Withnail and I

From Wikiquote

Withnail and I is a 1987 film comedy written and directed by Bruce Robinson and starring Richard E. Grant (Withnail), Paul McGann (Marwood, the "I" of the title), Richard Griffiths (Uncle Monty) and Ralph Brown (Danny). The movie, which takes place in England in late 1969, involves the misadventures of a pair of chronically unemployed actors.

1 Characters
2 Dialogue
3 Screenplay
4 Taglines
5 External links

[edit] Characters

[edit] Withnail

How dare you? How dare you?! How dare you call me inhumane...Right, you fucker, I'm going to do the washing up!
I think we've been in here too long. I feel unusual. I think we should go outside.
We'll cover ourselves in Deep Heat and get up against a radiator. Keep ourselves alive until twelve.
How can it be so cold in here? It's like Greenland in here. We've got to get some booze. It's the only solution to this intense cold. Something's got to be done. We can't go on like this! I'm a trained actor, reduced to the status of a bum! I mean, look at us! Nothing that reasonable members of society demand as their rights! No fridges, no televisions, no phones. Much more of this and I'm going to apply for Meals on Wheels.
I have a heart condition. I have a heart condition. If you hit me, it's murder. My wife is having a baby.
Listen, I don't know what my acquaintance did to upset you you but it's got nothing to do with me. I suggest you both go outside and discuss it sensibly in the street...[runs out of the pub] AHHHHHH! Out of my way!
Look at that, look at that. "Accident black spot." These aren't accidents. They're throwing themselves into the road, gladly. Throwing themselves into the road to escape all this hideousness. [To a pedestrian] Throw yourself into the road, darling, you haven't got a chance!
Don't threaten me with a dead fish.
These are the sort of windows faces look in at!
[On the telephone with his agent] Well, what about TV? Listen, I pay you ten percent to do that. Well, lick ten percent of the arses for me. Hello? Hello? How dare you! Fuck you!
Anyway, I loathe those Russian plays. Always full of women staring out of windows, whining about ducks going to Moscow.
We want the finest wines available to humanity. We want them here and we want them now!
Monty, you terrible cunt!
There must and shall be aspirin. If I do not have aspirin, I shall die.
"Boy lands plum role with top Italian director." Of course he does. Probably on a tenner a day - and I know what for: two pound ten a tit and a fiver for his arse!
I demand to have some booze!
We've gone on holiday by mistake.
Two quid? You're out of your mind. You can shove it up your arse for nothing and fuck off while you're doing it!
Bastards! You'll all suffer! I'll show the lot of you! I'M GONNA BE A STAR!
[after spitting] Jesus! Look at that... apart from a raw potato, it's the only solid to have passed my lips in the last sixty hours. I must be ill.
[over the telly] I've already put two shilling pieces in...no, I haven't got another...well, it's not my fault if the system doesn't work...[hangs up, to Marwood] bitch hung up on me.
[after telling the bartender he's a journalist] We're doing a feature in Country Life. Survey of rural types, you know, uh, farmers, traveling tinkers, milkmen. That sort of thing.
I don't want a rabbit, I want a pheasant.
[approaching the pub] Right, here's the plan. First, we go in there and get wrecked, then we eat a pork pie, then we drop some Surmontil-50's each. That way we'll miss out on Monday and come up smiling Tuesday morning.

[edit] Uncle Monty

I think the carrot infinitely more fascinating than the geranium. The carrot has mystery. Flowers are essentially tarts. Prostitutes for the bees. There is, you'll agree, a certain je ne sais quoi oh so very special about a firm young carrot.
It is the most shattering experience of a young man's life when he awakens and quite reasonably says to himself: [He puts his hand on his heart] "I will never play The Dane." When that moment comes, one's ambition ceases.
I can never touch meat until it's cooked. As a youth I used to weep in butchers' shops.
Sherry!? Oh no, no, no, no. I'll fall straight into his trap. He's so mauve. We don't know what he's planning.
I'm preparing myself to forgive you. I think you've been punished enough. I think we better release you from the legumes and transfer your talents to the meat.
I often wonder where Norman is now. Probably wintering with his mother in Guildford. A cat, rain, Vim under the sink, and both bars on. But old now, there is no true beauty without decay.
How right you are, how right you are. We live in a kingdom of reigns, where royalty comes in gangs. Come on, lads, the sky's beginning to bruise, night must fall, and we shall be forced to camp.
I mean to have you, even if it must be burglary!
[to the cat] Get that damned little swine out of here. [to Marwood] It's trying to get itself in with you. It's trying for even more advantage. It's obsessed with its gut - it's like a rugby ball now. It will die, it will die!

[edit] Danny

You're looking very beautiful, man. Have you been away? St. Peter preached the epistles to the apostles looking like that.
I don't advise a haircut, man. All hairdressers are in the employment of the government. Hair are your aerials. They pick up signals from the cosmos and transmit them directly into the brain. This is the reason bald-headed men are uptight.
If I medicined you, you'd think a brain tumour was a birthday present.
This doll is extremely dangerous. It has voodoo qualities.
Cool your boots, man, this pill's valued at two quid.
No need to insult me, man. I was leaving anyway. Have either of you got shoes?
If you're hanging on to a rising balloon, you're presented with a difficult decision - let go before it's too late or hang on and keep getting higher, posing the question; how long can you keep a grip on the rope? They're selling hippie wigs in Woolworth's, man. The greatest decade in the history of mankind is over. And as Presuming Ed here has so consistently pointed out, we have failed to paint it black.
Sit down, man. Find your neutral space. You have done something to your brain. You have made it high.
Very, very foolish words, man.

[edit] Marwood (or "I")

My thumbs have gone weird. I'm in the middle of a fucking overdose. My heart's beating like a fucked clock.
[Mentally] Even a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day. And for once I am inclined to believe Withnail is right - we are indeed drifting into the arena of the unwell.
[To himself] I could hardly piss straight with fear. He was a man with 3/4 of an inch of brain who'd taken a dislike to me. What had I done to offend him? I don't consciously offend big men like this. And this one's a decided imbalance of hormone in him. Get any more masculine than that and you'd have to live up a tree. [Reading graffiti] "I fuck arses." Who fucks arses? [Aloud] Maybe he fucks arses. [To himself again] Maybe he's written this in some moment of drunken sincerity.
Danny's here. Headhunter to his friends...headhunter to everybody, he doesn't have any friends. The only people he converses with are his clients and, occasionally, the police.
Speed is like a dozen transatlantic flights without ever getting off the plane. Timechange. You lose, you gain. Makes no difference so long as you keep taking the pills. But sooner or later you've got to get out because it's crashing. Then all at once the frozen hours melt out through the nervous system and seep out the pores.
Look at him. His mechanism's gone. He's had more drugs than you've had hot dinners.
I think you ought to kill it instantly in case it starts trying to make friends with us.
A coward you are, Withnail! An expert on bulls you are not!
I have just narrowly avoided having a buggering. And I've come in here with the express intent of wishing one on you.
I'm getting the fear!
Withnail, you fool, you should never mix your drinks!
We are not drunks, we are multi-millionaires!
Wake up, bastard, or I burn this bastard bed down.
[Narrating] If the Crow and Crown had ever had life it was dead now. It was like walking into a lung. A self-sustained nicotine-yellow and fly-blown lung. Its landlord was a retired alcoholic with military pretentions and a complexion like the inside of a teapot. By the time the doors opened he was arseholed on rum and got progressively more arseholed until he could take no more and fell over at about twelve 'o' clock.

[edit] Dialogue

Withnail [reading from the paper]: "In a world exclusive interview, 33-year-old shotputter Geoff Woade, who weighs 317 pounds, admitted taking massive doses of anabolic steroids, drugs banned in sport. 'He used to get in bad tempers and act up,' said his wife. 'He used to pick on me. But now he's stopped, he's much better in our sex life and in our general life.'" Jesus Christ, this huge, thatched head with its earlobes and cannonball is now considered sane. "Geoff Woade is feeling better and is now prepared to step back into society and start tossing his orb about." Look at him. Look at Geoff Woade. His head must weigh fifty pounds on its own. Imagine the size of his balls. Imagine getting into a fight with the fucker!
Marwood: Please, I don't feel good.
Withnail: That's what you'd say, but that wouldn't wash with Geoff. No, he'd like a bit of pleading. Add spice to it. In fact, he'd probably tell you what he was going to do before he did it. "I'm going to pull your head off." "Oh no, please, don't pull my head off." "I'm going to pull your head off, because I don't like your head."

Withnail: You've had an audition. Why can't I have an audition? It's ridiculous. I've been to drama school. I'm good-looking. I tell you, I've a fuck sight more talent than half the rubbish that gets on television. Why can't I get on television?
Marwood: Well, I don't know. It'll happen.
Withnail: Will it? That's what you say. The only programme I'm likely to get on is the fucking news.

Marwood: You know what we should do? I say, you know what we should do?
Withnail: How should I possibly know what we should do? What should we do?
Marwood: Get out of it for a while. Get into the countryside. Rejuvenate.
Withnail: Rejuvenate! What good's the countryside? I'm in a park and I'm practically dead.

Marwood: What happened to your cigar commercial?
Withnail: What happened to my cigar commercial? That's what I want to know. What happened to my agent? Bastard must have died.

Marwood: I wouldn't drink that if I were you.
Withnail: Why not?
Marwood: Because I don't advise it. Even the wankers on the site wouldn't drink that. That's worse than meths.
Withnail: Nonsense, this is a far superior drink to meths. The wankers don't drink it because they can't afford it.

Marwood: If my father was loaded, I'd ask him for some money.
Withnail: If your father was my father, you wouldn't get it.

Marwood: What about what's-his-name?
Withnail: What about him?
Marwood: Why don't you give him a call?
Withnail: What for?
Marwood: Ask him about his house.
Withnail: You want me to call what's-his-name and ask him about his house?
Marwood: Why not?
Withnail: All right. What's his number?
Marwood: I've no idea - I've never met him.
Withnail: Well, neither have I. What the fuck are you talking about?

Danny: My partner's got a really good idea for making dolls. His name's Presuming Ed. His sister give him the idea. She got a doll on Christmas what pisses itself.
Withnail: Really.
Danny: Then you've got to change its drawers for it. Horrible really, but they're like that, the little girls. So we're going to make one that shits itself, as well.

Danny: Has he just been busted?
Marwood: No.
Danny: Then why's he wearing that old suit?
Withnail: Old suit! This suit was cut by Hawke's of Savile Row. Just because the best tailoring you've ever seen is above your fucking appendix doesn't mean anything.
Danny: Don't get uptight with me, man. Because if you do, I'll have to give you a dose of medicine. And if I spike you, you'll know you've been spoken to.

[They pass some schoolgirls.]
Withnail: Scrubbers!
Scrubbers: Up yours, granddad!
Withnail: Scrubbers! Scrubbers!
Marwood: Shut up.
Withnail: Little tarts. They love it.

Withnail: You mean we've come out here in the middle of fucking nowhere without aspirins?
Marwood: Where are we?
Withnail: How should I know where we are? I feel like a pig shat in my head.

Danny: I happened to be looking for a suit for the coal man two weeks ago. For reasons I can't really discuss with you, the coal man had to go to Jamaica. Got busted coming back through Heathrow, had the weight under his fez. We worked out that it would be handy karma for him to get hold of a suit but he's a very low temperature spade, the coal man. Went into court wearing a kaftan and a bell. This doesn't go down at all well. They can handle the kaftan but they can't handle the bell. So there's this judge sitting there sitting in a cape like fucking Batman with this really rather far out looking hat..

Withnail: A wig.

Danny: No man, this was more like a long white hat. So he looks at the coal man and says "What's all this? This is a court, man. This ain't fancy dress" and the coal man looks at him and says "You think you look normal, your honour?". Cunt give him two years.

Old woman: What do you want?

Marwood: I'm a friend of Montague Withnail. He's lent us his cottage. I wondered if you could sell us some food. Eggs and things.

[she stares at him with a blank expression]

Marwood: What about wood and coal?

[he spots her hearing aid]

Marwood: [bends closer to her] I'm not from London, you know.

Old woman: I don't care where you come from!

[She slams the door. He walks away.]

Marwood: [To himself] Not the attitude I'd been given to expect from the H. E. Bates novel I'd read. I thought they'd all be out the back drinking cider and discussing butter. Clearly a myth. Evidently country people are no more receptive to strangers than city dwellers.

Marwood: You never discuss your family, do you?
Withnail: I fail to see my family's of any interest to you. I've absolutely no interest in yours. I dislike relatives in general and in particular mine.
Marwood: Why?
Withnail: I've told you why. We're incompatible. They don't like me being on stage.
Marwood: Then they must be delighted with your career.

Withnail: Are you the farmer? [To Marwood] Shut up, I'll deal with this. [To Parkin] We've gone on holiday by mistake. We're in this cottage here. Are you the farmer?
Marwood: Stop saying that, Withnail. Of course he's the fucking farmer.

[Marwood is face to face with a bull after leaving the gate open]

Withnail: Grab it's ring! Keep your bag up, I'll find it.

Farmer Parkin: Hey! Show no fear! Just run at it!

Marwood: Well, that can't be sensible, can it? The bastard's about to run at me!

Farmer Parkin: Well, he's randy!

Marwood: Yes, yeah! I know he is!

Withnail: Wants to get down there and have sex with those cows.

Marwood: Shut up, Withnail!

Farmer Parkin: Run at it, shouting!

Withnail: Do as he says, start shouting.

[Withnail lights a cigarette]

Withnail: He won't gore you.

Marwood: A coward, you are, Withnail! An expert on bulls, you are not!

Withnail: Vegetables again. I'll be sprouting feelers soon.
Marwood: There's black pudding in it.
Withnail: Black puddings are no good to us. I want something's flesh!

Marwood: There's the supper!
Withnail: What are we supposed to do with that?
Marwood: Eat it.
Withnail: Eat it!? Fucker's alive.

Proprietor: The police, Miss Blennerhassit. Telephone the police; tell them there're a couple of drunks in the Penrith tea rooms and we want them removed
Marwood: Don't do that, Miss Blennerhassit. I'm warning you, if you do, you're fired. We are multi-millionaries. We'll buy this place and fire you immediately.
Withnail: Yeah, that's right, we'll buy this place and install a fucking jukebox and liven all you stiffs up a bit.

Monty: Laissez-moi respirer longtemps, longtemps, l'odeur de tes cheveux! Ah, Baudelaire. Brings back such memories of Oxford.Oh, Oxford.
Marwood: [Voice-over] Followed by yet another anecdote about his sensitive crimes in a punt with a chap called Norman, who had red hair and a book of poetry stained with the butter drips from crumpets.

Danny: The joint I'm about to roll requires a craftsman. It can utilise up to twelve skins. It is called a Camberwell carrot.
Marwood: It's impossible to use 12 papers on one joint.
Danny: It is impossible to roll a Camberwell carrot with anything less.
Withnail: Who says it's a Camberwell carrot?
Danny: I do. I invented it in Camberwell and it looks like a carrot.

[Withnail sees Marwood drinking from bowl with a spoon]

Withnail: You've got soup. Why didn't I get any soup?

Marwood: Coffee.

Withnail: Why don't you use a cup like any other human being?

Marwood: Why don't you wash up occasionally like any other human being?

Withnail: Hold on. Don't let your imagination run away with you.

Marwood: Imagination? I just finished fighting off a naked man!

[Withnail is speeding down the motorway. Marwood in the back-seat wakes up.]

Marwood: What's going on?

Withnail: I'm making time.

Marwood: Are you out of your mind? You haven't got a license.

Withnail: No, I'm making time.

[gets pulled over by the police]

Cop: I want you to take one deep breath and fill this bag.

[Withnail shakes his head, "no"]

Cop: Are you refusing to fill this bag?

Withnail: I, most certainly, am.

Cop: I'm placing you under arrest.

Withnail: Don't be ridiculous, I haven't done anything!

Cop: [pulls him to the police van] C'mon!

Withnail: Look here! My cousin's a Q.C.

Cop 2: GET IN THE BACK OF THE VAN!

Marwood: [eating chips while taking a bath] I've got your saveloy. Here, I don't want it.

Withnail: Then stick it in the soap tray and save it for later.

Marwood: Don't vent your spleen on me. I'm in the same boat.

Withnail: Stop saying that! You're not in the same boat. The only thing you're in that I've been in is this fucking bath!

Marwood: Listen to me, listen to me! There are things in there, there's a tea-bag growing. You haven't slept in sixty hours you're in no state to tackle it. Wait till the morning, we'll go in together.

Withnail: This is the morning. Stand aside!

Marwood: You don't understand. I think there may be something alive.

Withnail: What do you mean? A rat?

Marwood: It's possible, it's possible.

Withnail: Then the fucker will rue the day! Oh Christ Almighty. Synous nicotine based. Keep back, keep back. The entire sink's gone rotten. I don't know what's in here.

[He picks up the kettle from the stove then throws it suddenly into the sink]

Marwood: I told you. you've been bitten!

Withnail: Burnt, burnt! The fucking kettle's on fire.

Marwood: There's something floating up.

Withnail: [with a fork in his hand] Fork it!

Marwood: No, no, no. I don't want to touch it.

Withnail: You must, you must. The poop will boil through the glaze. We'll never be able to use the dinner service again.

[edit] Screenplay

Dostoevsky described hell as being perhaps nothing more than a room with a chair in it. This room has several chairs.
This cafe is a hovel. Grease and fumes and ketchup bottles with blackened foreskins. Some horrible faces in here. MARWOOD watches an old woman eating - her fried-egg sandwich ruptures. Loathing and fascination.
MARWOOD blunders upstairs. Passes the bathroom door on his way. As he does so a man appears. Thirty years old. Pale as an oven-ready chicken. His hair is wet. The eyes have practically vanished under mauve lids. But the face is shaved and has dignity. He wears a tweed overcoat. Corduroy trousers and brogues. There's class here somewhere. His name is WITHNAIL.
This is an Irish pub. It's filling up in direct proportion to the emptying of the churches. The bar is full of men. Only two women in here and they look like men. One has a tuft of carrot-coloured hair. Everyone in here has one thing in common. They have come in here to get drunk. It's a horrible place. Shit-coloured Formica. Carpet like the surface of a road. The atmosphere is rank with smoke and Irish accent.
MONTY somehow manages to motor quickly up the bed on his arse.