绅士们 台词

Get me in ten minutes, Ray.

Boss.

- Bobby.

- Boss?

I'll have a pint

and a pickled egg.

Coming straight up.

If you wish to be

the king of the jungle,

it's not enough

to act like a king.

You must be the king.

And there can be no doubt.

Because doubt causes chaos

and one's own demise.

Hello, my love.

It's date night tonight.

Nine o'clock,

you and I, River Cafe.

Who's there?

Ros, who's there?

Chink, chink.

Fletcher.

Buenas tardes, Raymondo.

I should stab you with

that fucking rolling pin.

Oh, don't be cunty. I was just hoping we

could have a cozy little drink together.

So, I've got a meeting on Saturday

at your favorite newspaper.

As the best private investigator

in this smoky little town...

good evening,

ladies and gentlemen...

they are ready to put 150 grand in

my pocket to give them some filth.

Good for me, that,

but in this case...

it's bad for you.

So Big Dave,

editor extraordinaire,

has developed a terrible

antipathy for your boss

and his liquorish assortment

of tasty mates.

He's out to destroy him and all those

that cozy up to him. Front cover. Bosh!

There will be blood and fucking

feathers everywhere, my darling.

Get to it, Fletcher.

I'm starting to itch.

Now, we both know that your boss has

very, very deep pockets,

and I would like to invite him just

to have a teeny rummage in them.

What the fuck

are you talking about?

If you would be so kind

as to furnish me with

20 million British pounds,

I will give you everything...

memory cards, contact sheets,

recordings, the lot,

and a modest little screenplay

I wrote all by myself.

Hold on.

We just went from £150,000

to 20 million.

That's a steep rise

in 30 seconds.

Yeah, but I would argue that you're

lucky, because that is nothing

compared to what I could,

and perhaps should, be asking.

Oh, well, thank God

you're not greedy, Fletcher,

you deluded,

shit-eating cunt.

I quite like it

when you talk dirty to me.

I can feel myself engorging.

Come on, have a drink with me.

It's really yummy.

I looked it up. App-ed it.

1500 quid?

I didn't know you could spend

that much on a bottle of scotch.

I'm gonna tell you a story to

demonstrate why my quote is my quote.

Will you play a game

with me, Ray?

I don't wanna play a game.

- Please?

- No.

I said play a fucking game

with me, Ray.

Right.

Lovely.

Now, I want you

to imagine a character,

a dramatic character,

like in a book or a play or a film.

But not digital,

not on a memory stick.

Analog. Chemical process.

"Keep the grain in the picture," I say.

Old-school, 35 mill.

Now, I'm seeing this

through a lens, I am,

and I'm not talking about

the small screen.

It's not TV, Raymond.

As I said,

old-school cinema format.

It's what we in the business called

anamorphic, or ratio 2.35 to 1.

And I want you to join me

on this cinematic journey,

'cause it is cinema, Ray.

It's beautiful,

beautiful cinema.

Now, roll camera.

Enter our protagonist.

He's good-looking,

he's gorgeous,

he's golden age,

he's a proper handsome cunt.

His name is Mickey Pearson.

Unique background

has our Mickey.

American born, Rhodes scholar,

so he's born clever but poor.

Now, that's quite a leap from

a trailer park in Americana

to the thousand-year-old

university in old Angleterre,

where he studies

the dark art of horticulture.

But he never finished his education,

never went home, because...

he found his vocation.

A naughty vocation.

He's a bad boy.

He starts dealing

the dirty wonder weed

to his rich, British,

upper-class uni pals

and realizes

he's rather good at it.

He's clear and objective

about ambition

and he can surf the echelons

of our complicated culture.

He knew how to take advantage

of his advantage.

He was a hungry animal,

you see.

He was powerful and ruthless,

cunning and quick,

charismatic and smart, but...

he had to do some naughty

things to get where he got,

to establish his position,

to show he wasn't just

teeth, tits and tan.

Well, he wasn't

fucking hollow, was he?

He had an engine

under his hood

and a gun in his holster.

So, he's not exactly clean,

our Mickey.

He has come up the hard way.

He's earned his position,

shall we say.

Well, that was the early days,

and he cracked on with

his New World pioneer spirit.

What's he worth today?

100, 200, 500 million?

But now the plot

begins to thicken.

He has reached

a crossroads in his life.

The middle class and the middle

age, they've got to him.

They've corrupted his appetite

for the horrors. He's gone soft.

He wanted to cash in his chips

and get out of the game,

and he seems to have found

the perfect customer.

Smash cut, please...

to interior, a gala dinner.

Just a few words to say

thank you to Michael Pearson

for his limitless generosity

and time.

Now, Mickey has been cultivating

a special relationship

with the erudite, learned and

broad-minded Matthew Berger.

Yes, Raymond, I do know about

the Jewish billionaire cowboy,

another slice of Americana

creating drama in Angleterre.

And finally to Matthew Berger

blindsiding us with his donation

to build the entire cognitive

behavioral therapy unit.

So these two have met before.

Fuck knows where.

Presumably at the annual international

drug dealers convention in Las Vegas.

And they've done

some small deals together,

but now they're ready

for the big one.

Well, that was unexpected,

Matthew.

Now I understand why you're

seated at the head of the table.

Snuck that one right by me, didn't

you, you naughty little girl?

Making a splash

with the gentry.

Oh, I like to make a splash

whenever possible.

Well, you also seem to understand

the significance of a proper attire.

Indeed I do.

I believe

a sense of ownership

is vital

in every aspect of life,

perhaps never more so than

when it comes to wardrobe.

For every look there is a season,

and for every season a strategy.

Now starts the alpha dance.

They're not really talking

about clothes, Raymond.

Oh, fucking no.

They're like

a pair of old doggies

sniffing round one another's

intellectual assholes.

It's a good old-fashioned

cock-off, Raymond.

Michael, I'm looking forward

to doing business together.

- May we excuse ourselves?

- Yes, please.

We should say good night

to our host.

So what do you think?

I'm not sure.

Your Grace.

He's a fox,

and foxes

have a predictable nature.

Trust this Jew

about that Jew.

If you let him

in the henhouse,

you can expect blood

and feathers everywhere.

Fresh from

a farmyard pheasant shoot,

these two are starting

to like each other.

It's looking good, Ray.

It's looking fucking good.

I'm impressed with what you've done with your enterprise.

You see, try as I might,

I can't work out how you do it,

and bush is my game.

How does anyone grow

50 tons of super skunk

without letting anyone else

know how they do it?

I'm flattered to hear that

from you, Matthew.

I imagine that big brain of yours

is sweating a stream of tears

just trying

to figure it out.

Brilliance

should be acknowledged.

Mm.

Run the numbers

by me again.

200 million gross p.a.,

100 million net.

But your people

know this already.

They've swept the numbers

for months now.

The bottom line is I'll sell

it to you for 400 million.

But you knew that already.

Hop in.

Now, I can't be specific

about the heroes and zeros,

but there was a lot of money

hanging in the balance.

Question: What would it be

worth to have the power

to be able to pull the plug

on an operation like that?