All language subtitles for The Longest Week-English

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.

These are classic Freudian
symptoms, Conrad.

Haven't you ever read
about defense mechanisms?

Actually I've always considered myself

more of a Jungian.

Your phone is ringing again.

Please stop talking.

You stop talking.

All right.

Morning.

It's 1 p.m.

Afternoon.

Conrad Valmont?

Yes, it's Conrad Valmont.

Oh, yes, Security will be there

within the hour to escort
you from the premises.

What?

But I've lived here since birth.

This is Conrad Valmont.

Conrad was the son of a
Grecian 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 he 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've come to a simple realization,

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 p.m.

Bunny, please make yourself useful.

Get some more cigarettes, please.

- Hey!
- What?

I'm hungry.

I'll be right there!

Wha... 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?

Uh, nothing.

Come on, Bunny.

Bernard, please take us
to the Belleville Café.

Uh, I'm sorry.

I-I can't.

Hey, it's me.

I'm going to 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 favor?
- Name it.

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

Of course.

This is lame!

I'm going to go.

No, Bunny.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.

Listen.

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 had reasoned

she could be no older than 19

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

Of course, there was
always the outside chance

that she was merely a Jane Austin 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 realized

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'd 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 ten 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 tumor.

It rendered her witty, charming,

and quite likeable to most.

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.

Hm.

She seemed utterly blissful to an outsider,

but her family and friends
were worried, even horrified.

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 tumor?

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 and me.

How was Greece?

- You mean Bhutan.
- Semantics.

I got back a couple of days ago.

Uh-hm.

Do you mind if I stay with you for a while?

Sure, come on in.

So, what happened?

We are remodeling at The Valmont again.

Where's Jocelyn?

I don't know.

Ugh, 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, right?

One of you screams,
the other one comes running back.

I-I bought her a Volvo.

You bought her a Vol,
why, 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. Bart's

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,

he 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 a 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.

Need a new goalie?

Don't make eye contact.

Hey, mister, give us back our ball.

Interaction is inappropriate.

I can play.

Hm. We should move.

Like little veal.

So, I met a woman a couple 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?

She's like an ingenue in a Chekov play.

You know, one of those awfully
romantic virtuous types,

completely self-inhibited, doesn't drink.

Didn't have sex until she was 21,

read the bulk of the Victorian classics.

Jesus, sounds like a real keeper.

Oh, she is, she really is.

I'm... I'm way over my head.

Is she attractive?

Hm, 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, uh, meet the ingenue.

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 is going to be

at a certain place at a preordained time,

- and then...
- Adorable.

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

It's less pressure.

So do you want to 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 Bergdorf's
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'm 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 bi-weekly 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'd
always wanted to play jazz.

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

...an occupation that only
heightened her insecurities.

C'est magnifique!

Un petite oiseau.

Beatrice was a firm believer

in mystics, psychics, and the occult,

which ran counter to the debutante norm

which favored 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 Bergdorf's
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?

Uh-hm. I gave him my, um...

Scarf, she gave me her scarf. It was cold.

I'm going to need that back from you.

Okay. I'll give it to you.

Uh-hm.

I can get it...

from you... to give to her.

I think I see foie gras.

Want some... duck?

No. Take your time.

He's... 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 through immaculate conception.

Hm-hm.

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.

Don't you find that the virtuous ideals

of the Victorian authors
is 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 realize that the monicker
of Victorian literature

ranges from the Bronte 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...

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.

So, what are you working on these days?

Nothing in particular.

I'm open to new 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.

He's 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.

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.

Finish it.

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, good night.

Good night.

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 the 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 they each not only envied the other

but wanted secretly to be the other.

Neither one ever spoke of this.

You know, just because 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 fantasyland,

and when you take a trip to fantasyland,

you should always have a return ticket.

I don't even know what that means.

At some point you're going to have to come

to the same realization I did.

What's that?

The rest of the world is
never going to 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 generalization.

He's not like that.

For your information,
he is writing a novel.

Oh. 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.

Hm, bad move.

- Why?
- You just saw her last night.

You don't want to crowd her,
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, 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 demoralizing,

but it pays well.

I'm serious. Tell me about yourself.

All I know is that you, you,
you do frequent the subway,

and, and you read Victorian

and pre-Victorian literature, right?

Come on, I want to know, I
want to know your fears.

I'd like to know your hopes.

I want to 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 it like being born with
the proverbial silver spoon?

All right.

Well, you know, it, it
is like any other job,

it's innocuous and demoralizing,
but it 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 status itself had been.

Shall we go have a cigarette?

Okay, 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 is, it is only the rarest

and most exquisite cigarette in existence.

It is pretty great, isn't it?

Sort of tastes like any other cigarette.

How about the smell, right?

Smell?

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 going to 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.

Well, I know you don't drink,

but they make an incredible
Tom Collins, okay?

How often do you come here?

Uh, every once in a while.

Here you go, Mr. Valmont.

Lucky.

Cheers.

Cheers.

Weird how nobody dances anymore, you know?

That's funny coming from
someone who is 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.

Oh 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.

Will you play me a song?

- No.
- Come on.

- Uh-uh.
- Please!

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

Are you going to make me beg?

No. Maybe.

Come on, please?

Just one.

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.

Did you ever notice that
when people become happy,

they pack on a few extra pounds?

What are you trying to say?

No, no, no, nothing about you, Angel.

No, 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 one.

Just give me a little space.

I'm trying to cook, you
know, it's not natural.

Hey. That water is brown.

That can't be healthy.

That's how I like it.

- Really?
- Yep.

- Want me to get that?
- Nope.

Well, how am I supposed to wash my hands?

There's egg all over them.

Hey, Dylan.

Uh, no, not doing anything.

Oh, tonight?

Uh, oh, oh, can you hang on one second?

He wants to take me to the theater tonight

and he wants me to bring a date for you.

I'm, I'm not that good of a liar.

I sincerely doubt that.

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

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

Okay, well then, I'll see you at 7.

Okay, bye.

There was 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, you're uh, track
record proves otherwise.

Well, this girl is important.

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

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

There are rumors, just rumors.

I don't want to 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.

It's going to be all right, Connie.

You think?

I promise you. It's going to be all right.

All right.

Listen, I need to take the antiques.

You don't need to take everything.

They were in my family,
and they belong to me.

Your family, your family, I paid...

That desk was from Marie Antoinette!

Oh, please!

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 okay.

That's fine. Thank you.

I think that's a pretty
good parent over there.

Uh-hmm.

She's very uh, opinionated
and judgmental...

I told you this was a bad idea.

Shut up, shut up!

Well then, tell me about it.

Seriously?

Yes, seriously, of course!

Here I am, I'm leaving.

Is this a joke?

What a pitiful advocate you are!

Speak, whether it's a joke or not.

Uh, uh, why are you looking

all around the room like that?

Oh, you, you really are in a temper.

I wish to take a lover,

or if not a lover, at least a cavalier.

Whom do you suggest?

I shall abide by your choice from,

from tomorrow, from this evening,

whoever has the fancy to
sing beneath my window

will find my door ajar.

Well...

Well, nothing to say?

Marry me!

I sure don't like the way you're
looking at Dylan tonight.

I am not doing anything.

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

Just stop it!

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

I think they were Canadian.

- Bonsoir, Monsieur Valmont.
- Hello, Didier.

Your usual table is waiting.

Great, thank you.

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...
- Ah, very well.

Please, right this way.

Bonsoir.

No, 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.

Uh-hm.

It seemed like everyone who was
in the theater was just there to be seen.

There to be seen?

It was a theater, 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.

Yeah, 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 for
why they're all doing that.

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

That's a good point.

And just how am I supposed to sympathize
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.

Well, I did say that,

but that was before I came inside.

I'm going to go.

Count to five and then follow me.

Oh, are you wearing perfume?

Excuse me?

Don't you feel a little 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

in postmodern criticism.

Ugh, for me I think that
people who are creative

are really just indulgent.

There's only so much, and we don't,

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.

You want to 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 want to sleep over?

Hm. Your place or mine?

I live in a dorm.

Definitely mine.

You know, I realized
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, you know, it's great

that you don't have a boyfriend.

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

You're a cheater though.

- Oh, uh-huh, yeah.
- Right?

I've got to tell Dylan.

I've got to tell him, right?

You tell him,

you just come right out and
you just let him know,

you just tell him.

You've got to tell him.

You've got to tell him, got to tell him.

You've got to 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, seemed like you were
about to say something.

No, uh-uh, no, no, not at all.

Where's uh, friend?

Oh, you mean Jocelyn?

No, the friend.

Yeah, the friend's name is Jocelyn.

Oh, really? Ironic.

I don't want to 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?

Uh...

No, no, no.

Good. Good man.

Something I'd like to ask you.

May I sleep with Beatrice?

Definitely not!

No!

Got something I'd like to tell you.

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

Dylan! Dylan! Dylan!

- I'll kill you!
- Easy, easy!

Now as we ease into adulthood,

sometimes a good stiff drink
is the only excuse we have

- for committing the atrocities...
- Ease into adulthood?

Yes. Now come on.

We're nearly 40!

I said I was sorry. Okay?

- I was going to...
- 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, okay?

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 realize 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-I like the idea of living
up at the summer home,

you know, upstate, the life
of a reclusive writer.

I really do,

but I'm allergic to the
grass and the clean air,

the bees, the ticks, the badgers,

bunch of wildlife.

What are you trying to say, Conrad?

I'm going to move in with Beatrice.

Oh, oh, that's great news.

Thank you.

Does she know that you're broke

and have no place else to go?

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.

Hm.

You're lying to yourself, Conrad.

I know.

I'm okay with it.

Ding-dong.

Hi.

Bonjour, mon amour.

What's going on?

I'm moving in.

What happen 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 is 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.

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?

And do you see just the headlights?

It's a female orgasm.

I think it's kind of clear. I don'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 tumor.

What?

Nothing.

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.

Okay.

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.

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.

Okay, Beatrice, stop right there.

Don't move, okay?

Don't move. Like that.

Beautiful, you're beautiful.

She's magnifique.

Give me love, give me love.

You love me?

Smile.

Ah, voilà.

You love me, you love me.

Okay. Show me, show me.

Show me you love me.

Show me.
Okay.

Love.

Hate, now, like that.

Beautiful, beautiful.

Love...

...hate.

Love.

Voilà, one more?

Chapter one.

Greece is a place he had visited
many times in his mind,

but on this day...

Jumping forward, chapter three.

Chapter four.

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

Uh, a couple months maybe, I think.

What?

Sometimes they take a couple months.
Yeah.

Months? You said weeks.

Well...

Oh.

- Hey.
- Hey.

I got your gift.

Hm.

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 is that in?
- Whitman Gallery.

Maybe we'll see you there.

Don't know the time.

Who's that girl?

- Jocelyn.
- That's not Jocelyn.

I know, the uh, the other Jocelyn.

Let's get in this car, come on.

I've got to 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 need you to follow me
on the count of three...

- What?
- Ready? Go!

Timothy.

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

Hello.

Mr. Valmont...

Mr. Valmont.

Stop them!

What is going on?

This is crazy.

I know. Isn't it fun?

Where are we going?

Why are we...

Sh-h-h-h!

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.

Sh-h-h-h!

Uh.

I showed her, that washed-up debutante.

Shit!

Really, really good work, Timothy.

It's Frederick, sir.

Yes, Frederick. Sorry.

Yeah, I know.

I thank you a lot in really
picking up the pace.

Now 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.

Okay? I'm broke.

What do you mean?

I have nothing.

I was kicked out of The Valmont.

My 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!

No, you are not honest with yourself.
That's your problem.

Okay? 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.

But 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 is so afraid of being alone
because when you are alone,

you are going to realize
how empty your life is,

and you know what, I should
have gone with Dylan

because 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.

All right. You're just
like the rest of them.

You are 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.

Staring into the grill 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?

Uh, uberall.

Conrad's worst fear had come true.

He was all alone.

Hello?

Who's this?

It's your son, Conrad. Hi.

- Connie.
- What's the... Where are you?

What's that noise?

Can't you see I'm preoccupied.

When are you coming home?

I don't know, Darling.

Divorce of this stature can take some time.

How long do you think?

Look, I have to go.

Maybe this will all 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.

Hm.

I heard you went out with Beatrice earlier.

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

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.

Uh-hm.

Zeus is dead.

You could fetter my leg,

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

And I want my Volvo back,
that was just a joke.

So 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 going to last.

What is it?

- Hi.
- Hello.

Now, you two seem like fans of literature.

I have got a very impressive
library at my apartment.

- Really?
- Uh-hm.

Do you want to see my Balzac collection?

You sure you don't want to do anything?

I can't, sorry.

It would be a misrepresentation
of how I feel inside.

I don't even know what that means.

Well, that's exactly the problem.

You can, uh, 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-I've only just moved in.

She's already kicked me out.

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 Austin 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.

Magnifique.

Love, hate.

Stop! Don't move. Voilà.

Superb, superb.

Huh.

Okay, let's uh, let's take a break. Hm.

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.

Okay. One hour.

Yeah, thanks. I'll be right here.

I hate surprises.

You're going to 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, I'm sorry, but I like his work,

pretentious and adolescent.

You know, if he would just take a step back
and have someone...

Have you ever noticed that the people

who make fun of people for being pretentious

are usually the pretentious ones?

Have you ever noticed how
people only lash out on others

because they're afraid of what they see

if 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 good-bye 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 tumor.

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 until years later
that Conrad would realize

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.

Tell me 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

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 good-bye
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 likable

and his change rather significant.

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 Austin'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 modeling 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 endeavors.

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, hm?

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 realize 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.