TO WATCH.
It’s me again.
My nickname, R-Pats, it is the name given me by the people, some of whom are called Nick. It sounds like rats, when you think about it.
(running through restaurant)
The spectre of rats haunts the something something, God even we've forgotten our stupid slogan, well you may as well invent your own, audience, for all it matters. For example, RATS RATS RATS +1 CARD +1 ACTION GAIN A RATS TRASH A CARD THAT IS NOT RATS!!!
INT. BACK IN THE LIMO THAT ONCE SEEMED SO COOL AND FUN BUT IS NOW THE DREAD COFFIN OF OUR SOULS
That is the name I go by, Gouchy Boy. There is a dead rapper in this narrative for some reason, played by Toronto’s own K’Naan because, what, we want to keep reminding everyone we are in Toronto, even though we are in New York. But filming in Toronto is cheaper, cheaper than metaphors, even filming all the way across town.
What does it mean to spend money? What does it mean to spend a thousand dollars? A million? Four million? Seven hundred and twenty-two million? What does it mean to waste fifteen bucks to sit and listen to this crap?
SATURDAY MORNING CARTOON SPIDER-MAN
I must, what, arrive just in time? What is it to arrive? Is there such a thing, anymore, as a bang-up, even all the way across town? Where do I pee?
There is a credible threat on your life, I know this. And now, you do also, it is true that you know.
What you are saying is that my plan of boring all life on Earth to death, has failed. Is this what your words mean to tell me?
I have a reply to that question, but if I vocalize it, then it will be said aloud, to be heard.
Strangely, although you are reciting the same over-formalistic gibberish as the rest of us, I find you are almost able to be interesting. This is unacceptable.
I am dead now, I know this.
INT. LITTLE BARBERSHOP OF METAPHORS
ROBERT finally ARRIVES TO GET HIS FUCKING HAIR CUT ALREADY just as the AUDIENCE finishes PULLING OUT ALL OF THEIRS.
Why look, it is Robert Pattinson, with his rat-names and his nanovodka and his stretch prostate. Sit, sit, allow me to perform a godawful hackjob of a haircut upon you. This is, what, metaphorical? Allegorical? Cosmopological? I like to pee. I love it. I drove a cab that let me pee all over town. I would seal my cab watertight and fill it with my pee, it was a roving peequarium. Fond memories I have, of peeing, of providing vulgar metaphors for the human condition, which are profound simply because they contain vulgarities, I know this.
I have driven you here, Robert, this is a true thing. Now I provide the best news possible, which is that there is only one scene left to do, with Paul Giamatti across the street. But I must warn you, by the time he finally shows you his toilet, you'll still only be halfway through that gigantic whaleturd of a scene. Good luck.
ROBERT goes to find PAUL GIAMATTI.
INT. SKANKY OLD ROOM FULL OF OLD BROKEN TECHNOLOGY WHICH OH BOY I THINK THEY JUST MIGHT BE METAPHORS
Paul Giamatti, you want to what, kill me? Is there an answer to the question of: why?
In the new economy of rats, questions are answers, answers are questions, tedium is gravitas. You ask why I will kill you, when it is so obvious, even to your prostate. If only for the screaming, pre-teen Twi-hards, who shower upon you the adulation reserved for Gods, while hard-working character actors, of which my penis is one, must drudge in obscurity. If only for those rampaging children who value your Best Kiss awards above my Screen Actors’ Guild recognition. And if only for the poor, wretched adults trying to slog their way to the end of this abomination of a movie, while screamingly bored pre-teens text and Twitter and yammer endlessly beside them, if only for them, you must now die, I know this.
I think that my prostate is a metaphor, that can solve everything.
No, it was never your prostate, it was your asshole. This whole movie has been stuck, wedged firmly all the way inside your own asshole, all along.
It is Cronenberg’s asshole also. We aligned them together. This has always been, what? A circle jerk? What is a circle? Can rats jerk during the night? How old are they?
Where do metaphors go to take massive dumps?
(looks at movie)