All language subtitles for 0A5088DC714BD46A75EB274DA0D3D440_eng (THE LONGEST WEEK)

I think that there's
something wrong with me.

For some reason, I find that the
girls that I like as human beings

I'm not sexually attracted to

and the ones that I
am sexually attracted to

I don't particularly
like as human beings.

And on the rare occasion
when one falls in both categories

they usually have a
boyfriend or a husband

and Lord knows I've got enough of
that bad karma to last me a lifetime.

Huh. These are classic
Freudian symptoms, Conrad.

Haven't you ever read
about defense mechanisms?

Actually, I've always considered
myself more of a Jungian.

The phone's ringing again!

Would you stop talking?

You stop talking.

Alright.

Morning.

Afternoon.

Yes, it's Conrad Valmont.

What?

But I've lived here since birth!

This is Conrad Valmont.

Conrad was the son of
a Parisian entrepreneur

and a Caledonian debutante.

His father, Jean-Louis Valmont,
owned the Valmont Hotel

as had his father and
his father before him.

Their country home in Great Neck

was the pantheon of
summer gatherings.

On the eve of his 51st year,

Jean-Louis took Conrad's
mother to the south of France

on what was to be a
weekend excursion.

It had since turned into a
lavish escapade around the world

lasting nearly three decades.

Over the subsequent years, Conrad
was raised by the Valmont's staff.

His chauffeur Bernard

had taken Conrad
to a Parisian brothel

for his 13th birthday

as a sort of rite of
passage into polite society.

It was a family tradition.

At present, he was
working on his magnum opus

a great New York novel

in the tradition of Fitzgerald
and Edith Wharton.

It was widely speculated

as to where he was in
the process of writing it.

When asked, he
would simply reply...

I'm in the gathering stages.

Conrad had been in
the "gathering stages"

for several years now.

Last week Thursday,
Conrad's parents had capsized

and had become stranded on a
small island in the Mediterranean.

Having to spend
numerous days together

without the distractions of
wealth and a transient lifestyle,

they'd come to a
simple realisation

they didn't particularly
like one another.

Conrad's parents were to
divorce by the week's end

and neither wanted
to continue paying

for Conrad's
extravagant lifestyle.

Hence, the Valmont board of
trustees had requested hotel security

to escort Conrad from
the premises by 2 PM.

Bunny, please
make yourself useful.

- Get some more cigarettes, please.
- Hey!

- What?
- Mm, I'm hungry.

I'll be right there!

I don't understand. What do you
mean they won't accept the charges?

Did you tell them it was
Conrad Valmont? Hello?

- What are you smiling at?
- Oh, nothing.

Come on, Bunny. Bernard,
please take us to the Belleville Cafe.

Uhh, I'm... I'm sorry. I can't.

Hey, it's me! I'm gonna
have this sorted out in no time.

I can't. I mean, it's
orders from the boss.

I'm sorry, Connie.

- Can you do me a favour?
- Name it.

Can you take care of
Napoleon while I'm gone?

Of course.

This is lame!

I'm gonna go.

No, Bunny, wait, wait,
wait, wait, wait, wait.

Listen. Mmm?

Can I borrow some
cash for a cab?

No?

I'll be in touch.

Conrad chose to ride the subway

a convention he rarely took up

since he had learned how to
hail a cab at the age of seven,

but it was on this rare occasion
that he first saw Beatrice.

Her unassuming
beauty struck him at once

and as his eyes gazed down

he couldn't help but notice she
was reading "Sense and Sensibility".

Immediately Conrad reasoned
she could be no older than 19

and would easily be
moulded into a girl of his liking.

Of course, there was
always the outside chance

that she was merely
a Jane Austen fan.

But Conrad quickly
ruled that out on a hunch.

Herein lies the eternal question

is it a grocery list

or her phone number?

It was at that moment
Conrad realised

he was going to see her naked.

I think I'm in love.

Conrad, you've
only just met her.

I know.

- Is she attractive?
- Yes.

You know, you have an unhealthy
obsession with female beauty.

I don't care.

Maybe you should try
dating more homely women.

I don't think so.

Take it from me, someone who's
been married for 25 years, Conrad

inner beauty doesn't age.

You're just saying that
because your wife is unattractive.

- Conrad.
- Yes.

What are you going to
do? You have no home.

Move in with Dylan, of course.

- How about money?
- I need some. Thank you. Yes.

Conrad, I'm not your
accountant. I'm your analyst.

Well, I'm certainly not
going to travel downtown

and work for 10 hours a day
for the best 20 years of my life

doing some dull, unimaginative
work, certainly non-altruistic work.

No, thanks.

Conrad, there's an
interesting case study

a colleague of mine
did a few years back.

The subject was a
young German woman

who had been diagnosed
with a brain tumour.

It rendered her witty, charming
and quite likeable to most.

Are you trying to set me up?

Though she possessed all
the aforementioned attributes,

her life was actually
completely artificial.

She had no meaning, no
emotion, not a care in the world.

Hmm.

She seemed utterly
blissful to an outsider,

but her friends and family
were worried, even horrified.

Mmm?

German neurologists
called it "Witzelsucht".

"The joking disease".

But eventually a
dissolution set in

and her life was left empty.

Are you saying that I
have a brain tumour?

Conrad's analyst had given
Conrad a low-interest loan

in the amount of $217.33

the entirety of his
wallet's remains.

Conrad's ego was in no position

to admit the reality
of his impoverishment.

Consequently, he had
decided not to tell Dylan...

Ding-dong!

...or anyone, for that
matter, of his financial woes.

- Bonjour, comrade.
- Bonjour.

This is Dylan Tate.

Dylan was an
antisocial socialist,

a closet conversationalist,
a clinical neurotic.

Possessing an inimitable
talent for the arts,

Dylan had been
afforded the opportunity

to travel the world and
live a comfortable lifestyle

at his own expense

something Conrad
knew nothing about.

Dylan Tate was the only personage
of all Conrad's acquaintances

whom he admired

and, to a bigger extent than he
liked to admit to himself, envied.

- How was Greece?
- You mean Bhutan.

- Semantics.
- I got back a couple of days ago.

Mm-hm.

You mind if I stay
with you for a while?

Sure. Come on in.

So what happened?

We are remodelling
at the Valmont again.

Where's Jocelyn?

I don't know. Uh, it's
been a couple of weeks.

What I first perceived
as cute and endearing

was actually quite exhausting

her episodic hysteria,
her chronic dissatisfaction,

her endless pragmatism.

You know you two always do this

one of you screams, the
other comes running back.

I...I bought her a Volvo.

You bought her a Vo... Why do
you always buy them a Volvo?

I don't know. It's like
a free ticket to leave.

How can I feel guilty, you know?

I bought her a Volvo!

You know, what really pisses
me off about this whole thing

is that I'm the one who funded
her entire vegan fashion line

and now that every socialite in
St Barts thinks it's fashionable

I get the swift kick.

Swift kick? I thought
you broke it off with her.

I did, but still...

So Henri over at the gallery
set me up on a date last week.

That bad, huh?

You can always tell what
somebody thinks of you

by who they set you up with.

Is it wrong to be aroused by
a bunch of 17-year-old girls

running around with knee-high
socks and polyester shorts?

Well, I guess that's a decision
every man has to make for himself.

But yes. Obviously, yes.

Conrad needs a girlfriend.

No, no, no, we
don't need girlfriends.

This is not the
time for girlfriends.

This is the time for
us to read and to write

and to have deviant
fetishistic sex with prostitutes.

Please! This from
a serial monogamist.

You've never even
been with a prostitute.

I understand that.

If you'll indulge me, I'm going
through a rough break-up.

I need to have certain reassurances
about the prospect of bachelorhood.

Look alive, look alive.
You need a new goalie?

Don't make eye contact.

Hey, mister, give
us back our ball!

Interaction is inappropriate.

- I can play!
- No, you cannot.

We should move.

They're like little veal.

So I met a woman a
couple of weeks ago.

I don't know. I can't
get her out of my head.

What happened to "the
prospects of bachelorhood"?

I know.

I just find it completely,
overwhelmingly

tedious and unnerving.

So tell me about the
girl. What are the details?

Well, she's like an
ingénue in a Chekhov play.

You know, one of those
overly romantic, virtuous types,

completely self-inhibited,
doesn't drink,

didn't have sex until she was 21

and read the bulk of
the Victorian classics.

Jesus! Sounds
like a real keeper.

Oh, she is. She really is.
I'm in way over my head.

Is she attractive?

She's a model.

If I ever lost my fortune and
was completely disinherited,

could you ever see me as a
struggling bohemian artist type?

Hypothetically
speaking, of course.

That reminds me do
you want to come with me

to the cocktail benefit at
the Woodruff Modern tonight?

- Nope.
- Come on!

You know I don't
like those things.

- It'll be fun. You can...
- Probably not.

Then you can meet the ingénue.

- Is it a date?
- Not exactly.

We do this thing where we
don't really go out together.

We just call each other
to make sure the other's

gonna be at a certain place
at a preordained time and...

Adorable.

...we just happen to
bump into one another.

It's... less pressure.

So do you wanna come
to the cocktail party?

Well, I'll need
a cocktail first.

Are you wearing perfume?

No, it's a new cologne
that I'm wearing for my date.

Why? What do you think?

- Well, I think it smells like perfume.
- No.

The woman at Bergdorfs
told me that it's unisex.

And you wanted to smell
sexually ambiguous?

Good evening, and welcome
to this evening's benefit.

I must say I am
more than thrilled

to see so many familiar faces.

Enjoy the complimentary
hors d'oeuvres and champagne

and, remember, make a donation!

Cheers.

This is Beatrice Fairbanks.

Beatrice had attended a
rather strict etiquette school

on a biweekly basis.

In doing so, Beatrice
had been quietly instilled

with a certain
Victorian idolatry,

a paragon of virtue.

Beatrice had been
forced at a young age

to learn the works
of Bach, Chopin

and other masters
of classical music,

though secretly she had
always wanted to play jazz.

Oddly, Beatrice had opted to
become an editorial model...

C'est bon, c'est
bon. It's OK, it's OK.

...an occupation that only
heightened her insecurities.

Beatrice was a finn believer in
mystics, psychics and the occult,

which ran counter
to the debutante norm

which favoured
incessant psychoanalysis.

What does it mean?

So, what do you
think of my cologne?

Oh, that's you!

You probably didn't get a
good... It's a little feminine.

The woman at Bergdorfs
told me it was unisex.

Hi. She was clearly lying.
He smells pretty, doesn't he?

Um, Beatrice, this
is my 'friend' Conrad.

Conrad, Beatrice.

We've met.

- Just briefly.
- On the subway.

- Subway?
- Mm-hm.

- I gave him my, um...
- Scarf.

She gave me her
scarf. It was cold.

I'm gonna need
that back from you.

OK. I'll give it to you.

Mm-hm.

I can get it from
you... to give to her.

- I'm gonna... I think I see foie gras.
- Yep.

- Want some, hmm? Duck?
- No.

Take your time.

He's, uh... That's
so nice of you.

Obviously I've got
a target on my back.

I didn't even know it.
I didn't even know it.

And listen to this.

My mistress says she
doesn't want to have sex

because she's afraid
she'll get pregnant.

I told her at the rate
we have intercourse

the only way that's going to happen
is from immaculate conception.

Didn't you say
she was on the pill?

Yeah, yeah, she is, but she
says she's afraid of the 1%

and, besides, she wants to
get off, it gives her mood swings.

Awful. Just awful.

You already have a wife that
doesn't want to sleep with you.

Touché.

Honey, have you met, um... Hmm.

Don't you find that the...

...the virtuous ideals
of the Victorian authors

are somewhat unrealistic
and sentimental?

No, not at all.

And as the century went on,

the scope of the genre
became far more complex.

You do realise that the
moniker of 'Victorian literature'

ranges from the
Brontë sisters to Kipling?

Yes.

Have you ever actually
read any of their books?

No, but I'm...

...I'm heavily considering it.

She wouldn't have left. She...
she asked me to say goodbye, so...

There she is.

Hey.

Hi.

So where... where
you heading now?

I have to go to bed. I
have work in the morning.

Yeah, me too. I'm gonna...

So what are you
working on these days?

Nothing in particular.
I'm open to ideas.

You sound very ambitious.

Actually, I am in the
gathering stages of a novel.

It is to be one of the
great New York novels

in the tradition of
Fitzgerald, Edith Wharton.

You've been in the gathering
stages for over a decade.

Well, all good things take
time. I rushed my first novel.

I don't want to suffer
the same pitfalls

as my predecessors
with my sophomore effort.

"Rushed"? I don't think
you finished your first novel.

And I'm pretty sure it can't
qualify as a sophomore effort

if you don't finish
your first book.

You finish...

Nonetheless, everybody knows
that there are certain pitfalls

associated with a sophomore
effort that I simply want to avoid.

Period.

- Avoid it by not doing it.
- Dylan!

Well... goodnight.

Goodnight.

Don't you try anything.

- I won't.
- Don't try anything.

I won't.

- Don't.
- I...

Nearly 30 minutes had passed

and Beatrice could still feel
a rush from Conrad's flirtation.

Don't try anything.

I won't.

Not this one.

Dylan...

...I won't.

Don't try anything.

I won't!

The two friends'
competitive nature,

which had spanned
nearly three decades,

stemmed from the simple fact
that each not only envied the other,

but wanted secretly
to be the other.

Neither one ever spoke of this.

You know just 'cause
you're almost 40

and still getting a weekly
allowance from your parents

doesn't mean you can just do
nothing for the rest of your life.

First of all, I'm writing a
novel, as you well know.

Secondly, your statement
is completely subjective

and lacking any
substantive facts.

You're walking down a very
dangerous road, my friend.

- What road is that?
- The road to Fantasy Land.

Oh.

And when you take
a trip to Fantasy Land

you should always
have a return ticket.

I don't even know
what that means.

At some point you're gonna have
to come to the same realisation I did.

What's that?

The rest of the world is never gonna
love you as much as your parents do.

Weren't you adopted?

I don't understand why
you're interested in this guy.

He's just another
philandering affluent type

doomed to chronic alcoholism,
perpetual adolescence

and death by syphilis.

He probably sits around
all day drinking Tom Collins

and just performing acts
of mental masturbation.

That is such an unfair
generalisation. He's not like that!

For your information,
he is writing a novel.

Ohh! Aren't we all?

So I'm thinking about taking it
to the next level with Beatrice

and actually asking
her out to dinner tonight.

Hmm, bad move.

- Why?
- You just saw her last night.

You don't wanna crowd her and
make her think you're too eager.

Definitely wait.

How long?

- I don't know, Dylan. A day at least.
- Really?

Yeah, really.

Beatrice.

Yes, that's my plane.

I never understood why someone
would want to be a vegetarian.

I mean, do you really
love animals that much?

No, no, no, I just hate plants.

- You eat fish, though, right?
- Why?

All the vegetarians eat fish.

- Well, I'm a Pisces.
- What's that got to do with it?

I don't eat my own kind.

Beatrice, tell me, what
is it like being a model,

all those people staring at you?

It's like any other job innocuous
and demoralising. But it pays well.

I'm serious. Tell
me about yourself.

All I know is that you
do frequent the subway

and you read Victorian and
pre-Victorian literature, right?

Come on. I wanna know...
I wanna know your fears.

I'd like to know your hopes.

I wanna know political
ideologies and sexual preference.

I don't care what order.

That's a lot of
information for a first date.

- That's true.
- How about you?

What is like being born with
the proverbial silver spoon?

Alright.

Well, you know,
it's like any other job.

It's innocuous and
demoralising, but pays really well.

Beatrice was different.

As their conversation continued,

the two spoke of French
cinema and classic literature.

He tried to be witty,
to make her laugh

and for a moment she
resembled a statue,

a bust of an Aphrodite that he
could only remember its gentle eyes

but not where the
statue itself had been.

- Shall we go have a cigarette?
- Oh, OK, yeah.

Conrad often became
attached to the idea of something

and not to the
actual thing itself.

So what is your novel about?

I'm not so sure. I'm
still figuring that part out.

- I want you to try this.
- Why? What is it?

This is... It's a Valmont
Executive. It is my family's brand.

It's only the rarest and most
exquisite cigarette in existence.

That is pretty great, isn't it?

It sort of tastes like
any other cigarette.

What about the smell,
right? The smell?

It smells like any other too.

I mean, maybe I'm
missing... something.

You don't get it.
You just don't get it.

I'm gonna take two, then.

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

As the day wore on,

Beatrice was
playing hard to get.

Conrad's pseudo-intellectual
banter was wearing thin

and so he decided
to proceed to plan B

get her drunk.

I know you don't drink, but they
make an incredible Tom Collins, OK?

How often do you come here?

Uh, every once in a while.

Here you go, Mr. Valmont.

Lucky. Cheers.

Cheers.

It's weird how nobody
dances anymore, you know?

That's funny coming from
someone who's not dancing.

I don't dance.

You know, you're nothing
like Dylan described.

Why? What did he say?

He said you were self-inhibited
and that you didn't drink.

Well, a woman
can wear many hats.

Oh, yeah? What does that mean?

It means a woman can be inhibited
and conservative with one man

and virtually the
opposite with another.

Boy, even socialist regimes

wait until their demise before
they admit such insincerity.

Well, I'm not a socialist
regime. I'm a woman.

- You play that thing?
- A little bit.

- Can you play me a song?
- No.

- Come on. Please.
- Uh-uh. Sorry.

- Beatrice!
- I'm not in the mood.

Are you gonna make me beg?

- Maybe.
- Come on. Please?

Just one.

Ahh. Hmph.

Beatrice loved the way
Conrad walked into a room,

the way he waved his hands in
the air every time he heard Bach,

the way he read her excerpts

of Fitzgerald's short
fiction before bed,

the precision with which
he made a Tom Collins

and a single Windsor knot...

...his infallible wit and charm

and the way he used
words like "haberdashery".

But most importantly.

Beatrice loved the
way he looked at her.

Conrad loved the way
Beatrice walked into a room,

how she laughed at his jokes

no matter how convoluted
or juvenile they seemed,

the way she bit her lip the
moment before she played the piano,

the softness of her skin,

the yellow in her eyes,
the mole on her thigh.

But most importantly,

Conrad loved to look at her.

Unfortunately, there were
still two unavoidable problems.

Dylan, and that
Conrad was broke,

but most importantly

that he was lying
concerning both.

Have you ever noticed that
when people become happy

they pack on a few extra pounds?

What are you trying to say?

No, no, no, no. Nothing
about you, angel.

No, no. I'm just... I'm
making an observation.

Oh, are you saying that
all fat people are happy?

Not at all. No.

I'm merely stating that there
are two categories of fat people.

There is happy
fat and there is...

...just fat.

No, no, no! Please! Just
give me a little space.

I am trying to cook, you
know? It's not natural.

Hey, that water's brown.
That can't be healthy.

- That's how I like it.
- Really?

Yeah.

- Want me to get that?
- Nope.

Well, how am I supposed
to wash my hands?

- There's egg all over them.
- Hello. Hey, Dylan.

Uhh, no, not doing anything.

Oh, tonight?

Uhh...

Ohh. Yeah, can you
hang on one second?

He wants to take me
to the theatre tonight

and he wants me to
bring a date for you.

I'm not that good of a liar.

I sincerely doubt that.

No, I'm sorry. We can't...

I...I can't.

You did? Oh,
that's so nice of you.

OK, well, then, I'll
see you at seven.

OK, 'bye.

There's nothing I could do.

This is a bad idea.

I don't understand why you
and Dylan always have to get into

these prepubescent competitions
of which he always loses.

I resent that.

You know I make
a conscious effort

to stay out of all forms
of competition with him.

Well, your track record
proves otherwise.

Well...

This girl's important.

Let me know if there's
anything I can... I can do.

Have you heard anything? I
can't get anyone to return my calls.

Rumours. Just rumours.

I don't wanna get into details,

but I've only got 36 hours
of clean underwear left.

I've got no idea
what to do, you know?

I feel like Napoleon
after Waterloo,

dying in exile on the
coast of St Helena.

You're gonna be alright, Connie.

- You think?
- I promise you.

- You're gonna be alright.
- Alright.

Listen. I need to
take the antiques!

You don't need to do anything!
They were in my family!

- They belong to me.
- Your family? Your family?

- That desk was from Marie Antoinette!
- Oh, please!

- It's a fake!
- Yes. It was!

I'm sorry, sir. No
one picked up.

Is there another
number you'd like to try?

Um...

No, no. That's OK.

That's fine. Thank you.

I think it's a pretty
good pairing over there.

Mm-hm.

She's very, uh, opinionated
and judgemental.

Yeah.

- I told you this was a bad idea.
- Shut up. Shut up.

Well, then, tell me about him!

Seriously?

Yes, seriously! Of course!
Here I am. I'm listening.

Is... is this a joke?

What a pitiful advocate you are.

Speak whether
it's a joke or not!

Uhh, why are you looking
all around the room like that?

Oh, you... you
really are in a temper!

I wish to take a lover, Octave,

or if not a lover
at least a cavalier.

Whom do you suggest? I
shall abide by your choice.

From tomorrow...
from this evening,

whoever has a fancy to sing beneath
my window will find my door ajar.

Well... Well?! Nothing to say?

Marry me!

Sure don't like the way you
were looking at Dylan tonight.

I am not doing anything!

OK, maybe it's
me, but I don't know.

Just stop it.

I don't know.

I didn't even understand
any of the Parisian speak.

I think they were Canadian.

- Bonsoir, Monsieur Valmont.
- Hello, Didier.

- Your usual table is waiting.
- Great. Thank you.

Uh, will you be paying tonight
or putting it on the books?

It will be on the books.

And that goes for
the whole table, so...

Ahh, very well.
Please, right this way.

Shall we? It's just down here.

S'il vous plaît. Bonsoir.

Yes.

It's just a little bit.
I'll just have a little.

- What did you think?
- I don't know.

I felt that it was
sort of pretentious.

It seemed like everyone
who was in the theatre

was just there to be seen.

There to be seen?

It was a theatre. It
was pitch black in there.

How am I supposed to care

about a group of
over-privileged affluent types

who go gallivanting around
without any sort of a moral compass?

The affluent have plenty
of problems. I'm a mess.

I'm sorry, but I'm very sensitive
to an audience's reaction

and I couldn't get into it.

If they all jumped off a
bridge, would you join them?

I hate that
analogy. I really do.

But maybe. Maybe there's a
reason why they're all doing that.

Maybe the bridge is about to
explode and no one told me.

- That's a good point.
- I'm just...

How am I supposed to
sympathise with these characters?

No one suffers any
consequences for their actions,

no one learns anything
and nobody changes.

It was a satire.

I didn't get that at all.

- I love this place. It's so chic.
- Wait.

I thought you said that the
door policy was discriminatory

and this place was insipid.

Oh, I did say that, but that
was before I came inside.

Uh-huh.

I'm gonna go. Count to
five and then follow me.

Ooh! Are you wearing perfume?

Excuse me?

Don't you feel a bit
strange about being an artist

in a world that's
already so full of art?

Isn't that sort of a waste?

I forget. What do you do?

I'm getting a
doctorate at Columbia

is postmodern criticism.

For me, I think that people who
are creative are really just indulgent.

There's already so much.
We don't need any more.

And there are so many people
who are without, you know?

You should... just be a farmer.

You can always tell what
someone thinks of you

by who they set you up with.

The only reason that
I'm dancing with you

is because I'm incredibly drunk.

I despise you and
everything that you stand for.

Where are Conrad and Beatrice?

I don't know. Do you
wanna get another drink?

You're a bit of a
philistine, aren't you?

I'm sorry. Wait. Tell
me your name again.

- Jocelyn.
- Are you kidding me?

I just got out of a three-year
relationship with a Jocelyn.

Do you wanna sleep over?

Mm, your place or mine?

I live in a dorm.

Definitely mine.

Ooh!

You know, I realised
something the other day.

Usually the women that
I like as human beings,

I'm not sexually attracted to

and the ones that I'm
sexually attracted to

I don't particularly
like as human beings.

On the rare occasion when one
of them falls into both categories

they usually have a
boyfriend or a husband.

What are you trying to say?

I'm trying to say...

What I'm trying to say is it's great
that you don't have a boyfriend.

Oh, but I am married.
Is that a problem?

You're a cheater, though.

- Right?
- Oh, yeah.

I gotta tell Dylan.

I've gotta tell him,
right? I mean, tell him.

Just tell him right out and
you just... just let him know.

You just tell him.
Gotta tell him.

You gotta tell
him. Gotta tell him.

You gotta tell him.

Oh, God.

This was it.

This was the moment
Conrad would right his wrongs.

Hey.

This was the moment he would
bare his soul to his only friend...

What's going on?

...and tell him of his betrayal.

This was the moment Conrad
would ask for forgiveness.

Nothing.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

What? Does something
seem like it's going on?

Yeah, it seemed like you
were about to say something.

No. Uh-uh. No, no, not
at all. Where's the friend?

Oh, you mean Jocelyn?

No, the friend. Yeah, the
friend's name is Jocelyn.

Oh, really? Ironic. Yeah.

- I don't wanna talk about it.
- Didn't have sex with her, huh?

No, I didn't have sex with
her. I had to talk to her all night.

She only left half an hour ago.

It was horrible.

So, what happened last night?

What happened was
that it was amazing

and we talked until
the sun came up!

That's amazing!

I have something
I have to ask you.

Yes.

Are you sleeping with Beatrice?

Oh...

No.

- Ohh...
- No.

Good.

Good man.

There's something
I'd like to ask you.

May I sleep with Beatrice?

Definitely not. No.

I've got something
I'd like to tell you.

- What is it now?
- Beatrice and I are already together.

- Hey, Dylan, Dylan! Easy, easy!
- I'll fucking kill you!

Now, as we ease into adulthood

sometimes a good stiff drink
is the only excuse we have

for committing the
atrocities we really want to.

"Ease into adulthood"?
We're nearly 40!

Careful. I said I was
sorry, OK? I was gonna...

You're a selfish asshole.

Now, hang on.

Selfish? Dylan, you're
the one that's selfish.

I might actually have
a shot with her, OK?

She could be... the one.

"The one"!

What are you, 14? It's not
charming anymore, Conrad.

I need you to sleep
somewhere else tonight.

You're kicking me out?

And you realise by kicking me out
I'll probably move in with Beatrice?

Sometimes you're
your own worst enemy.

Conrad's ability to trust

had been marred by
years of betrayal and deceit

for others had only
dated or befriended him

to gain access to his wealth.

He had been quoted
on numerous occasions

as saying that no
one could be trusted.

What he forgot to add
was that included himself.

Well, I feel very,
very conflicted.

I like the idea of living
up at the summer home.

You know, upstate, life of a
reclusive writer. I really do.

But I'm allergic to the
grass, the clean air,

the bees, the ticks, the
badgers, a bunch of wildlife.

What are you trying
to say, Conrad?

I am gonna move
in with Beatrice.

Ohh! Oh, that's great
news. Thank you.

Does she know that you're broke
and have no place else to go?

Huh!

Of... Yes.

- Don't you feel guilty about Dylan?
- Obviously.

But, you know, this is
actually a very small city

and if you meet an attractive
girl, the chances are great

that one of your friends has
already slept with her or wants to.

You're lying to
yourself, Conrad.

I know.

I'm OK with it.

Ding-dong!

- Hi.
- Bonjour, Mon amour.

- What's going on?
- I'm moving in.

What happened to Dylan's?

I was allergic to his
sheets Egyptian cotton.

I have Egyptian cotton.

Well, we'll have to do
something about that.

I think I'm in love with you.

How? It's only been two days.

Then I'm in love
with the idea of you.

Not the actual me?

Well, the idea of
someone's always better.

You can't have sex with an idea.

I'm telling you, don't
put a scratch on it.

I won't. Your father
is going to kill me.

She's waiting.

Come on!

OK. Look alive.

Oh, there it is.

Yeah? What do you see there?

Well, I mean, it's
obvious, kind of.

Right.

Explosive. It's explosive.

A car, right?

Do you see the... You
see just the headlights?

It's a female orgasm.

I think it's kind
of clear. I didn't...

That the driver is having?

What's wrong?

Um... nothing.

Sitting at Beatrice's piano,
Conrad quietly read Dylan's note.

"In lieu of unnecessary
explanations,"

"please enjoy this Volvo."

Conrad began to
feel an odd sensation

one of guilt.

He had never felt
the emotion before.

I think I have a brain tumour.

What?

Nothing.

Mmm. I'm not... I'm not
in the mood. I'm sorry.

Sorry. Sorry.

You're never in
the mood anymore.

We had sex last night.

Yeah. You seemed
a little distant.

Oh, we're just going
through a dry spell.

- Dry spell?
- That's all.

It's only been a week.

Watching Beatrice as she
delicately played the piano,

Conrad felt horrible for
his ceaseless deception.

For a moment, he contemplated
admitting his impoverishment.

Then the moment passed.

I mean, how can
I be with someone

that doesn't appreciate
Bach or a Valmont?

This is a classic story,
Conrad. "Pygmalion".

Have you even read "Pygmalion"?
This has nothing to do with "Pygmalion".

You should revisit that.

Or get the notes
or I'll read it to you.

I've seen "My Fair Lady".

OK, Beatrice, stop right there.

Don't move. OK.
Don't move. Like that.

Beautiful, you're beautiful.

Tu es magnifique, tu es splendide.
Ne bouge pas! Ne bouge pas!

Regarde-moi. Give me love.
Give me love. Voilà. Comme ça.

Do you love me?
Smile. Ah. Voilà.

You love me? You love
me? OK, show me. Show me.

Show me you love me.
Show me. OK! Love!

Hate! Now. Like that.
Beautiful, beautiful.

Love. Hate. Love.

Voilà! Encore une. One more.

Chapter One.

Greece was a place he'd
visited many times in his mind.

But on this day...

Jumping forward. Chapter three.

Chapter four.

So how long are they going
to be remodelling the Valmont?

- Ah... a couple of months maybe.
- What?

I think. Sometimes they
take a couple of months.

- You said weeks.
- Well... Oh.

- Hey.
- Hey. I got your gift.

Mmm.

Well, as good as it is to bump
into you guys, I have to go.

I've got my opening tonight.

- What part of town's that in?
- Whitman Gallery.

- Maybe we'll see you there.
- Don't know if I... Time.

Who's that girl?

- Jocelyn.
- That's not Jocelyn.

Ah, no. The...
the other Jocelyn.

Let's get in this car. Come on.

I gotta go.

Conrad had often professed
that he led a "life of the mind".

Unfortunately for him, his
mind had been damaged

by years of abandonment,

philandering, Tom Collins, and a
two-pack-per-day nicotine habit,

not to mention an
unhealthy Oedipal complex.

The weight of his guilt had
finally become too heavy.

The incessant charade
could go on no longer.

- What's wrong?
- Where were you?

You left me in the concert.

You stayed, huh?

Actually, I did.
It was beautiful.

We're out of cigarettes.

Where are we going?

To the Valmont.

Why are we hiding
behind the bushes?

I want you to follow me on
the count of three. Ready? Go!

What? Mmm.

Hi, Timothy. Fredrick.

I don't believe
you're supposed to...

Mr. Valmont? Mr. Valmont?
Mr. Valmont! Stop them!

- What is going on? This is crazy.
- I know. Isn't it fun?

Where are we going?

What? Why are we...?

Shhhh!

Come on!

Please turn on the
lights. What is happening?

It's a game. Hey, if you see
my mother's jewels, get those.

What? No, we should not do that.

Yeah, we should.

Huh?

I showed her, that
washed-up debutante.

Shit.

Really, really good
work, Timothy.

It's Fredrick, sir.

Yes, Fredrick. Sorry. No, I think
you lot are really picking up the pace.

You know where to return
Mother's jewels, right?

That's the penthouse, the East Wing,
the Rhodesian cabinet, third drawer.

I've got my cigarettes.

Please tell Bernard
that I'm very sorry.

I'll be right there, honey.

What was all that about?

I'm not sure I even
know anymore.

Conrad, what is going on?

You know, Beatrice,

I only moved in with you because
I've got no place else to go.

- OK, I'm broke.
- What do you mean?

I have nothing.

I was kicked out of the
Valmont, parents cut me off.

Conrad, you're
nearly 40 years old.

Well, that's
completely irrelevant.

I've got separation anxiety,
abandonment issues.

Are you saying you've been
lying to me this entire time?

Yes, but I'm not the only liar.

I saw you with
Dylan earlier today.

What? You've been
following me now?

I... I was trying to patch things
up between you. God, grow up.

You are not honest with
yourself. That's your problem.

OK, you're always
acting so virtuous.

You're always talking about how
you want to be a bohemian musician.

In the end, you're just a model.

Well, at least I have a job.

You have just managed
to coast through life

without worrying about money or
anything else pertaining to reality.

You are just a
philandering narcissist

who's so afraid of being alone
because when you are alone,

you're gonna realise
how empty your life is.

You know what? I
should've gone with Dylan.

Between the two of you, he was
the nice one. You are insufferable.

Didn't seem to bother you
when I was flipping the bill.

Alright, you're just
like the rest of them.

You were only with
me for the money.

I am the only girl you
have ever been with

who wasn't just
in it for the money.

And besides, you were broke.

Well... you didn't
know that, so...

Staring into the
grille of a bread truck,

Conrad couldn't help but
think of the poor woman

who had been diagnosed with
Witzelsucht, the joking disease.

In a daze, he suddenly
began to speak fluent German,

though he had never
studied the language.

He promptly lost consciousness.

Where does it hurt?

Ah...

Conrad's worst
fear had come true.

He was all alone.

Hello.

Who is this?

- It's your son, Conrad. Hi.
- Oh, Connie.

Where are you?
What's that noise?

Can't you see I'm preoccupied?

When are you coming home?

I don't know, darling.

Divorces of this stature
can take some time.

How long, do you think?

Look, I... I have to go.

Maybe this won't blow over.

I just saw the most
amazing performance piece

where a husband and wife
tied themselves together

with a 10-foot rope
for an entire year.

It was a commentary on
the modern relationship.

That is the most beautiful
metaphor I've ever heard.

What happened to them?

- They got a divorce.
- Hmm.

I heard you met
with Beatrice earlier.

She was trying to get me to
do what we're doing right now.

Yeah.

Dylan, I guess you were right.

About what?

Sometimes I am
my own worst enemy.

What happened to your face?

I got hit by a truck.

Mmm.

Zeus is dead.

"You could fetter my leg,"

"but Zeus himself cannot
get the better of my free will."

Hear, hear. And I
want my Volvo back.

That was just a joke.

How are things with Jocelyn?

Oh, we broke up again.

This time it's for good. I think
she was stealing from me.

That's rough.

How are things with Beatrice?

- Not so good.
- No?

Well, it's not a surprise
considering what an asshole you are.

- I resent that.
- Well, you should. It was an insult.

You're not still
mad at me, are you?

Not at all.

Maybe a little.

I really thought Beatrice
and I were gonna last.

What is it?

- Hi.
- Hi.

Now, you two seem
like fans of literature.

I have got a very impressive
library at my apartment.

Really?

Mm-hm. You wanna
see my Balzac collection?

You sure you don't
wanna do anything?

No, I can't, sorry.

It would be a misrepresentation
of how I feel inside.

I... I don't even know
what that means.

Well, that's
exactly the problem.

You can, um, keep the Volvo.

Beatrice, it's Conrad. Give
me a call. Call me back.

What do you see, Conrad?

Sex.

And now?

Beatrice. I mean, sex.
I mean, wait, Beatrice.

Now?

Sex.

This isn't healthy, Conrad.

I know that.

Meanwhile, Beatrice visited
her Upper West Side mystic

in an attempt to find similar
answers to her quandary.

Unfortunately, her prospects
were less than ideal.

I mean, I've only just moved
in, she's already kicked me out.

I don't know. I don't
know what to do.

Sometimes we have to make
sacrifices for the ones we love.

This literary moral code of
yours is completely unrealistic.

This isn't a Jane Austen novel,
and I'm certainly not Emily Post.

You have the moral code
of a Bolshevik, Conrad.

I mean, I'm... I'm having
an existential crisis here.

I can't stop thinking about her.
I think I need to see a doctor.

Conrad, I am a doctor.

Beatrice? Beatrice?

Note to self. Upon a second
reading, my analyst was correct.

It has EVERYTHING
to do with "Pygmalion"

Dylan, wake up.

What? What is it?

I need Jocelyn's phone number.

Allez, Beatrice.
Regarde-moi. Regarde-moi.

Voilà. Comme ga. Magnifique.
Tu es belle, tu es belle.

Petit oiseau. Ah, voila. Love.

Hate!

Stop! Don't move.
Voilà. Superbe. Superbe.

Splendide. Encore une, encore
une. Une derniére pour la route.

OK, let's... let's
take a break. Hmm?

Hi.

What happened to your head?

I got hit by a truck.

Yeah.

I like this music selection.

- Whose is it?
- What are you doing here?

I'm quitting. The whole act.

Well, it wasn't the act that
bothered me. It was the cover-up.

- Well, the act was the cover-up.
- I have to go back to work.

Can I have one hour?
I just need one hour.

- OK. One hour.
- Yeah.

Thanks. I'll be right here.

I hate surprises. You're
gonna like this one.

- I don't understand.
- It's for both of us.

Don't get too excited.
It's just a rental.

You didn't?

I did.

How?

There's no leaks in the ceiling.

Got his-and-her bathrooms.

This water is not brown.

What's wrong?

Nothing.

So did you actually go to the
Picasso retrospective last week?

- It was horrid.
- I know.

I'm sorry, but I find his work
pretentious and adolescent.

You know, if people just
sort of take a step back...

Do you ever notice that the
people who make fun of people

for being pretentious are
usually the pretentious ones?

It's just Duchamp
but without the wit.

You ever noticed how
people only lash out on others

because they're afraid of what they
see because they see themselves?

What if I tell you "I love you"?

Does that mean I
actually love myself?

Exactly.

I love you.

I love you too.

It was at that moment Conrad
and Beatrice knew that it was over.

Beatrice couldn't help but
feel sympathy for Conrad.

Not love but sympathy.

One can often get
confused for the other.

As the two exited the station,

they waved goodbye
to one another as usual.

It would be the last time they
would ever see each other.

It seemed there was an
unavoidable distinction

between Conrad and Beatrice
that had rendered them incompatible.

She was a hopeless romantic,
and he was romantically hopeless.

By the week's end, Conrad
had received a telegram

informing him of his
parents' reconciliation.

Their week-long divorce
had grown tiresome,

and they were to return
home in two days time.

As much as Beatrice had tried,

she was unable to
forget Conrad's actions.

Note to self. See doctor
about possible brain tumour.

Conrad went on to keep the empty
apartment as a sort of metaphor

for the void left by Beatrice.

He told no one of its existence.

It wasn't till years later
that Conrad would realise

love was just like communism

it was a great idea but
never quite worked out.

Conrad may have told others
that he was in search of a girlfriend,

a future wife, but it
was merely rhetoric.

Conrad's search was for an
idyllic beauty he would never attain.

Conrad often became
attached to the idea of something

and not the actual thing itself.

Back in the Valmont with his
credit cards once again active,

Conrad resumed the life
he was accustomed to living.

But something was different.

Like this one right
there. Get that one.

I missed it.

OK, why the hell are
we fishing with spears?

What's wrong?

It's been a long week.

With the matriarch of the Valmont
household once again home,

Conrad was able to let out a
decade of emotions and fears

for she had long
been the only person

that he would truly confide in.

I think there's
something wrong with me.

In an attempt to
change his ways...

Ding-dong.

...Conrad started down
the road to redemption

with the simple gesture
of quitting cigarettes,

of getting his father's
Austin-Healey out of hock,

and on one spring afternoon
while Dylan was out,

Conrad snuck into his friend's
apartment to finally repay him.

He not only monetarily
compensated Dylan for his loan

but also included
the keys to his Volvo

and an inflation-adjusted
interest of 20%.

These are classic symptoms. I
think you're a closet agoraphobic.

I'm terminating our sessions.

Conrad, can we
talk about this later?

I'm in the middle of a session.

I don't care. I'm getting worse.

Beatrice broke up with
me, and I got hit by a truck.

- Look at me, I'm a mess.
- Why do you think that is?

Your bad advice.

Conrad, I've been your therapist
since you were nine years old.

Indeed... I think it's
all that bad advice

that made me the
bad person I am today.

It's going to take a very
long time to recover from this.

Farewell.

Perhaps he had the wrong office.

Hypothetically speaking,

do you think someone could
have a Napoleonic complex

without being
particularly short?

I don't believe so.

What would you call this
hypothetical person then?

An egoist?

Egoist.

I think I'm an egoist.

I've never told you this before,
but... you're a horrible writer.

I know.

After several years of
deliberation and public speculation,

Conrad had finally finished
his sophomore effort.

His inability to
complete the novel

had simply stemmed from his lack
of understanding its central character.

Of course, the central
character was himself.

The book was published in the
spring and received mixed reviews.

"He proceeded to wave
goodbye to Abigail as if routine."

"For he was convinced that
this was not the last time"

"that they would
ever see each other."

"Harold went on to keep
the empty apartment"

"as sort of a metaphor
for the void left by Abigail."

"He told no one
of its existence."

Thank you.

How do you respond
to the criticism

that your novel is
inherently derivative

of the works of Fitzgerald
and Edith Wharton?

Thank you.

Mr. Valmont, I'm sorry,

but I found the book and the
central character adolescent

and his problems
grossly inconsequential

by modern social standards.

Don't you find his
change at the end

slightly contrived and,
frankly, sophomoric?

I completely disagree.

I find him quite likeable and
his change rather significant.

Yes.

At a matinee performance of
"Les Caprices de Marianne",

the play which the once tightly
knit group had all seen together,

Dylan ran into
Beatrice for the first time

since her split with Conrad.

This was not a
coincidence, however,

for each had mysteriously
received a ticket two days prior.

Conrad had sent the tickets
in an attempt to pay penance

for his actions
the previous week.

The two then went to a small bar

in the West Village to
speak about the play.

They both enjoyed it and
had seen it with a nostalgia

for their old times together.

They made love that night and
have been together ever since.

Dylan finally read Jane
Austen's pre-Victorian classic,

"Sense and Sensibility".

He found it neither
sentimental nor unrealistic

but actually quite relatable.

Soon after their encounter
outside the Hudson Playhouse,

Beatrice gave up
her modelling exploits

and formed a jazz
ensemble with Dylan.

They achieved moderate
success and were happy.

Consequently, they
both put on 15 pounds.

Conrad and Dylan continued their
weekly conversations over squash

and, for the first
time, Dylan won.

Conrad saw this
as a sign of change.

Dylan, however, merely
felt a sense of satisfaction.

Conrad would go on to donate
a large portion of his wealth

to various charities and
philanthropic endeavours.

Unfortunately, it
took losing everything

for Conrad to finally appreciate
the economic stability he once had.

He wasn't going to take
it for granted this time.

I really despise the whole idea

that by being over-privileged
and well educated,

that one has to live up to
certain lofty expectations.

For one, you have to live
under the proverbial shadow

of said father and/or namesake.

Two, lofty expectations can
only lead to failure, hmm?

And three, more scientifically
and mathematically speaking,

if your parents were a great success,
I think a betting man would say

that the chances of
lightning striking twice,

especially in consecutive
generations, is very slim.

You do realise you're
talking to your chauffeur?

Touché.

After the lukewarm
reception of his second novel,

Conrad began to spend
more time in the country

to focus on the work,

for it was only there
that he felt at ease.

It appeared Conrad's
allergies to grass and clean air

had been completely
psychosomatic.

He began to reflect back
on his week with Beatrice

and thought of the old adage,

"'Tis better to have loved and lost
than to have never loved at all. ".

Conrad reluctantly agreed, for
he still thought of Beatrice often.

At the ripe age of 42,

Conrad Valmont
was finally growing up.