Posting a lovely little ficlet by siyamau because i think it deserves its own entry!
Written as a missing scene from the screenplay, it gets very close to the style and feel of the original.
[INT. MOTHER BLACK CAP. PUBLIC HOUSE. DAY.]
[A tired spring day is tapping dismally on the sooty windowpanes. Withnail is sitting alone at the bar, looking blanched. Marwood enters and places his hat down on the bar top next to Withnail, whose surprise and delight stand not a chance against his grandiloquent cynicism.]
Marwood. Hello, Withnail.
Withnail. Oh. It’s you. What are you doing here?
Marwood. Getting a drink.
Withnail. Marvellous. Mine’s a pint. [He flags him back down as soon as Marwood flags down the barman] With a gin for dessert.
Marwood. It’s good to see you, Withnail.
Withnail. [Sniffs, enviously disapproving.] You look shiny. What are they feeding you at Granada?
Marwood. Caviare and Quualudes. But only if we behave.
Withnail. [Sarcastically] Sounds delightful. Do they require a tea-boy?
Marwood. I don’t know, actually. I left.
[Withnail peruses his pint of cider as this information takes residence.]
Marwood. [V.O.] We’re told that life isn’t about happiness. Happiness is only a single perfect moment in a lifetime of ticking seconds, a moment that cannot be sustained else it loses its defining quality: its rarity, and is so diluted. Contentment is what we’re encouraged to achieve - contentment, through success and stability and material gain. But maybe success isn’t the measurable quantity we’re led to believe that it is. Perhaps some of us were never meant for paycheques and functions and three-piece-suites. Perhaps finding happiness in the dregs is our success. Look at him, fishing around in his cider for something to say. I always wanted to render him speechless.
Withnail. Well that was fucking stupid of you.
Marwood. I learned from the best.
Withnail. [Grumbles.] You can’t have your room back.
Marwood. I understand.
Withnail. I’ve sub-let it to Danny. He smoothed things over about the rent. Rodents, you know.
Withnail. I could kick him out.
Marwood. That would be -
Withnail. [Continues without further inhalation.] The man’s an insufferable cunt. It’s been an endless cavalcade of wastrels, traipsing through the place, guzzling my drink, passing out in the kitchen. Infernal flotsam on a polluted tide. At least you don’t have any friends.
Marwood. [Conceals a smile behind his lips.] Yes. Thank you, Withnail.
Withnail. [Grunts and disposes of his pint.]
Marwood. [V.O.] When did this dreary inertia become more comforting than any magazine models of success we’re sold? Is this turning on, tuning in and dropping out for a new decade? We are in the same boat, sailing on this polluted tide. Perhaps for some of us the abnormal is just normal; perhaps fighting is the mistake. When the thing that you’re running from pursues you into your hard-won new life without even moving an inch, then maybe the only way to stop it from pursuing you is to turn around and embrace it.
Withnail. [Sends his gin in pursuit of the cider.] I suppose this means it’s my round?
[Marwood uncages his smile and nods and perches on the bar stool at Withnail’s right hand.]
Uncle Monty's Cottage
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