The Ones That Got Away

An imagined reunion between Warren Beatty and Natalie Wood—ten years after their last onscreen pairing in Splendor in the Grass (1961), their last flirtation, their last unsent letter. They meet again, unexpectedly, at a private party in Elia Kazan’s Manhattan brownstone. It’s late spring in the 1970s. Beatty is still the golden boy, if slightly frayed at the edges. Wood is all poise, wrapped in velvet and caution. The lights are low, the piano is playing something slow, and the ghosts of promises hover just beyond the hors d’oeuvres.

Scene: The parlor room of Elia Kazan’s brownstone, Upper East Side.
The party is smaller than expected. Industry people, but not the loud kind. Vinyl plays from a corner stereo—Sinatra, maybe. There’s laughter from the kitchen, and someone’s talking about A Streetcar Named Desire like it was a family tragedy.
Warren Beatty, looking like a man halfway between matinee idol and midnight philosopher, stands by the window with a drink he hasn’t touched. He’s scanning the room like it owes him something.
That’s when he sees her.
Natalie Wood, in deep green satin, hair swept up, eyes like unopened letters. She’s standing near the fireplace, laughing at something Hal Ashby said. She turns—and freezes.
It’s been ten years.
Ten years since Splendor in the Grass faded to black. Ten years of near-misses and never-quite-dinners.

BEATTY (approaching, soft grin):
I always said you’d walk into the room like a plot twist.
WOOD (smiling coolly):
And you always said a lot of things.
BEATTY:
Most of them true. The rest—beautiful lies.
WOOD:
Well, let’s start with the beautiful ones. It’s been a long time, Warren.
BEATTY:
Too long. You look... like someone who figured it all out.
WOOD:
I figured out how not to drown in a champagne glass. That’s something.

They move toward the hallway, away from the murmurs and the music. A side table holds a half-burned candle. The kind of light that forgives a few wrinkles and remembers a few old sparks.

BEATTY:
I thought about calling you. More than once.
WOOD:
You always thought about a lot of things. Calls. Commitments.
BEATTY (half-chuckling):
Ouch.
WOOD:
Not meant to hurt. Just meant to be remembered.

Pause. She looks down at her ring. He notices. Doesn’t mention it.

WOOD:
Do you remember that night in 1961? The wrap party? I wore that ridiculous blue dress and you said--
BEATTY:
—I said you looked like the last honest thing in Hollywood.
WOOD (soft):
And then you disappeared for three weeks.
BEATTY:
I thought it would protect us.
WOOD:
From what?
BEATTY:
From what happens when people like us pretend we’re ordinary.

A long silence. Somewhere in the house, a glass breaks and someone says “Marlon would’ve hated this.”

WOOD:
You know, I watched Shampoo on a plane last month.
BEATTY:
Oh boy. Did you make it through the hair jokes?
WOOD:
I made it through you. You were electric. But also... sad.
BEATTY:
Maybe I was playing you.
WOOD (glances at him):
Maybe you were.

She walks toward a narrow hallway lined with framed theater posters. He follows, as if drawn not by her, but by unfinished business.

BEATTY:
You ever think we should’ve done another picture?
WOOD:
We were another picture. One they never greenlit. One they didn’t think the audience could handle.
BEATTY:
We’d have written our own ending this time.
WOOD:
No suicides. No screaming matches in the rain. Just... silence. Real, breathing silence.
BEATTY:
And a balcony.
WOOD:
And a bottle of wine.
BEATTY:
And no one watching.

She smiles again. This time not cool. This time like a woman looking at someone who once almost mattered forever.

WOOD:
I’m glad we didn’t ruin it, Warren.
BEATTY:
Ruin what?
WOOD:
The idea of us.
BEATTY:
It was a damn good idea.
WOOD:
And we were never good at reality.

They return toward the party, where the piano is playing “It Was a Very Good Year.”

BEATTY:
Can I call you? For real, this time?
WOOD (gently):
You can try. But I may not pick up right away.
BEATTY:
As long as it rings.
WOOD:
It always rings.

They part. No kiss. No tears. Just that impossible thing—two people walking away from what might’ve been, smiling anyway.

Fade out.
Credits roll in slow jazz and imagined memories.