Original subtitles

The journal of Rachel Harris, being the day -to -day doings of the photographic

assistant and live -in fiancé of Plantagenet Evans, photographer and bon

I've worked under his aegis for three years almost, and I think it may now be

safely said that I'm getting the hang of it.

I devote my entire life to him.

And in return, he gives me tenderness, promises of marriage, and just enough

the housekeeping.

I have my own apartment where I snuggle up in the privacy of my own bed

to reflect upon my happy life spent in such close

proximity with a genius.

Of course, being a genius, he's not always easy to cope with, especially

gets a bee in one of the oversized bonnets he insists on wearing.

You know what we need here?

Tourists. A large sub -family of the order primates, specifically adapted for

the special purposes of spending money.

What we have is scenery. What we need are tourists.

We've got tourists. There were two last week. Stop the petrol.

Two?

We can't live on two.

Even a breeding pair.

What we need is souls of them. These hills should be alive with the sound of

trips. And why have we got no tourists?

It's all right, Willie.

It's not your fault.

Because we haven't got a castle or a dungeon or an abbey or a battlefield.

Total blank we are, historically.

What have we got? 1 ,000 years of uninterrupted nose picking.

A substantial hill like this? You'd think that some medieval clown would

built himself a castle instead of sitting about on his medieval pratt

with his clavichord.

He could have left us some picturesque old ruin, conferred a few benefits on

local trade.

I wouldn't be crawling about up this hill, would I, trying to scratch myself

living if we were left with a plump sufficiency of Saxons? Heavy with guilt?

Fortunes are built solely on the raw material of swarms of dozy herbets on a

seasonal basis, and what have we got?

Landscape. Notorious for beauty, we are.

Landscape. One vast toilet for sheep.

We'll have the camera over there, will we?

Oh, lovers come for miles for this romantic scenery.

Oh, for the scenery, is it?

Lovers come for what they always come for, looking for a place to make ends

meet.

exactly good customers, are they?

Preoccupied as they are with the dangerous skills of outdoor

Some of us, of course, to be thankful for the advances of pharmaceutical

science. Oh.

Put a ring on your finger, didn't I?

Engagement.

What about the wedding?

I go to three a week. How many more am I required to attend?

They rescued you from lorry driving, though, didn't they? I didn't drive

was in the office.

You drove them out in the office?

My sister Bron thinks it's shameful, my living under the same roof, unmarried

with my employer.

Even though I have my own apartment.

Shameful, is it?

Oh, Bron thinks so.

Take a look at who she married and ask yourself if that is the action of an

expert in martyrs' matrimonial.

Robert's got good prospects for the council, huh? He has untapped resources

mediocrity.

Have on yourself, Barmy.

Will you have wine or beer, Willie?

I'd have a beer, Willie.

Sam would say if she knew I was drinking on weekdays.

Broadened your horizons, haven't I?

Put a bit on my hips, too.

For whom am I taking this tedious photographic study?

Robson's Home Call Delivery.

They want a local view to hang on the boardroom wall.

Yeah. There he goes, they'll say. There goes Evans.

Photographer -in -chief to Robson's Home Call Delivery.

He's improving with the tripod.

He's obviously got the hang of it. He's becoming proficient in all departments.

Jack of all trades, he'll have you, will he?

Are you sure he's got mechanical aptitude?

Oh, he's a natural.

Descended from a long line of naturals. Down through the years, the fast

industrial machinery of the empire has been held together by tiny nuts like

Steady as a rock.

I suppose it must be very frustrating putting up with the shortcomings of us

ordinary people when you're a genius.

Of course, not everybody's convinced he is a genius.

The resident Welsh fanatic, Home Rule O'Toole, for instance.

He's always appearing on the premises asking me...

How do I know he's a genius?

How do you know he's a genius?

How does she know?

Simple one. I keep telling her.

It's no laughing matter.

He's old enough to be your employer.

Yes, my employer.

Well, it shall be no part of your duties to be sensitive to his vibrations.

You'll have vibrations if I hit you with my ruler.

Now, clear off.

Come away with me.

We could elope.

What, are you bright?

Your bow's broke.

I could show you the bright lights.

My mam lives in Llandudno, Mostyn Street.

Oh, lovely.

Don't fritter your life away with eccentrics.

He's barmy, that Evan.

Barmy?

You're eccentric.

He's going to put this place on the map.

He's planning to attract tourists into the area. Oh, well, in that hat, it

shouldn't be too difficult.

Bring the tourists in.

Never underestimate the power of nostalgia.

There's a load of old rubbish to be shifted under the Art Deco label.

Oh, that looks good.

Here.

I'm having supper sent up.

I'm training Willie to do the supper.

Can he do supper?

Yes,

he'll get the hang of it.

Life like art is mainly a question of style.

Do you want to stay here?

It's a funny question to ask a man when you're sitting on his bed.

Why do I want... Every man loves the coziness of his own bedroom.

Especially with someone like you, innit?

No, there are two essentials for a bedroom. A coal fire and a woman.

Twin centres of comfort and warmth.

Not in the bedroom.

I didn't mean that.

I meant here, in Lantacilia.

Why do I want to stay here?

Roots. A man must have his roots.

I mean, look at Tom Jones.

He left the Valleys, didn't he?

I admit, when you see him doing his act with those sprayed -on trousers, you

think, my God, he's still got his roots.

How's he?

How's he? I mean, look where he's finished up.

Millionaire in Las Vegas.

Such are the unnatural fates awaiting poor Welsh boys captivated by the

of showbiz.

Look at Clive Jenkins.

If he's not showbiz, I don't know who is.

Hey, I tell you what.

I've got a present for him.

Come and try it on.

I couldn't wear that.

Well, just on early closing days around the house.

Do you think I could?

Of course you could.

By such devices are the depressions commonly associated with middle age kept

bay. I'm not...

No, but I am the one, don't I?

My ma 'am would die if she heard I was wearing a blonde wig. Oh, suits you.

Don't think it suits me.

Nobody in my family ever wore a blonde wig, except Uncle Tyler, when to be a

steward in a merchant navy.

Yes,

I remember him, yes.

Shirley Temple, we used to call him.

Willie, you can bring the supper up now, lad.

Does he want any help?

No, no, no.

You'll only cluster him.

He has his own way of doing things.

Fancy going out to supper?

Beating a graveyard.

Dropping crumbs among the dead.

They're going to be lobbing confetti in a minute.

Under a blizzard of waste paper, surely the dead won't be offended by a bit of

natural wheat germ.

It's just I can't help thinking of them all lying there face upwards.

It must be strange to be dead.

I used to ponder the philosophies myself, you know.

Probe the eternal problems I have.

A brief.

Hindu episode?

A flirtation with high Anglicanism?

I still have the scar from my radical period.

Pulled a muscle, didn't I, on the collected works of Lenin?

Oh, yes, for years I wandered through the wilderness of the mind, looking for

something. Did you find it?

Woke up one morning and there it was, in the palm of my hand.

Do you think now?

What was it?

The left breast of a photographer's assistant.

I don't know where it came from, but although I thought this will do until

something better turns up... Oh, fool.

Nothing better ever has.

Evans!

Are you still living in sin?

No, he isn't. I have my own apartment.

There is one who sees all.

I know. It's Home Rule O'Toole over behind the gravestone.

You could have found a little cottage.

Yeah, and burnt it down for your honeymoon.

That's no Welsh hat.

What kind of a Welshman wears an hat like that?

What kind of a Welshman is called O'Toole?

My first name's Alwyn.

My first hat was Welsh and all.

I expect it was you who put a special branch onto our secret headquarters.

You're back.

for the ponder.

We're there most nights by Wednesdays.

Can't you wait around the back some moment?

It does me no good, you know. You being seen, a notorious sinner, looking happy,

you should have more tact, you know.

Here, have a drop to help the singing.

The least a man can do is be a match for the ungodly.

Just a match.

No need to enter for the final.

It's glad I am that you got better taste in that than in the tailoring.

Vanity, vanity.

All is vanity.

You might fall a victim to vanity yourself when the tourists come.

Oh, is the wedding party, look.

What tourists? We get no tourists in this part.

I'm going to alter that, aren't I?

You'll live with him.

Just because we share the same address.

What does he mean, tourist?

Mr Evans is organising irresistible tourist attractions.

Oh, yes?

Like what?

A wild boar hunt.

Is it true what he says?

There aren't any wild boars in Wales any more.

There aren't any dragons either, but still in the flag.

Am I doing right?

It's a bit late to worry about that now, lovers. I mean the emerging from the

car. Oh, the emerging. Oh, the emerging. It's lovely, isn't it? It's lovely, the

emerging. Go and fix her veil for me, will you? The effect to strive for is

-a -boo, but virginal. Do the best you can with the material provided. Go on.

That was just a cheap quickie of her emerging from the car. Now we're going

the standard budget version of up the path on her father's auntie. Budget

version? Oh, don't worry, don't worry. Leave it to me. I'll keep everything

-wise firmly down.

Daddy! Watch your flowers. Don't crush your flowers.

What does he mean, cost -wise firmly down?

Oh, don't fiddle with your flowers, love.

Doesn't she know? Have I said wrong? Doesn't she know?

I don't know. Well, then you've opted for the cheap reduced economy wedding

package. Who's opted for the cheap reduced economy wedding package?

Daddy. I haven't opted for no cheap reduced economy wedding package.

Oh, don't pull your petals, love. They'll cost money.

Here. You keep them. Count them. See if they're all there.

Oh.

Could I just have a quick one there by the path? That's it there. Arm in arm.

Arm in arm. That's it. Smile nicely.

No, no, no.

No, no.

She has the flowers.

Can he afford it?

We'll have another.

Two, if you like.

Mrs. R .S. Lewis and son, a travel agent of Swansea, have generously agreed to

divert a charabang load of American tourists away from the official weekend

tour, which is the Haunts of the Druid, and point them in our direction.

A charabang load?

What for?

For a boar hunt, isn't it? And afterwards we're going to have an Owen

supper in the Chapel Hall, the main course being, you've guessed it... Wild

boar. Roast pork.

But with a few bottles of Chateau Nerf to Sainsbury, no -one will notice the

difference.

I hope you don't think that Willie and I are going to attempt to produce a meal

for 52.

My cooker wouldn't stand it. Oh, my darling girl, I wouldn't dream of

you to overexert your little cooker in that direction. No, no, no.

No, Dewey Morgan of the Chez Nou French takeaway in Tenby Street has agreed to

undertake the catering.

Undertake is right.

He caters to most of the funerals round here.

Oh, well, damn good nosh -up they are, too.

Never a dull moment with Debbie.

Thank you.

This is all going to look a bit silly without the whole object of the

isn't it? What do you mean? The bow.

There aren't any bows left in Wales.

The vicar said so.

Dangerous words from a man who perpetrates the sort of sermons he does.

Bows. Wild bows. Big black things with tusks.

Ever heard of emulsion?

Oh, that's the stuff I rub in my chest, isn't it? Now, don't try to lure me away

from this subject.

That's embryo... Education.

Bless it.

I'm talking about paint.

Willie is going to paint a pig.

Paint a pig?

Black.

What about the tusks?

You're in the mood to nitpick this morning, aren't you?

Do you think a load of old prunes from the Middle West are going to notice the

difference? Of course they're not. No, it's going to be the excitement, the

spectacle. That's what they're going to... That's their eye.

It won't even enter their heads that their fierce primeval quarry is none

than a pig covered in water -based paint.

Well, all I can say is I hope it doesn't rain.

Today we fitted Willie with his wild boar hunter's costume.

All right.

Out you come, Willie. It's marvellous, you look.

He's overcome his shyness. I tell you what, before we release him on an

unsuspecting world, we must warn him about the women.

What women?

Well, most women.

They'll go bananas for him in this macho rig.

Can he do... Is he interested in women?

Oh, yes, he'll get the hang of it. They'll be falling over themselves to

you, Willie. Come on out.

Yes, they'll be tearing your clothes looking for souvenirs. Whoops, you'll

There goes some more equipment.

Oh, yes, standard medieval accessory bells.

On the legs?

On everything.

Never. Oh, yes, a practice which gave rise to the medieval expression, just

going for a tinkle.

Sit over here, my dear old soul, that's it. Sit there.

We're going to take a photo of you now.

Oh, you can't have that hanging down there like that, no.

Put it under your arm, that's better.

Right. What's this? Oh, this will be for the menu.

Yes, under the entire supervision of your hereditary huntsman, Black Oswald.

Why black?

What do you want, purple Oswald?

Pink with a feather in it, Oswald?

No, he's an adept at all the secrets of the great forest.

What great forest? The ancient skills of his forebears flow hot in his veins.

He'll dive to clean windows. You're not really going to photograph him dressed

like that, are you? Wait till you see what I'm going to photograph you dressed

as. A typical serving wench.

Over the period.

Oh, I couldn't. Not for publication.

Do you do surveys?

Well, I suppose I'll get the hang of it.

Dear ma 'am, I'm writing to you from my own apartment, hoping to find you well.

I know you worry about me, but you mustn't. I'm very happy here, and the

interesting.

And soon as you like, ma 'am, you can tell our bronze to stop spying on me.

I used to think of her as my sister, but now all she is is a twitch of curtain.

And our husbands know better, his eyes sticking out further than chapel hat

pegs.

Come on, Willie, today is the day.

What's with tea?

Potted meat.

And afterwards?

I thought I might stuff something.

Steady on, girl.

That feather reminded me.

Her eiderdown's gone all limp down one side.

Yes, but not with feathers.

You mark my words, there'll be no good come of feathers.

Oh, there's perception.

Then how about if I sew that leather patch on your jacket?

That's better.

We have to go on, just as if nothing happened.

I know.

It doesn't look wild.

It gets pretty wild when I poke it with my stick.

It doesn't look very black, either.

No, we ran out to paint.

But you're a bucket for that.

I know, but the pig took a like into it.

Gee, hadn't it?

Trouble was, the pig could eat the paint faster than we could paint the pig.

See all those tourists who will never notice.

Notoriously myopic race, the yanks.

That's why they take so many photos, you know, so they can see what they've been

after.

Now, pay attention, Willie.

The coach party will be here soon. Now, Miss Harris and I are going up top to

get some scenic shots of the event.

Don't forget, blow your horn when you see him approaching.

That'll put the fear of God into the pig. He'll go like steam.

Can he do horns?

Oh, he'll get the hang of it.

Narrow end, Willie, otherwise you'll suck yourself to death.

really going to shoot that poor pig, are they?

Only with a camera, love.

Like David Attenborough.

Now, there's a tourist, if you like.

Oh, I think he's wonderful.

Think of the path his feet have trod. Yeah.

Think of the things his feet have trod in.

What's happening down there?

Should be hordes of multicoloured foreigners pouring over the horizon, but

I think he's going to tell us something.

Well,

at least they can tell the folks back home they've ate one.

They haven't killed it, have they?

No, no.

Here he goes. Look. See?

Poetie Chandon, non -vintage, naturally.

Courtesy of R .S. Lewis and son Swansea Heritage Tours.

Now, don't drink it too fast. You know how the bubbles fly straight to your

legs.

Well, he's not back yet.

No, Willie will be still entertaining the supper guests, blowing through the

wrong end of his horn, no doubt.

I don't think we're likely to be disturbed.

Disturbed? What's that?

Well, I thought we might organise a little...

A boar hunt of our own? You dressed in this serving wench costume?

You'd be an ideal victim.

Me, the victim?

It's you that's a stupid old boar, not me.

Oh, I see.

I don't think your tourist plan's going to work out. I'd stick to photography if

I was you.

Yes, perhaps you're right.

Oh, but a big close -up, eh? I tell you what, if you behave yourself, I'll let

you help me set up my tripod.

And if I don't?

If you don't, well, we won't bother with it.

Go and shut the door.

It was never like this at the North Wales Road Hall Edgelim, it says.

Oh.