Living with a Visionary (2026) Movie Script
When she wakes up, if shes slept at all,
she tells me about the giants carrying trees and bushes.
The children playing games in the bedroom annoy her.
She tells them to get out.
She describes the man with no legs
who spent the night lying beside her in bed.
Nobody would help him, she says.
She calls him the flowery man.
She says he's very nice.
She asked me if I saw the opera last night.
I ask, which one?
In the 50 years we've been married, we've seen many.
She means the one last night in our backyard.
She describes the stage, the costumes, the lighting...
She says I don't believe her.
I say it's not a matter of belief, but of perception.
I can't see what she sees.
She tells me that it's a great pity.
I used to have an imagination.
Also, she knows about my girlfriend.
There is no girlfriend.
Suddenly, Diana remembers the opera.
It was La Traviata.
Now I have a vision of my own.
Diana is 21 and I'm 25.
We have just arrived in South Bend where I'm teaching English at Notre Dame.
Diana wore the clothes shed brought with her from England...
including her mini skirt.
In London, where we had met, it had been the middle of the 1960s.
At our Midwestern college, it was more like the 50s.
Only boys were admitted back then.
Some had never eaten a crumbly scone or sipped out of such a delicate cup.
She dazzled them.
Later, she earned an art history degree
and became the curator of our university's museum.
Art was her passion.
She devised a program of curriculum-based tours.
Chemistry students learned about 17th century paint.
Psychology major studied portraits for signs of their subjects mental health.
They followed her hand, pointing out some luminous detail...
They listened to the music of her voice,
her British accent slowly becoming Americanized over the decades.
After 30 years, students noticed something was wrong.
She told the French students to observe a man named General Marius.
But General Marius was around the corner...
in a different painting.
Diana had begun treatment for Parkinson's disease.
A cocktail of medicines.
Besides fatigue, she had virtually no symptoms.
But now she was seeing things at home as well.
She asked if the cat was real.
I asked her what else she saw.
She said, little people. like Gullivers Lilliputians.
Objects had been morph- ing for some time, but now they were appearing out of nowhere.
A specialist in Chicago called these visions illusions
probably a side effect of the medication.
A specialist in Chicago called these visions illusions probably a side effect of the medication.
We began to experiment with the dosage in hopes it would curb them.
The illusions were not always frightening.
Many of them seemed inspired by her work in the visual arts.
If only you could see this, she said.
She managed to retire when she was scheduled to, not before.
She avoided confusion by writing out detailed notes for her tours.
Later, it became harder for her to understand that the visions were not real.
She asked me why these events were not written about in the paper.
At home, nothing held still.
Three women refused to leave her closet.
The flowery man roamed the house.
There were rude people, whod masturbate into a dresser drawer,
and had sex on the living room sofa.
I read that it did not help to deny the reality of these visions,
so I pretended that I could see them too.
We encouraged friends to do the same, and for a while this helped.
A fifth person at a dinner for four did not pose a big problem,
once we got used to this kind of thing.
Sometimes the visions responded to stern rebukes.
I could say things like, I'll see the painter to the door.
Our daughter's portrait continued to exist, for Diana, partially erased.
She called the painting...
the half-faced child.
Through the winter, Diana's hallucinations grow more terrible.
In China, a deadly new virus is unleashed on the world.
Because of the Parkin- son's, Diana is either sleepless or tormented by nightmares.
When I ask her if she is awake, she says she doesn't know.
She's getting very thin.
I count calories, mix anything with protein.
One morning she asks me, who are you?
What are you doing here?
Now they all have names.
Not charming names like the flowery man,
but monosyllabic names like Bob, Pete, Dick, George, Jack.
Jack who, I ask?
Jack the Ripper.
In March, as the pandemic descends,
I try to explain why she cannot see friends or family.
In March, as the pandemic descends, I try to explain why she cannot see friends or family.
She begins going outside behind my back.
She talks about jumping into the river.
Neighbors offer to do some shopping for us,
but as the pandemic gets worse, I hesitate to ask them.
I'm told that senior helper organizations are on hold.
I begin taking pills myself
sedatives washed down with glasses of Merlot.
We are living on cans of beans and prescription drugs.
Still, there are moments when Diana is very happy.
Look, she says.
Why can't you see?
I tell her I'm trying.
She becomes angry and shouts,
the gods! The gods!
What have you got?
I ask her.
A dead baby, she says.
Someone has called the police about the lady who lives here.
I tell them she's my wife.
I am asked who has been looking after her and fear I'm about to be arrested.
Someone suggests it would be good for her to get completely checked out in the ER.
Diana is worried about the dead baby
she had in her arms just a moment ago.
No one asks what I think should be done.
No one asks me to come along.
Diana is admitted to the hospital for observation.
Because of Covid restrictions, I won't be able to visit her.
They'll get all the meds mixed up.
What will happen if she misses a dose?
At some point, it's decided that I, too, should be examined in the hospital.
I'm told that I am suffering from exhaustion, malnutrition, and dehydration.
I end up on the same floor as Diana, where she's told everyone
that she's a movie director working on a documentary about art therapy in hospitals.
I explain as much of Diana's medical history as I can.
I'm allowed to talk to her only by phone.
My daughter, Laura, and I, have agreed that her mom will need to move
into an assisted living community near her in Ohio.
I must admit that I'm no longer able to look after her.
I'm barely able to look after myself.
Covid is tearing through the country.
They need my bed.
My doctors ask if I want to spend three days in a psychiatric hospital.
They talk about rest, recovery.
Where I end up is not a health spa, but more like a boot camp.
No shoelaces, no belt.
I'm given a handful of large and small pills every three hours.
At night, all patients are on suicide watch.
I barely sleep.
Diana is driven to the facility in Ohio,
where, after a 14 day quarantine, she will now live.
She still thinks she's directing a documentary film.
I'm not allowed to see her before she leaves.
At 79, I'm too weak to do many of the things demanded of me.
In an online hearing, a judge concludes that, although I must stay longer,
I don't have to undergo shock therapy.
I am terrified of getting Covid.
One day I am required to cut off my beard.
I discover the corners of my mouth locked in a permanent grimace.
I cannot smile.
I explain that there's been a mistake, that I need to rescue my wife,
who has been taken to Ohio.
I watch the unbelieving faces of everyone around me,
and wonder how often Diana saw the same incredulity in my own face.
Somehow, our family lawyer gets in touch with a personal health care advocate
who's able to secure my release.
I sign some papers that I hadn't read,
and then I'm free.
Driving back home the same way Diana came,
I consider asking the attendants if they have ever heard of the flowery man,
the little people,
the giants carrying trees and bushes.
For years I have tried as hard as I could to see these things.
I'd been home for five months when Covid hit the facility in Ohio.
For a while, I managed to communicate with Diana through screens.
Eventually, this confused her too much and we switched to the telephone.
Last time I saw her, she told me she had caught something,
something beginning with the letter C.
Diana almost survived Covid.
After testing positive, she spent several nights in the hospital again,
but was sent back to the facility with a normal temperature.
I imagine seeing her again...
even touching her...
I would be among the first to be vaccinated...
Among the first to embrace a loved one who'd been unreachable for so long.
I didn't care how many hallucinated people came along,
as long as Diana was there to see them.
Then her blood oxygen level dropped.
She was not likely to live through the night.
Our daughter put the phone to her ear
and I read her the first poem I ever wrote for her,
about waking together in a small, Left Bank hotel in Paris before we were married.
Hey, dad, um--
Dad?
Hey, you're doing great.
But, you know, she really wants to hear about
about the flowery man?
Uh
So I
told her everything I knew.
she tells me about the giants carrying trees and bushes.
The children playing games in the bedroom annoy her.
She tells them to get out.
She describes the man with no legs
who spent the night lying beside her in bed.
Nobody would help him, she says.
She calls him the flowery man.
She says he's very nice.
She asked me if I saw the opera last night.
I ask, which one?
In the 50 years we've been married, we've seen many.
She means the one last night in our backyard.
She describes the stage, the costumes, the lighting...
She says I don't believe her.
I say it's not a matter of belief, but of perception.
I can't see what she sees.
She tells me that it's a great pity.
I used to have an imagination.
Also, she knows about my girlfriend.
There is no girlfriend.
Suddenly, Diana remembers the opera.
It was La Traviata.
Now I have a vision of my own.
Diana is 21 and I'm 25.
We have just arrived in South Bend where I'm teaching English at Notre Dame.
Diana wore the clothes shed brought with her from England...
including her mini skirt.
In London, where we had met, it had been the middle of the 1960s.
At our Midwestern college, it was more like the 50s.
Only boys were admitted back then.
Some had never eaten a crumbly scone or sipped out of such a delicate cup.
She dazzled them.
Later, she earned an art history degree
and became the curator of our university's museum.
Art was her passion.
She devised a program of curriculum-based tours.
Chemistry students learned about 17th century paint.
Psychology major studied portraits for signs of their subjects mental health.
They followed her hand, pointing out some luminous detail...
They listened to the music of her voice,
her British accent slowly becoming Americanized over the decades.
After 30 years, students noticed something was wrong.
She told the French students to observe a man named General Marius.
But General Marius was around the corner...
in a different painting.
Diana had begun treatment for Parkinson's disease.
A cocktail of medicines.
Besides fatigue, she had virtually no symptoms.
But now she was seeing things at home as well.
She asked if the cat was real.
I asked her what else she saw.
She said, little people. like Gullivers Lilliputians.
Objects had been morph- ing for some time, but now they were appearing out of nowhere.
A specialist in Chicago called these visions illusions
probably a side effect of the medication.
A specialist in Chicago called these visions illusions probably a side effect of the medication.
We began to experiment with the dosage in hopes it would curb them.
The illusions were not always frightening.
Many of them seemed inspired by her work in the visual arts.
If only you could see this, she said.
She managed to retire when she was scheduled to, not before.
She avoided confusion by writing out detailed notes for her tours.
Later, it became harder for her to understand that the visions were not real.
She asked me why these events were not written about in the paper.
At home, nothing held still.
Three women refused to leave her closet.
The flowery man roamed the house.
There were rude people, whod masturbate into a dresser drawer,
and had sex on the living room sofa.
I read that it did not help to deny the reality of these visions,
so I pretended that I could see them too.
We encouraged friends to do the same, and for a while this helped.
A fifth person at a dinner for four did not pose a big problem,
once we got used to this kind of thing.
Sometimes the visions responded to stern rebukes.
I could say things like, I'll see the painter to the door.
Our daughter's portrait continued to exist, for Diana, partially erased.
She called the painting...
the half-faced child.
Through the winter, Diana's hallucinations grow more terrible.
In China, a deadly new virus is unleashed on the world.
Because of the Parkin- son's, Diana is either sleepless or tormented by nightmares.
When I ask her if she is awake, she says she doesn't know.
She's getting very thin.
I count calories, mix anything with protein.
One morning she asks me, who are you?
What are you doing here?
Now they all have names.
Not charming names like the flowery man,
but monosyllabic names like Bob, Pete, Dick, George, Jack.
Jack who, I ask?
Jack the Ripper.
In March, as the pandemic descends,
I try to explain why she cannot see friends or family.
In March, as the pandemic descends, I try to explain why she cannot see friends or family.
She begins going outside behind my back.
She talks about jumping into the river.
Neighbors offer to do some shopping for us,
but as the pandemic gets worse, I hesitate to ask them.
I'm told that senior helper organizations are on hold.
I begin taking pills myself
sedatives washed down with glasses of Merlot.
We are living on cans of beans and prescription drugs.
Still, there are moments when Diana is very happy.
Look, she says.
Why can't you see?
I tell her I'm trying.
She becomes angry and shouts,
the gods! The gods!
What have you got?
I ask her.
A dead baby, she says.
Someone has called the police about the lady who lives here.
I tell them she's my wife.
I am asked who has been looking after her and fear I'm about to be arrested.
Someone suggests it would be good for her to get completely checked out in the ER.
Diana is worried about the dead baby
she had in her arms just a moment ago.
No one asks what I think should be done.
No one asks me to come along.
Diana is admitted to the hospital for observation.
Because of Covid restrictions, I won't be able to visit her.
They'll get all the meds mixed up.
What will happen if she misses a dose?
At some point, it's decided that I, too, should be examined in the hospital.
I'm told that I am suffering from exhaustion, malnutrition, and dehydration.
I end up on the same floor as Diana, where she's told everyone
that she's a movie director working on a documentary about art therapy in hospitals.
I explain as much of Diana's medical history as I can.
I'm allowed to talk to her only by phone.
My daughter, Laura, and I, have agreed that her mom will need to move
into an assisted living community near her in Ohio.
I must admit that I'm no longer able to look after her.
I'm barely able to look after myself.
Covid is tearing through the country.
They need my bed.
My doctors ask if I want to spend three days in a psychiatric hospital.
They talk about rest, recovery.
Where I end up is not a health spa, but more like a boot camp.
No shoelaces, no belt.
I'm given a handful of large and small pills every three hours.
At night, all patients are on suicide watch.
I barely sleep.
Diana is driven to the facility in Ohio,
where, after a 14 day quarantine, she will now live.
She still thinks she's directing a documentary film.
I'm not allowed to see her before she leaves.
At 79, I'm too weak to do many of the things demanded of me.
In an online hearing, a judge concludes that, although I must stay longer,
I don't have to undergo shock therapy.
I am terrified of getting Covid.
One day I am required to cut off my beard.
I discover the corners of my mouth locked in a permanent grimace.
I cannot smile.
I explain that there's been a mistake, that I need to rescue my wife,
who has been taken to Ohio.
I watch the unbelieving faces of everyone around me,
and wonder how often Diana saw the same incredulity in my own face.
Somehow, our family lawyer gets in touch with a personal health care advocate
who's able to secure my release.
I sign some papers that I hadn't read,
and then I'm free.
Driving back home the same way Diana came,
I consider asking the attendants if they have ever heard of the flowery man,
the little people,
the giants carrying trees and bushes.
For years I have tried as hard as I could to see these things.
I'd been home for five months when Covid hit the facility in Ohio.
For a while, I managed to communicate with Diana through screens.
Eventually, this confused her too much and we switched to the telephone.
Last time I saw her, she told me she had caught something,
something beginning with the letter C.
Diana almost survived Covid.
After testing positive, she spent several nights in the hospital again,
but was sent back to the facility with a normal temperature.
I imagine seeing her again...
even touching her...
I would be among the first to be vaccinated...
Among the first to embrace a loved one who'd been unreachable for so long.
I didn't care how many hallucinated people came along,
as long as Diana was there to see them.
Then her blood oxygen level dropped.
She was not likely to live through the night.
Our daughter put the phone to her ear
and I read her the first poem I ever wrote for her,
about waking together in a small, Left Bank hotel in Paris before we were married.
Hey, dad, um--
Dad?
Hey, you're doing great.
But, you know, she really wants to hear about
about the flowery man?
Uh
So I
told her everything I knew.