All language subtitles for Alfred Hitchcock s03e39 Little White Frock

I was just putting weights in this box
of trash so it will sink quickly.

I'm about to throw it into the river.

Perhaps I should explain why I'm here.

Mr. Hitchcock is indisposed this
evening. As a matter of fact, we can't

anywhere. I'm quite worried.

I wouldn't want anything to happen to
him. You see, I'm his brother and sole

heir. Of course, we mustn't let Brother
Alfred's absence interfere with the

evening's entertainment.

I'm sure he would want it that way.

I have his notes.

The second item on the agenda is a drama
entitled Little White Frog.

As for the first item, he says... I know
my brother thinks I'm a rather dull and

somewhat of a prude, but this language
is much too frank for television.

I don't know about you, but I'm very
curious about anything that would

such language.

Shall we have a go at it?

You've been so very wrong, Ella.

Remember that old song?

The rock and chair blues.

Well, that's been us, I'm afraid.

Rocking away these last years of our
lives.

Expecting the children to pay us the
most exacting of all tributes.

Gratitude.

And more gratitude.

For what?

Because we gave them life?

Because when they were young, we fed and
sheltered them?

No, Ella.

No, that'll be all for today. Thank you,
Mr. Andrews.

Thank you.

We'll let you know.

You know, we still have a week to cast
the part.

Oh, sure.

After all, it's only the second lead.

It's the best play you've ever written,
Adam, but it isn't actor proof.

We may have to postpone the start of
rehearsal.

Well, we still have a week, don't we?

Look, I'm meeting Kozlov at the club.
You better come along. He might have an

idea.

You ask who is Stroker?

I tell you.

He's only number one dramatic actor on
the continent today.

But, Kozlov, Stroker sounds like he
ought to be playing for Notre Dame, not

stage. Left guard, I'd say.

You ask for ideas, I give you ideas.

Left guard.

What do you think of Gordon Daniels?

As little as possible.

Mr. Longsworth.

Colin Branca.

You remember me.

I saw you play Othello when I was a kid.
I'll never forget it.

I'm honored.

And may I say, sir, I regard you as the
most brilliant young playwright of this

new generation.

Oh, Mr. Robinson, Mr. Kosloff. Yes, I do
know both gentlemen.

This is a stroke of good fortune. I've
been trying to reach you.

I was hoping perhaps you'd dine with me.

I'd like to ask you... I mean, your last
play moved me so deeply that I wanted

you to know what I felt about it.

Shall we say tomorrow evening?

Well, I doubt it. You see, we're right
in the middle of casting and... Oh,

I see.

Well, then what other night this week?

Well, actually, my wife handles our
social affairs. I'd have to check with

Of course, yes.

Well, I bid you good afternoon,
gentlemen.

How about that for pure, unadulterated
gall?

He's just lonely, that's all.

You can almost see the ghosts trailing
behind him.

Once a big Broadway star, now an old man
who has to beg for a dinner guest.

Well, it's obvious why he invited you.

He knows we're casting. He wants in. How
about that?

He hasn't done anything since the
Stanley Steamer. What happens to men

Branca? The worst thing that can happen
to any of us.

Live longer than your talents.

See you tomorrow at 11.

Don't worry, Adam. We'll have a new
batch to read by then.

Greatest martini recipe in the world.
Pour vodka lavishly until Carol stops

kissing.

I'd better keep it a secret, though. I
wouldn't want strangers using my

Why do you think your vodka bills are so
high?

Strangers?

Ready for vermouth?

I think we'll confine the vermouth to
the strangers. I'll handle the vodka.

Oh, speaking of strangers, we have a
dinner invitation tomorrow.

Oh? A man named Colin Breitner.

You know, he had such a beautiful voice
on the phone. He didn't accept, I hope.

Why, yes. He said that you told him just
to confirm it with me, so I thought,

you know... Oh, no.

All this is going too far.

Well, who is he, dear? I don't
understand.

He's an actor. He once was a great star,
but he hasn't done anything recently. I

don't know how he can buy his own
dinner, let alone invite anyone.

Well, he seemed quite insistent. Well,
he needs a job. He probably figured he

could talk me into giving him one.

Well, if he's such a good actor, I
should think you'd want him.

Darling, the man is dated. His style is
passe.

You just can't believe him anymore. I
mean, audiences wouldn't accept him.

Well, then we won't go to his place for
dinner. That's all there is to it.

His place?

Is that what he said?

Mm -hmm. In the village.

Oh, that'll be grim, I'll bet.

Scrapbooks, faded reviews, brass
spittoons.

I'll call him and tell him we can't make
it.

Oh, if you could have heard his voice,
Adam. He begged.

Oh, not really, you know. His voice was
actually quite reserved, but I could

hear the begging in between.

Well, it isn't our problem.

Oh, darling, don't be that kind of
person.

Just three years ago, don't you remember
how hungry we were and how broke?

Don't let's ever forget how a door looks
when somebody slams it in your face.

You know, it isn't true that it's better
to be a have than a have not. You've

got any tender spots left by the time
you finally make it.

Being a have can be rugged, too, can it?

Well, that's the man I love, the man who
just said that.

Well, I warn you, it could be an
extremely dull evening.

Or extremely interesting.

You were not born, my dear, nor you, Mr.
Longsworth, when I embarked upon a

stage career.

Then even I was young.

And the names that were so awesome to
me, Maude Adams,

James K. Hackett, Richard Mansfield,
William Gillard, or so many more, must

totally unknown to you now.

May I suggest a toast to all the
forgotten actors and actresses of the

to all those whose only permanence lies
in the memories of those who saw and

loved them, to their days and nights in
stuffy lodgings, to their struggles,

their adversities.

And their successes.

That's excellent. It's quite a rare
vintage, but I have another bottle.

It's yours. Oh, thank you, Mr. Brangner.
My husband knows very little about

wine. Oh, I don't know.

I used to have a chart, you know,
showing the good years and the bad, all

fine vintages.

Oh, but Carol's quite right.

I could never remember which year was
which.

Anyway, I know I like this.

People are much like wine, don't you
think? Good vintages and bad.

It isn't really quite that simple, is
it? Now, don't get my husband started on

people, Mr. Brangner. He has some rather
startling theories about them.

I know.

It's evident in everything he writes.

He knows things not here, but here.

He writes for the actor.

He even writes for old and derelict
actors.

Shall we take our drinks inside?

Oh, no, I have a woman who comes and
cleans now and again. She'll be here

shortly to do these.

Please.

That shows how recent our success is.

I still can't get up from a table
without reaching for a handful of dirty

dishes. Sit down, Bill.

Well, I suppose you're wondering why I
imposed on you asking to dine here this

evening.

My husband had a sort of a theory, yes.

Carol. Poor idea.

I see.

You think that Mr. Longsworth had to do
with your play?

I mean my getting a part in it?

Well, since we seem to be getting
terribly candid, something in that

area, yes.

That chair I had from the Zimmer for
herself was in her production of A

House in 1907.

This fan?

belonged to Ada Rian.

And I've saved the original script, my
first lead on Broadway.

Not much, you think, not much to have
left after so many years.

Well, enough sentiment.

The reason why I asked you here tonight,
I'm leaving the theater.

You're saying to yourself, the old boy's
been out of it for so many years now,

what difference does it make whether he
leaves or stays?

been a little longer in the theater, Mr.
Longsworth, you will discover that

being in it does not only mean working
in it.

Being in it is to live for nothing else,
as I have done.

Well, I wanted to leave you my little
museum, the chair, the fan, the script.

But why me?

Because I thought you might be the one
person who would appreciate them.

Why, we would be honored to accept them,
Mr. Brangner. Thank you, my dear.

Well, yes, of course.

I see you've noticed this.

Oh, yes. Is it from one of your plays?

No, no, no.

No, it's something far more precious.

Every stitch was put there by one of the
most beautiful women I've ever known,

Lila Gordon.

Oh, then that name means nothing to you,
I know.

Mr. Brangner, simply because we haven't
lived quite as many years as you have

doesn't mean that we don't know anything
about the theater.

I happen to have heard a lot about Lila
Gordon. I'm sure my wife has, too.

I'm sorry, I suppose I forget how famous
a star she became.

No, but you would not remember the
famous Charles Carside Company which

the country in 1918.

We changed our bill every night and
sometimes twice a day.

Yes, and sometimes we changed our paths,
too.

I remember my friend Terry O 'Bain and I
reversed the paths of Othello and Iago

on alternate nights for two weeks of a
stretch.

I remember particularly this one night
in Buffalo when I was Othello.

The night Lila Gordon joined the company
and was my Desdemona.

She was beautiful, fragile, adorable.

I think I loved her from the first
moment I saw her.

But Terry loved her too.

I looked at him across the stage and
instantly we understood that our

was at last to find its test.

For two months, Terry and I never spoke
of our feelings.

From city to city, bad hotel to worse
hotel, drafty dressing room to draftiest

stage, we...

We traveled, both of us madly in love
with Lila.

At last, to resolve the matter, we did
what now seems a frightfully romantic

thing.

We drew the petals from a rose.

If there were an odd number of petals,
then I was to ask Lila to marry me.

If an even number, then it was to be
Terry's privilege.

There were 35 petals.

That night, after the performance, I...

poured out my pent -up feelings to Lila.

She refused me.

Oh, she was sympathetic, tender even.

But she confessed it was Terry she
loved.

I was still in my costume, I remember,
as I left Lila's dressing room and

returned to the one Terry and I shared.

Oh, Mr. Brankner.

Got a telegram here from Mr. Bain.

Is he in his dressing room?

Yes, he should be.

Thanks, sir.

Telegram, Mr. Bain.

Thank you, Bill.

Colin, you'll never believe it.

She said no.

I'm sorry, Colin.

Anyway, there's one bright side to it. A
surprise.

A wonderful surprise for you.

Yes. We could be bursting out like this,
particularly as I know how you feel.

But look.

What's that?

How many million...

It's several million.

Two, three, four, who knows? Who cares?

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen.

Nineteen dollars and I'm flush this
week.

Can you imagine even having one million
dollars?

I can't imagine.

But who says better than our good friend
Iago?

Faith, he tonight hath boarded a land
carack.

If it prove lawful prize, he's made
forever.

Well, first I shall have to leave the
show and go to New York and see those

lawyers.

Dear old Arndellis.

Oh, I'm sorry she had to pass away to
make all this come true.

Colin.

My dear Colin, I'll come back and rejoin
the show.

But as soon as I've signed the necessary
papers.

You know, I was in love with you, Terry.
She just told me.

This is too much.

Well, too much all in one evening.

Would you... Would you tell me what she
said?

Before I go to her?

Please don't expect me to repeat more
than I have already.

She's loved you from the start, Terry.

And imagine the first night she joined
the company, you were playing Iago, who

betrayed her.

And the next night, Othello, who
strangled her.

How can one expect to learn the reasons
for love?

Accept it.

Be grateful.

But don't question it.

Thank you, Colin.

Thank you.

May I offer you some more wine, Mrs.
Ronsworth?

Mr. Ronsworth.

No, no, thank you.

That moment when Terry left me to ask
Lado to marry him.

That was the heaviest moment of my life.

Or so I thought.

But I learned there's no limit to
sorrow.

Of course, Lyra accepted his proposal at
once.

He went off to New York to claim his
inheritance.

Lyra was to finish out the tour he was
to send for her.

I can say with perfect truth that the
fortune that had been left to him killed

Terry O 'Bain.

He took a penthouse apartment in New
York. It became a hangout for all sorts

loose characters.

One was a pretty creature named
Annabelle Lane.

I was with Lila backstage when she got
Terry's brief note telling her he was

going to marry Annabelle.

Well, they were married all right.

The following year, they had a child.

Little girl.

Jeannie.

Almost immediately after that, Terry was
killed in a street accident.

He was drunk at the time.

It was then I experienced an entirely
novel aspect of woman's character.

Lila, who previously refused to mention
Annabelle's name, developed an affection

for the child.

And as the years went by, she became
more and more absorbed by the little

more and more distressed by the way she
was being brought up.

I had left the company myself. I had
gone to Broadway and achieved some

reputation.

Meanwhile, Jeannie grew up the image of
her mother, vain, fickle and spoiled.

By the time she was ten, she thought of
nothing but her looks and her clothes.

Between performances,

Lila would make her little dresses.

She was very clever at it.

It was on the eve of the child's tenth
birthday that tragedy came full circle.

I had just opened on Broadway in the
slap.

You get a magic feeling when an opening
has gone well.

There's an electricity in the air, a
sense of triumph in your dressing room

after the curtains rung down.

But it seemed utterly unimportant when I
read the message.

It was from Lila.

I'd lost track of her for more than a
year.

She'd left the stage and no one knew
where she'd gone.

But now, she urged me to come to see
her.

It was urgent.

Terribly urgent, she wrote.

I left at once.

Come in.

You're ill. You ought to have somebody
looking after you.

You sound like my doctors, always
viewing with alarm.

Tell me, where have you been hiding?
What's been happening to you?

The Arkwrights are having a dance
tomorrow.

It's Jeannie's 10th birthday.

I didn't come here to talk about
Jeannie.

I'm trying to finish this dress for her.
Your note said something urgent. Tell

me what it is.

You haven't changed, have you?

Always the direct approach.

Remember when you asked me to marry you?

I remember.

I want you to take this dress to Jeannie
for me.

Me? Yes.

I'm so tired.

And at such an important event, I didn't
want to trust it to a delivery service.

What do you think?

It's lovely.

Please,

hurry. Then come back and tell me what
she thought of it.

Then we'll talk.

Very well.

But now that I've found you again, I can
tell you I'll never let you go a second

time.

I took Jeannie the frock.

She was a pretty child, but when she saw
the dress, her face lost all its

prettiness and she became hard and ugly.

It looks like a nightdress, she said. I
don't want it.

Then she threw it on the floor.

I believe at that moment I could have
struck her.

Your Aunt Lila worked all night to
finish this, I cried. You don't know

you're doing.

She tossed her little head and actually
pressed the bell for the butler to see

me out.

Dazed and baffled, I left, still holding
this.

When I went back to Lila, wondering what
lie I could tell her, I found there was

no need for lies.

No need for anything.

Lila was dead, sitting there in her
chair where I'd left her.

Mr. Brangner, Mr. Brangner, I finished
the dishes and tidied up.

I'll take it, Marie. You may go then.

Excuse me, sir, but...

I've looked everywhere for my niece's
little dress and I can't find it. I

wondered if I left it in here someplace.

Oh, there it is.

I'm sorry to have disturbed you, ma 'am,
but she asked me to have it ready for

school. Good night.

You were acting.

whole thing.

I mean, Terry O 'Bain, Lila Gordon,
Annabelle Genie, all an act.

Yes, except for the fact that Terry and
Lila and I were in Othello together one

season.

But why?

Why all this, sir? Your husband, Mrs.
Longsworth, together with many

contemporary playwrights and producers,
seems to believe that we old -timers

aren't very convincing.

Frankly, I want work.

I want it very badly.

So I thought I'd audition for your
husband the only way I could.

Mr. Brankner, I've always said that it's
almost impossible to judge an actor's

ability from an audition.

I'm now ready to eat those words.

Can you be at the theater at 11 tomorrow
morning?

Now I believe it is time for another of
those splendid little commercial

messages which my uncouth brother
detests so, but which I like very much.

I shall be back following, as I was
saying, I shall be back in a moment.

Oh, good evening.

I don't believe my brother will be
bothering you anymore.

Oh, he was a nice enough fellow, if he
just hadn't been such a stickler for

form. He was that way to the end.

The last thing I heard him say was,
really, Alfred, with an axe?

Next week we shall have another story,
and I promise to be here on time.

Until then, good night.