Original subtitles

We've got him, Hope. Elliot's lined up the proxies,

I've talked to our biggest clients.

They're all as fed up with Miles as we are.

So, you're going to force Miles out of the agency he created,

that he built up from nothing?

He's changed.

His methods are manipulative and unproductive.

(LAUGHS) It's like working for Mussolini.

But Miles gave you a job when we were starving.

Do you think I don't know that? Hmm?

Hmm? The thought of it haunts me every minute of the day.

Only it's him or me.

I don't think it's Miles that's changed.

(SIGHS)

Maybe I have changed.

(EXCLAIMING) My God, am I turning into my father?

HOPE: Off with his head!

Go ahead, make jokes. It's not as if we didn't warn Miles.

My tarts! Who stole my tarts?

Who?

Was it you? Off with his head!

This isn't funny, Hope.

(SCREAMS)

My tarts.

I just think that you owe Miles a little more than cutting him off at the knees.

(SCREAMING)

Ten years of research, three years of writing,

a third of my life went into this book,

and now finally it's finished.

I'm sure it will be worth every minute you spent on it.

I'll say. This is my ticket to tenure.

We're so very proud of you.

I can't wait to read it.

I hope it's better than the last one.

Stuff it, you old hag. It was a damn fine book.

It's why I came to England in the first place.

It was as dull as dishwater.

But it landed me the job at the university, which is just what I wrote it for.

Put me to sleep quicker than all those little green pills.

"Chelsea Yuppie Hacks Hubby.

"Alice In Wonderland Possessed Me." Now, that's writing.

You know, your book changed my life.

I read the first chapter, and I switched majors.

Well, I hope it's got a couple of juicy murders in it.

And a bit of steamy sex wouldn't hurt, either.

Ooh, let's see.

"Fright and Fraud:

"Ethno-biocentric Morphogenesis

"of the Mephisto Fallacy."

I doubt it. Catchy title.

I'm sure it's a cracking good read.

Academics don't want a cracking good read, Dad.

They want dull, stuffy, pompous books.

And you're just the man to give it to them.

A couple of jokes might help.

I think it sounds fascinating.

Well, I thank you all for your interest.

Randi, you can have the privilege of being the first person to read it.

And probably the last.

How can you expect a publicist to be excited about your book

when you're so bored by it?

Because every university library is run by a committee of professors,

all writing duller books than mine.

And every member of every committee gets to vote for every book,

so that when their own ghastly dissertations are finally published,

everyone else buys them.

Oh. How can you be so cynical?

Welcome to academia.

IAN: What do you mean, it won't sell?

It's a doorstop. A lead weight.

A commercial suicide pill.

This book fills a vacuum in the field.

It exposes the mythological foundations of...

Snooze.

It's exactly what you publish.

Published.

This is what we publish now.

We want scorching, we want commercial.

Like this.

Slob Dog is phenomenal. It's going to be a major publishing event.

Cuts across all demographic lines.

Kids cuddle him, adults think he's a riot.

What about Trident Publishing's 50-year commitment

to academic publications?

Bankrupt, right along with the rest of the division.

Which is why it's been acquired, and acquired for peanuts,

by Triax Multi-Products International.

But I have a contract.

There. Invest it wisely.

I recommend Triax stock.

Surely someone appreciates the need for academic books,

the need to educate as well as entertain.

Some guy, uh, Ganza's Antiquarian Books,

sent that to Dave McDonnell, the new president of the company.

When he saw it wasn't porno, he tossed it in the trash.

I dug it out, 'cause I thought it would look classy on my desk.

This money is meaningless to me.

I want to educate, to illuminate, to explore the boundaries of my field.

My career is riding on this.

A professor's reputation is built on his published works.

If you don't publish, you perish.

All right, I'll make you a deal.

But you've gotta meet me halfway.

Now, this, uh, mythological stuff,

what it comes down to is monsters, ghosts, blood and gore, right?

(SCOFFS) If you look at it superficially, yes, but...

If you look at it commercially,

which is how you better start looking at things if you want to get published.

Now, horror is hot, hot, hot.

Stephen King, literary giant.

Appeal to that crowd, you got a winner.

Now, give me lots of blood,

lots of italics, some sizzle.

Juicy murders, steamy sex, a couple of jokes?

You got it! Jazz it up. I knew you'd understand.

I'd change the title if I were you.

(SIGHS)

You share the tastes of the common reader.

Maybe you could help me.

I'll try.

How would Stephen King say this?

"As the interstitial matrices of good and evil

"blend towards the unity of Ur Mephistopheles,

"they transcend the nature of the Faust legend."

Hmm. Let me think.

How about,

"Blood dripped from her naked body

"and spread across the crypt,

"her once lovely features

"hideously deformed by the rictus of death."

Sorry.

It's useless.

(DOOR OPENING)

(GASPING) We got stuck in traffic.

I didn't think we'd make it back in time!

Since when has there been a curfew?

Hey, Professor, we got you some real books this time.

Check this out.

"River of Molten Blood."

(GROWLING)

"Bloodbath Day Camp for Girls?"

What's this?

Your audience.

Are you all right?

(SNARLING)

(PANTING) Yes, yes. I'm just a little out of shape.

I think I'll go downstairs and relax for a little while.

The cellar. My audience is students,

scholars and researchers.

Not to mention heads of department of the world's finest universities.

But that doesn't mean that your books need be boring.

It certainly does.

(SCREAMING)

I feel strongly about this.

No kidding.

If it upsets you, imagine how I feel about...

(GRUNTING)

Oh. Oh, my.

Perhaps we can discuss this another time.

(PANTING)

When we talk about literature, she gets the animal in her.

Americans.

Uh-huh.

Oh, God. Oh!

I just don't understand how to write commercially.

You can do it.

(SCREAMING)

God!

(PANTING)

(RANDI SCREAMING)

ELSA: Lan!

(PANTING)

I am a scholar, therefore I write scholarly books.

I can't write like Stephen King.

Yes, you can. Just write about what you know.

What do you think I've been doing?

You've been writing about what you knew.

You can't hide in folklore,

fiction and myths any longer.

We both know they're real.

Some of it.

A lot of it.

Maybe.

Face what I am. Face what it means.

I have.

(GASPING)

Sometimes... I like it. Oh!

(GRUNTING)

I need you on my side.

Or else I could just give in to it.

Oh! Go, go!

(GROANING)

(GROWLING)

Randi.

(GROWLING)

(SIGHING)

And we project the Slob Dog calendar alone

can boost the November sales

in your stores overall by as much as five percent.

But combine that with a multimedia push all across the UK,

and the December publication of the Slob Dog paperback line,

we anticipate a fourth quarter sales increase

totaling as much as ten percent.

Now, exactly how big should the campaign be?

How many advertising dollars are there

compared to the number of books being shipped?

That's a very good question.

Mel.

I'll leave you to field that one.

Mel?

We are waiting, Mel.

I left those figures on my desk.

I'll only be a moment.

So much for his bonus.

(ALL LAUGHING)

And I'm sure that you'll find the figures quite...

Aye, breach your last to the sun, Moby Dick!

Thy hour and thy harpoon are at hand!

That bonus thing, it was just my idea of a joke.

A bad joke.

Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying and un-conquering whale.

To the last I grapple with thee!

A bad joke. A very, very bad joke.

From hell's heart, I stab at thee.

For hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee!

(GROANS)

(EXCLAIMS)

Ho, ho!

From all your furthest bounds, pour ye now in,

ye bold billows of my whole forgone life,

and top this one piled comber of my death!

(SCREAMING)

(WOMAN SCREAMS)

(CRASHING)

I can't believe what the world is coming to.

Some nutball harpooned his boss, and then leapt out of a building.

"Peg-leg Psycho Spears Boss, Leaps, and Goes Splat!"

How can you throw away good money

on that salacious, libelous, irresponsible drivel?

It's no different from that stuffy rag.

This is a respectable newspaper, not like that twaddle you read.

It's all the same twaddle, it's only different headlines.

You should be contributing to the financial welfare

of this household, not supporting rumormongers.

You guys aren't going to believe this wacko story I just heard on the radio.

Oh, shut up!

What did you hear?

You, too? I'm sorry I brought it up.

Brought what up?

"The booksellers watched, horrified,

"as the man dressed as a sea captain

"impaled the publisher with a harpoon."

"Then the drooling, psychopathic lunatic jumped out the window,

"plunged screaming to his death below."

Oh, my God!

Lose your appetite?

Lost my publisher.

IAN: I can't believe it. He seemed so... So centered.

Ah, self-centered, you mean.

I don't mean to speak ill of the dead,

but I worked for him for two years, and he never even bothered to learn my name.

Is that why you cleaned out his office so fast?

Publishing is a high-pressure, cutthroat business.

One moment you're an executive secretary,

the next minute you're an editor.

You either bear up under the pressure, or you crack, like poor, sweet Mel.

(SIGHING)

I've always wanted a window office.

Congratulations.

There's an old saying, out of tragedy comes opportunity.

Life goes on.

No rest for the wicked.

Exactly.

Oh, I know I'll be a good editor.

I thrive under pressure, I'm great with people,

and I'm steeped in the classics.

I've read every word Jackie Collins has ever written.

(GROANS)

One of the greats.

God!

They couldn't have found a better person for the job.

Thank you, Professor.

Someone insightful, creative, willing to take chances.

A corporate rebel. A woman with a vision.

You took the words right out of my mouth.

Which, coincidentally, brings me to another fine book,

written by myself.

Oh, make an appointment with my secretary, Miss, uh...

Miss What's -her-name, and we'll talk.

Thank you so much.

Oh, wait.

Mel would have wanted you to have this.

You're the only one around here who'd want to read it, anyway.

So thoughtful of you.

IAN: You know, there'll never be another like Mel Berger.

He believed so greatly in literature

that when forced to publish inane drivel, he went mad.

That's an editor.

That's a crock.

Look, no matter how upset he was about axing your book,

there's no way that harpoon was a product of his imagination.

I mean, to say nothing of the salt water that he was dripping all over the carpet.

I suppose this is where you tell me

that Mel Berger was actually possessed by the spirit of Captain Ahab.

Right. And this is where you tell me that this is the real world,

and such things don't happen.

Right. And then you remind me that you turn into a wild beast

every time there's a full moon,

and that doesn't happen in the real world, either.

But I do.

I know.

What are you looking for?

"Chelsea Yuppie Hacks Hubby, Says Alice in Wonderland Possessed Me."

Don't you see?

There are two murders in one week,

and both are committed by characters from literature.

Wonderful!

When Lady Chatterley arrives, send her over to my place.

Look, we've got to do something.

Like what?

Like talk to the Chelsea Yuppie.

Visiting hours are in 30 minutes, and you're driving.

Randi!

RANDl: Just hear her out, and try to understand her.

I understand her perfectly. She's an axe murderer.

You're not being very constructive.

Shall I advise her on her backhand?

I wasn't expecting visitors.

We read about you in the paper.

We think that maybe we can help you.

Really? Can you bring Michael back?

Can you give me the life I had before I snapped?

I know how you feel.

How can you?

One minute I'm normal, standing in my kitchen,

and the next I'm on this vast lawn,

with all these weird people standing all around me.

They looked like playing cards.

IAN: Playing cards?

And we were playing golf.

But instead of clubs, we were using giant birds.

And they were twisting around, and...

(COUGHING)

You weren't playing golf, you were playing croquet, using flamingos as mallets.

How could you possibly know?

I've read Alice In Wonderland.

Of course. Right before the Queen of Hearts

discovers that the Knave of Hearts stole her tarts.

And demand that he be beheaded.

Surely you remember the passage.

I haven't read it.

The police found a copy of Alice In Wonderland in your house.

By your husband's body.

It was a gift from this dotty old man.

I went into his bookshop looking for the new Sidney Sheldon,

and he was so embarrassed that he didn't have it

that he gave me this dusty, old book for nothing.

Do you remember the name of the shop?

How could I forget it?

He read about me in the paper, and he sent me this.

(HOPE COUGHING)

"Courtesy of Ganza Antiquarian Books."

Call the Infirmary at once. We've got an emergency.

How odd.

It's probably just a bad cold.

It's going around, you know.

No, I mean this.

Mel Berger's copy of Moby Dick also came

courtesy of Ganza Antiquarian Books.

Let's go.

(SIGHING) Right. I'll handle this.

Take no prisoners.

May I help you?

Yes. We are looking for...

A leather-bound copy of Moby Dick, or maybe Alice In Wonderland.

Browse.

Actually, uh, we had a few questions we wanted to ask you.

Only if I can ask you one first.

Aren't you Dr. Lan Matheson,

author of The Face of Fear: Monsters in the Age of Reason?

Why, yes, I am.

(WHISPERING) Oh, God.

A ground-breaking text.

The first that advocated a postmodern approach to the analysis of evil,

as it appears in cultural myths, icons and legends.

That's the one!

A pleasure.

You liked it? Oh, I loved it.

It was utterly fascinating.

I learned quite a bit, I must say.

Have you given much thought to untangling the morphogenesis of the Mephisto fallacy?

Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I have.

I've just finished a ground-breaking work

that deconstructs the underpinnings of the Mephisto fallacy

from an ethno-biocentric perspective.

I feel it should be quite provocative.

I could talk about your work all day,

but I don't suppose that's the reason you came in here.

It isn't? Oh, right. Well, it was nothing important.

Now that I've met you, I'm embarrassed even to ask.

You must mean the Alice In Wonderland killing.

Or the Moby Dick murder-suicide.

Well, it's no secret. Both those books came from this store.

You don't say.

A morbid, shocking coincidence.

Yes, isn't it?

Literature has a hard enough time surviving in today's world

without being blamed for murders on top of it.

It's true. My editor called Stephen King a literary giant,

and dismissed Melville's Moby Dick as an attractive paperweight.

What has happened to fine literature, to academic publishing?

Mind you, there is a certain delicious irony in these killings.

The big bookstore chains, the conglomerates who buy publishers,

none of them care about literature.

All they want is blood, guts and sex.

And now literature is becoming associated with it.

Maybe it will even boost sales.

It won't matter if it does.

Chaps like me are being squeezed out.

Soon there'll be no room for the likes of me

or the likes of Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Dickens...

Proust, Flaubert...

Or Matheson.

Explain this.

It's a book, dear. You read them.

She's from Los Angeles.

This book just jumped off the shelf at me.

I can see what you mean. It's a beautiful binding.

Anna Karenina, no wonder! One of my all-time favorites.

We'll take it.

We will not. This book is...

As rich in human drama as it is in devastating social criticism.

What does she owe you for it?

I couldn't sell it. Not to her.

Believe me, she'll treasure it.

These books are killing people, and I want to know why.

I'm sorry you can believe such a terrible thing about such beautiful books.

Literature never hurt anyone.

It can only make the world a better place.

I insist you sell us this book. Randi must have it.

(MOUTHING) What?

I suppose she must. That'll be fifty pounds.

Pay the man.

Thank you so much for your help.

My pleasure, Doctor. Come back any time.

This book is haunted.

Yes, it certainly looks that way.

Shall you exorcise it, or shall I?

Go ahead, joke. But this book could kill me, you know.

If you can stand my books, I'm sure you can survive classic literature.

That old man is hiding something.

Yes, the last refuge of classic literature in London.

He should be applauded, not persecuted.

Come along, Randi.

I don't want to torment you any longer.

Don't you think you are exaggerating just a bit?

I shall set you free.

Randi.

Randi? Wait!

Randi, wait.

Who am I? An immoral woman.

A millstone around your neck.

Honestly, you're not that bad. Randi, wait.

Where did you get that dress?

Why did I not die? Karenin in shame, in disgrace.

My own death. Death will wipe out everything.

Karenin?

To die.

Anna Karenina.

Randi!

(SCREAMING) Randi, no.

IAN: Randi? Randi.

Randi?

(GRUNTS)

Lan.

Oh, Randi. I'm so glad you're all right.

I thought you...

Yeah.

Now do you believe me?

Camille.

What?

Her cough.

The courtesan in Camille died of consumption.

Oh, my God. Those books are haunted.

Oh, really.

The delivery man.

What?

We have to find out where the delivery man was going.

What delivery man?

He was leaving the store when we arrived, with boxes of books.

We have to find out where he was taking them.

Yes. Hurry!

Hello? Ganza?

I demand a refund.

The ending of Anna Karenina just didn't blow me away.

What a shame.

Most people find the climax devastating.

Perhaps you'd like another?

I'll pass.

How could you sell these haunted books to people?

I thought you loved books.

Love?

It's more than love.

I cherish literature,

and I'll do anything I can to protect it.

But how can I stand up against the multinational bookstore chains,

the mass market paperbacks?

Harlequin romances,

or movie novelizations?

But your books, they weren't always haunted, were they?

I was on a book hunting expedition.

I stumbled across this tiny farmhouse in Scotland.

The book had been in the family for generations.

Curiosity piece, really.

The Compendium of Alchemy.

Good man! What a marvelous find!

Lan.

The most extraordinary example of ethno-biocentric morphogenesis.

Oh, I studied it for years.

I am so jealous.

Lan!

It's a mythologist's dream. A career.

I could write a dozen books on it alone.

Do you realize what an incredible find this is?

Do you realize what a lunatic he is?

Who knows what spells could be in it?

What cures?

Cures?

I knew I'd find my answer in those words. And I did.

I cast a spell,

and now my books can protect themselves.

So you sent your foul books to publishers? To customers?

To the House of Commons.

IAN: The House of Commons?

They passed the laws that allowed American conglomerates

to swallow up British publishers,

to trample on small booksellers under an army of franchises.

By nightfall, they will pay!

Dearly!

No, they won't.

Because we're gonna stop that shipment before it gets there.

I think not.

(CYCLOPS GROWLING)

(BOTH EXCLAIMING)

RANDl: What is it?

It's a Cyclops, Randi!

(GRUNTING)

Lan.

(GRUNTS)

(SCREAMS)

(EXCLAIMING)

(GROWLING)

(SCREAMING)

(EXCLAIMING)

(GRUNTING)

(EXCLAIMING)

(GROWLING)

(GROANING)

The only way to find out where the delivery truck is,

is to plot all the different routes

between the bookshop and the House of Commons.

Assuming, of course, the delivery hasn't been made already.

Or we could just call the delivery company and ask them.

Oh, yes, right.

We could just call them up and say,

"Hello, we're trying to stop a delivery of haunted books.

"Could you help us?"

I swiped the receipt off Ganza's desk.

The truck number is 22, the driver's name is Hubert Phipps.

Oh, Hubert Phipps. Why didn't you say so earlier?

This makes the job so much easier.

(SIGHING) Obviously, you don't watch enough television.

You mean he's a delivery man and a television star?

I mean, all we need is a little chutzpah.

You know, like Jim Rockford or Kojak.

Or Lucy Ricardo.

We have the truck number, and we have the driver's name,

so all we need is a little imagination.

Randi, this is real life.

(IN BRITISH ACCENT) Hello, is Hubie Phipps there, please?

Hubie?

WOMAN: Can you tell me who's speaking, please?

Yes, this is Mrs. Phipps.

Assuming the delivery truck was traveling 40 miles an hour,

and left the bookshop 30 minutes ago.

Oh, he's on a delivery? Hmm.

Could you patch me in to him?

This isn't going to work, Randi.

Now, taking into account the rush hour traffic problems...

HUBERT: Hello?

Hello, Hubie, darling? I want you so much.

We're dead.

(LAUGHS)

I told you the delivery company would believe I was his wife.

I told you they'd patch me on to him.

Well, what if he wasn't married? What if he wasn't in the mood?

Oh, come on. What man would deny the urgent plea of a hot-blooded female

to meet at a classy hotel and make mad, passionate love?

(SNICKERING) Okay, maybe one.

Uh-oh, no keys.

No problem. It's just a good thing he had one more stop before the House of Commons.

What are you complaining about? It worked, didn't it?

Hey, where'd you learn to do that?

You don't have a career criminal for a brother

without learning a few tricks of the trade.

(ENGINE STARTING)

Like jimmying a lock, picking a pocket, snatching a purse.

RANDl: It's a shame that one of those tricks wasn't truck driving.

It's just a big car. I'll get the hang of it.

Just get the hang of it before you wrap us around a telephone pole!

(CARS HONKING)

First we find the wondrous Compendium of Alchemy

and take the curse off the bookstore,

then we take the curse off you.

I'll be free. A normal woman.

We can start anew. Together.

RANDl: Like normal people? Like it should have been to begin with?

IAN: Exactly.

I'd like that. You never got to know the real me.

Imagine, no more secret life. I won't be a savage beast.

You won't have to hide me in the cellar, put me in chains,

find me in the morning, hungry, sweaty, naked.

Look out.

(TIRES SCREECHING)

(EXHALES)

Perhaps we should start again, one step at a time.

If you don't kill us first.

At least it'll be me, and not some vicious hardcover.

RANDl: True.

(BOTH EXHALING)

This is so exciting.

I mean, I haven't been this apprehensive about anything since...

Since my first kiss.

Exorcising the books should be easy.

All we have to do is find the right passage in the Compendium

and read it aloud.

I'm not talking about that.

I'm talking about getting rid of this monster that's inside me.

You'll be the same woman you were before.

I don't think that's possible.

I'm changed for life.

The books!

You don't think...

Let's not panic.

Oh!

Let's not panic!

The boxes are probably two or three streets away, intact.

There is nothing to worry about.

(MEN SHOUTING)

(WHIMPERS)

(SCREAMING)

(BOTH EXCLAIMING)

MAN: Halt!

On the other hand...

Take aim. Fire! Oh, God!

(PANTING)

Okay, so I was wrong.

Now what?

We find the Compendium, fast!

It could be anywhere. It'll take us months to find it.

Well, think positive.

I'm trying!

(GRUNTS)

You don't make it very easy.

(SCREAMS)

Lan, is that you under there?

Your tongue is sharp, Valvert, but surely it is not as sharp as my sword.

Think. You're lan Matheson, not Cyrano de Bergerac.

Defend yourself or die!

(PANTING)

Matches! I gotta find some matches.

(GROANS)

Ow!

A-ha! Match...

Dear Sheriff, have you lost your way?

A cordial welcome to Sherwood Forest.

(YELPS)

(EXCLAIMS)

Groveling? Is that any way for the Sheriff of Nottingham to behave?

I am not the Sheriff of Nottingham, I am Randi Wallace.

Surely you jest.

En garde!

(GRUNTING)

(LAUGHING)

(MEN SHOUTING)

(SCREAMS)

You're taking all the sport out of this, Sheriff.

(EXCLAIMS) No, no.

(LAUGHING)

(GROANS)

(PANTING)

Oh, God, no.

(GASPING)

Randi? Randi!

Randi? Randi. Lan? Lan?

Randi? Randi. Compendium, Compendium...

We've got to go! No!

The Compendium, we've gotta find it.

Forget the book! The place is burning down!

I can't!

Come on, you're going to burn to death!

No, let me go!

(COUGHING)

There goes my cure.

You got out alive, that's what counts.

(COUGHING)

I had such hopes. For a few moments, I thought I'd be free.

Believe, Randi. Believe and it'll happen.

I promise you that.

"But in applying the principles of Lacan,

"we must deconstruct the image of the Mephisto,

"learn to see it as a universal signifier in a hermeneutic system,

"rather than as a specific representation of..."

"As his razor-sharp fangs pierced her milky white neck, she felt no pain.

"Instead, there was a warmth, and then a rush of pleasure,

"stronger than the waves that crashed..."

(FOOTSTEPS APPROACHING)

"A set of signs in which, and of itself, signifies no more than its own..."

"... purposely baroque and ultimately meaningless iconography."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

Thank you!

I was so wrapped up in your manuscript, I didn't hear you come in.

It's a crime it won't get published.

Well, you're looking at England's number one crime-stopper.

The paperback should be out before Christmas,

and it'll make a great little stocking filler.

That's wonderful.

Put away the manuscript. We have some celebrating to do.

You got this much for that book?

A canny publisher knows what sells.

Wait a minute here, what is this?

Satan's Sex Slaves: The Story of One Woman's Descent Into Perversion?

Well, the publisher agreed with us.

The book needs some punching up, and a new title.

Us? Yes.

Haven't I introduced you to my co-writer?

How's this?

"Her pulsating breasts heaved

"as the Devil's scaly claws tore off her lacy bra?"

Fabulous, Aunt Elsa. We'll set the literary world on its ear.

"'T ake me now, O Lord of Darkness. Take me now,' she cried."

That's it!

(BOTH LAUGHING)

Well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

(WHOOPS)

There you go.

Well, then...

Cheers. Cheers.

Preuzeto sa www.titlovi.com