Original subtitles

Thank you.

The Journal of Rachel Harris, being an account of the life and works of her

fiancé Plantagenet Evans, photographic artist and man of genius,

under whose roof I now reside, though naturally in my own apartment.

It makes interesting reading sometimes whilst waiting for my employer.

In my position, I do a lot of waiting, mainly for him to marry me.

He can't do a thing, he tells me, until the planet Venus moves into a more

appropriate conjunction with his overdraft at Lloyd's.

However, on this particular occasion, my employer... called at number 26

Max Boyce Avenue to make arrangements for someone's wedding.

How I envy the two of them. How cosy and lovey -dovey.

Unfortunately,

sometimes my employer allows his artistic curiosity to go beyond the

being tactful.

She seems very inventive with regard to her forthcoming nuptials.

Very active, premaritally.

Bupa! Have you been prying into things perhaps best left unsaid?

One glass of her mam's homemade dandelion wine, she's hitting him with a

Will you be wanting the leather albums, or will you be making do with the

inferior plastic?

Plastic? I thought as much. You look a bit handy with the plastic.

Always associate him with inferior plastic.

Don't you think we'd better go?

Shouldn't I go and say goodbye to the happy couple?

One

thing

I do know, her second language isn't Welsh.

You have to look.

What started them fighting?

What did you say to them? Me?

Innocent bystander, isn't it?

Merely exercising a steadying influence on their youthful tendency to condamnise

photographically.

Putting them at threes with a few conversational inquiries.

I knew it.

You were asking questions. You were praying.

Praying's a harsh word.

Well, look what happened.

It's not praying. It's the urge the artist has to cut through the surface of

things to gather the human truth underneath.

And what human truth did you uncover that started them fighting?

I asked him merely if he was still contributing to the upkeep of Maureen

in Coleman Street.

A young lady of fashion much seen lately frequenting the fitting rooms of

Mothercare.

Meanwhile...

They were laying plans to embarrass me in my unmarried state by recruiting for

just such a purpose the Reverend Mervyn Tuth, new to this parish.

You're new here?

Yes, yes.

Start as you mean to go on.

Oh, I will, I will. You must vanquish the sinner wherever you find him.

Amen. Amen.

Well, I thought first I'd... Oh, amen.

Yes, indeed, yes.

I thought I'd meet a few people before I start vanquishing.

Start over there.

With a photograph?

Isn't that a shade vainglorious?

No, not with a photograph.

With a battle against your sworn enemy.

I try not to have any enemies.

Do you?

couldn't live without enemies.

You were mortal enemy, man. That great deceiver who roams the earth.

Oh, him. In the person of Plantagenet Evans.

Is that him?

Oh, no, no.

Evans is hairier, more demoniacal.

Well, who's he, then?

Oh, uh, a disciple, probably.

Black mass.

Oh, that's wicked.

Probably sacrificing my sister on top of the counter.

After all, she is unmarried.

What are you thinking, standing there admiring these academic robes?

I'm thinking you look like a camelman.

No, not the face, not the face. No, it's this hump here, you see.

You've got sloping shoulders too, haven't you?

Don't take any notice of him, Mr Moray.

I'm two francs by half.

Well, if you're being overcritical, it's true. I have got very slightly sloping

shoulders. They come in here crippled, bent, fat.

Spotty, ugly, sometimes even carrying guitars.

Well, of course, I can deal with spots.

I can cover them. But the photographic art has no way of dealing with a sitter

with guitar. And whose fault is it if afterwards they don't all look like Paul

Newman men?

Mine.

My wife's the only other one who's ever noticed a slight sloping of the

shoulders. Oh, really? Came at her recklessly, did you?

Pajama bottoms only.

Yes, desperate for affection, eh?

Oh, Glynis, you said to her.

It's Mavis, actually. Oh, well.

Oh, Mavis, you said to her. And she said, oh, damn, not tonight. You've got

sloping shoulders.

Oh, no, it wasn't like that.

Do you know she never noticed for years?

Until I was being measured, inadvertently, for a blue suit.

There you are. That's another thing, you see. They all come in here wearing blue

suits. It flies in the face of nature, this craving for an inadvertent blue

suit.

No,

no, that's no good. Clashes with a beard.

Looks like two cats up to no good.

not really academic?

Well, that's true of most academics, isn't it?

It's only I had for the day. Oh, is it? A fancy dress, is it? No, I'm thinking

about the Open University.

Oh, that's unwise.

As if middle age hasn't got enough pitfalls, along comes the Open

Well, the kids are grown up. I got plenty of time on my hands, now, see?

wait, Stipman, that's what it's for.

Oh, no.

I couldn't do that.

Well, not straight away, no. It takes years.

It takes years of practice. The art of getting the hang of idleness. I am

absolutely made up my mind, but I am drawn towards the open university.

Oh, no.

Steer clear of the fashionable degree.

I mean, being uneducated is one thing, but becoming qualified in it is terrible

indeed. No, no. Just a minute. Let's try this here.

No, no.

More humps.

I thought I'd have a photo talk. See how I look in the robes. That is good

thinking. I mean, there's no point in spending all those years studying if you

just finish up looking a twit in the heart.

Do you think I look a twit in the heart? A twit?

You look an absolute... Mr. Evans!

What? I've got some letters for you to sign.

Letters, letters? Yes, yes, they're in the darkroom.

Excuse us, won't you? We won't be a moment.

My assistant, Miss Harris.

Who lives on the premises.

I have my own apartment.

An arrangement with numerous advantages over the open university, I can tell

you.

Why do you have to tell him he looks a twit in the hat? Because he looks a twit

in the hat.

Can't you be more tactful with paying customers?

Crap. Well, that's a terrible, dull topic to talk about when someone's

your neck, is it?

Jonathan!

There's a customer wait there. I know, it's me.

Please, be more tactful.

Soul of discretion, I'll be.

Oh, he's very powerful physically.

And you can't always avoid him in his confined spaces.

Oh, I do, don't I? I look a twit in the hat.

Bachelor of Arts, is it?

It's not really me, is it?

Why not try science?

Bound to be more precision about the heart with science.

Aye, all right, then I will.

I'll do science. I'll have computer access. I'll make a contribution to

technology. And then the hat will suit me better. Oh, that's it, yes.

Oh, yes, man with a golden tongue, that's me.

Hey, I'll have a photo talk anyway.

That's how we are, we scientists.

Never happier than in shirt sleeves.

That's the idea.

That's good. That's your career, Cetras. Now all we've got to do is to try to

stop you looking like the hunchback of Notre Dame.

Despite his appalling frankness, it can be quite endearing living with a genius

on a day -to -day basis.

For instance...

Like most geniuses, the practicalities of domestic life have largely escaped

him.

Now then, don't tell me.

Something missing.

I have it.

Milk.

Right.

Here we go.

There.

There you are, you see.

And you said I couldn't cook.

Nothing to it.

The cup that cheers but not inebriates, as my old grandad used to say when he

was sober enough to talk.

Oh. Oh, yes, I'm afraid I've run out of sugar.

Never.

Never, my love, you will never run out of sugar. Your sweetness is inbuilt.

Like a lollipop.

Always there to the last nibble.

Tell me, why have we no sugar, dearest?

Try honey.

Very well, why have we no sugar, honey?

Because I haven't bought any, darling.

Well, the next question is fairly obvious.

And the answer's fairly obvious, too. I haven't got any money.

No money?

But I gave you the week's housekeeping only ten days ago. Exactly.

There aren't ten days in a week, there are seven.

Look, don't let's drag simple arithmetic into this. If you want some more money,

you only have to ask.

Fine.

Can I have some more money, please?

Not at the moment, I'm skint.

Why don't you use some of that money you have put by?

That's for a rainy day.

Well, last week was rainy enough.

It was absolutely persistently coming down.

Only as a temporary loan, mind.

There's not much of it left.

You had that previous temporary loan to buy me a Christmas present.

No, no, I didn't buy you a present last Christmas.

This was the Christmas before that.

Well, good heavens, that's ancient history. You're not going to throw that

face, are you? Of course not, but I'd like to hang on to some of it. After

it is my money.

Besides, if it's all gone, you won't be able to buy me a present this Christmas.

And I do love your presents.

It's all original.

Yes, that's true.

I bet not many men have ever bought you a stuffed gorilla before.

It looks wonderful in the corner of my bedroom.

Yes, so do you.

No, it does, really. I love it.

Every time I look at it, I think of you.

Oh, I see.

That's the way you think of me, is it? Fine figure of a monkey, is it?

Now, sit down and behave.

Do you want any dinner?

Oh, dinner, yes, dinner.

Dinner, yes, is paramount.

Yes, billing and cooing can come later.

I might even incorporate a bit of chest -thumping with him about it.

Really?

There isn't any money in photography, is there?

Money? Why do you keep on about money?

What does money matter?

Oh, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all.

Except when you want to buy things.

What about ambition?

Fame, recognition.

Didn't do Tony Armstrong Jones any harm, did it?

But you shouldn't be wasting your time.

You could be anything.

I am anything.

Novelist, philosopher, photographer, antique dealer, tea boy, animal

impersonator.

You name a trade, I'm jack of it.

OK, then, if you're so clever, boil me some water for this.

What?

That's a challenge.

So, boil some water?

Without a recipe?

He does make me laugh a lot.

That's one of the reasons I stay with him.

One of many.

Not many girls from ordinary backgrounds finish up in an environment quite so

original.

He's wonderful with me.

Why is he so terrible with other people?

I've never been so insulted in all my life. Oh, come now, you must have been.

What kind of sheltered existence is that?

He won't photograph me without glasses.

Well, you're squinting, woman. You look like an overdressed question mark.

Oh, it's me you'll get the blame for it. Who the hell took that, they'll say.

And news will travel. Don't go to Evans Photographic. He makes you look as if

you need glasses.

I don't need glasses.

My eyes are perfectly straightforward.

They might be to you looking from back there, but to us out here...

We are squinting.

How dare you!

It's not... Listen, I won't have that expression on any photograph of mine.

But worse was to come. We were on our way to photograph some amateur ballroom

dancer.

That's him.

Evans, a photographic.

And that's her.

Quiet girl she was when she was working for North Wales.

It's the quiet ones of deep.

Then he comes along and off she goes and leaves home to live in black stockings.

She claims she has her own apartment.

Ah, the flower of Welsh gossip.

Good day to you, ladies.

Don't look.

Don't look.

I might be hypnotic.

He did Elvira Wilson's wedding, and she said when he stared at a professional,

she felt shivers going right up and down her trousseau.

Where's the car?

I asked Willie to bring the car.

It'll be here in a minute.

No, inconvenient.

Make a note for me to dock his wages, will you?

You don't pay him any wages.

That's true, no.

No wonder he's short at the end of the week.

Come to think of it, he's pretty short at the beginning of the week, too.

Incredible, isn't it incredible?

One of the photographic giants obliged to loiter unrecognised on his native

pavement.

Cycling person.

Approach. Proceeding slowly I was, isn't it?

On my proper side of the road.

Exercising due care and attention.

Cease this endless flow of complaint.

Fate has tapped you on the shoulder and selected you in passing.

Nearly had me off too.

To be of service to Plantagenet Evans, photographic genius, dealer in precious

artefacts. Agent for the Swedish Wonderwood burning stove.

Here, get someone to read that to him.

Now then, my fine fellow, how would you like to earn yourself a shilling?

A shilling?

A shilling?

Yes.

Exciting, isn't it? Money for all rope.

Catches me going past, stops me in full pedal, nearly has me off, and why?

To offer me a shilling.

Yes, and it was not some reckless impulse, I can assure you. I like the

your jib, sir, wherever that is.

A shilling. A shilling, I promised, and a shilling it shall be.

You got five for you there.

Hold this, will you?

He's on the payroll now. Let him hold it.

What's all Rachel up to now?

Accepting money from passing cyclists.

Oh. Blood our mum, not yet of the yet.

Where is your mum?

She'll be under the dryer at the hairdresser's.

There's a glass, you know.

All you have to do is ride round the first corner, where you will find a

man in a big hat, polishing an open car of classic antiquity.

Just ask him to get his big hat round here a bit sharpish, will you? And while

he's at it, bring the car as well. You can keep your shilling!

You should have offered him more than a shilling.

What, for just riding round the first corner on a bicycle he was using anyway?

He feels insulted.

Oh, well, if it's insults he wants, I can do better than that.

Coming here with his dandruff and his back -wheel wobble.

possessions.

It's the emotional furniture we drag about with us that he's still toying

extra sensualism.

He hasn't said.

He just brings me his washing.

And he looks so sad.

Heavy on clothes, is he?

No.

He parted through his garment so lightly, you'd think sometimes there'd

nobody there.

Poor tormented creature.

What, her who lives with him at the photographic?

It's all right, she can, yes.

What, him with a big hat?

I have my own apartment.

He's good, so I hear.

I have a cousin who is very pleased with what he did for her.

Well, then, she's got such a superabundance of skirt, I can't get her

frame. When are we going to get married?

Well, not at the moment, love. I'm in the middle of a photographic assignment.

People are looking.

Oh, it's only Willie.

It's not Willie.

Strangers are whispering and looking at me. Well, of course they are. With a

green within beyond a fairy tale, isn't it? Where's the happy ending?

Handsome prince of the camera snatches you from that dark... tower where you

were imprisoned at the mercy of Mrs. North Wales Road, all is limited.

I've been named a vice clerk tapist. I was hardly the man in the Iron Man.

Had some pretty stiff cardboard underwear, though, didn't it?

Oh, it's hefty in a tennis boot, I think.

Look, they're bound to talk, aren't they? A romantic story like that pointed

in the street, I wouldn't wonder. They do.

Yes, there she goes. They say that's a Welsh concubine. No, no.

Chosen flower.

of Evans Photographic.

I picked you, didn't I?

I don't mind being your flower.

I don't mind being picked.

I just wish you put me in some sort of permanent bath.

Do you want to sit here?

Just a moment, Mr Evans.

Just a turn, lad.

No, not that part. Just turn round so you can get through the door.

Is the photographer watching?

He's not watching at the moment.

He may not be watching you, Cariad, but he's watching me, right?

That's good. That's good. Oh, that's good. Lovely.

Lovely. Lovely.

Champions Denzel and Dorinda. Oh, there's a picture.

You know, not with this background or terrible dull surroundings of a church

hall, I can't... Function artistically here. Smell of boiled leeks still

lingering from basic cookery. Fade traces of soiled oriental garments under

pressure from last Tuesday's karate class.

No, no, no. Follow me. I shall find a more striking background to photograph

these champions in. Bring the equipment, will you? Will you? Come on up.

It's an open car.

Brings a touch of colour to the cheeks. Very flattering, photographically.

In the front, Rachel.

It won't open. You'll have to climb over.

What we need, you see, is something dramatic in the background. Something in

stark contrast to the glitter of ballroom dancing. Ideally, some dark.

forbidding place where only the most adventurous would dare to set foot.

The

man

in the seat would be amazed how complex life is under a ballroom dancer.

Oh, my hair.

I never doubted it, madam.

You know, Mr Evans, when people ask us what makes a championship pair, we make

no bones about our secret.

Perfect harmony.

On the dance floor and off. Never a crossword.

Perfect teamwork.

Move and think like one, we do.

Always have.

And can he, really?

Famous we are for the...

smoothness of our relationship.

I hope it lasts.

Sounds implausible to me. I mean, two gifted people, one's bound to be a

Here we go.

Not a single little niggle imperfectly suppressed.

No.

Totally compatible we are.

I mean, it's one thing to look beautiful in sequins, but what's he like in the

dull apparel of every day?

Oh, I always see him in sequins.

Ah, one of you is bound to be just that fraction bit better than the other. So

close, it hardly shows.

What hardly shows?

Ever puts a foot wrong, does he?

Well, hardly ever.

Hardly ever?

When did I put a foot wrong? Don't worry, no, love. Nobody notices.

Willie, come out from under that hut and keep your eye on the road.

He can't help it if the road's bumpy.

He could help it a bit better if he didn't skulk about under that cap.

He's very proud of his chauffeur's cap.

Does he have to use it to keep his teeth warm?

to a location equally dramatic but mercifully free from the ponderous irony

the proletariat. Follow me, will you?

Bring my case and tray, puddler.

I want to

know when did I put a foot wrong?

Oh, sh...

Not like you, is it?

You've got your legs as well, haven't you?

Do you mind me tangling with this fiery Latin beauty from Tonopondi?

Oh, it's not her. It's him.

Him? But it was her who fell off the bridge.

I know.

And it was her who belted him so hard that he ended up in hospital.

Oh.

Perhaps I'll go tomorrow.

Shall I get some grapes?

Grapes? No, no.

For a man whose bruising is as extensive as his, I think grapes might be a

little tactless.

No, I'll get something better than that. I'll take him a big, glossy, ten -by

-eight photograph of her whereabouts as she went over the bridge.

Bye.

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