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Memorandum to Paramount Pictures,
Hollywood, California...

from Alexander Meyerheim.

Subject: my latest production.

Gentlemen, while you sit safely
in your air-conditioned offices,

we here in the trenches
are progressing brilliantly.

As to your curious anxieties
about the script, dismiss them.

I talked to the author
last night in Paris,

and he assures me that he has,
at this moment, 138 glorious pages,

which are even now being typed.

It is my plan to join him
in Paris on Sunday.

Period. Paragraph.

Gentlemen, success is inevitable.

An Alexander Meyerheim
Production...

of an original story
and screenplay by Richard Benson.

- Richard Benson?
- You know him, my little angel?

Know him?

I hate him!
Richard Benson? Phooey.

It seems there's facets of him
you know even better than I do.

I cannot imagine
when he finds time to write.

Unfortunately, he had time
to write a script for me.

The last pages were found floating
off Malibu... in a vodka bottle.

Send the usual telegram to Benson.

Richard assures me
that he's on the wagon.

It's open. Come in.

- Yes?
- Mr. Benson?

- You are from the typing bureau.
- I am.

If we're to have a happy
and harmonious relationship,

I beg of you, never answer
a question with a question.

- Is that clear?
- Did I?

There you go again, answering
a question with a question.

My original "yes" when you opened
the door was a question.

Question mark implied,
of course.

You do know the difference
between implied and inferred?

Isn't that a question?

- Yes.
- You answered with a question.

To imply is to indicate without
saying openly or directly.

To infer is to conclude from
something known or assumed.

My name is Gabrielle Simpson.

Is that by any chance a bird?

Yes. I hope you don't mind.

I was told the job would take days.
I had nobody to leave him with.

Well, this is it. The office there.

I live up here,
and, uh, the terrace is out there.

That rather grotesque object...

looming so formidably
on the horizon is the Eiffel Tower.

I had it moved there
to remind me what town I'm in.

If it offends you, of course,
I'll have it taken away again.

You live through here.
It's an adjoining room,

which, to your mind,
has terribly sinister connotations.

- No, not at all--
- If so, dismiss them.

I would have got you a room
down the hall or on another floor,

but the joint's all filled up.

Bastille Day weekend and all that.

It's quite all right. I once worked
for an American novelist...

who could only write
in the bathtub.

- I'm used to anything.
- You can unpack-- In the bathtub?

Yes. On the second day, I gave him
a packet of bubble bath...

and from then on in
we got along swimmingly.

I see.

Uh, does that imply
that the bird's name is Richelieu?

Oh, it's inferred, I believe,
rather than implied.

"Swimmingly."
Interesting figure of speech.

You call the canary Richelieu
because you wanted a cardinal.

That's very funny.

No, it isn't.

Just one of the hazards of being
an international wit, which I am.

You have to keep trying
all the time.

I can't tell you how delighted I am
to get this assignment...

and work with a screenwriter
of your stature.

You see, I'm very interested
in the cinema form myself.

- I can learn a great deal.
- Well, thank you.

I worked for Roger Roussin,
the young, new-wave director.

- You've heard of him, of course?
- No, I'm an old-wave man myself.

The picture's terribly interesting.
Very avant-garde.

It's about a lot of people
who go to this party...

and decide not to play Scrabble
and then go home again.

It was called: The Scrabble Game
Will Not Take Place.

His next one's about a girl who
decides not to have a birthday.

It's called, Blow Out No Candles.

Roger believes the only important
thing to put on the screen...

is what doesn't happen.

This film you're writing,
does it have a title yet?

The Girl Who Stole
the Eiffel Tower.

The Girl Who Stole
the Eiffel Tower.

It sounds just fascinating.
The title is symbolic, of course.

She doesn't really steal
the Eiffel Tower. Does she?

- What's the story about?
- It's an action/suspense,

uh, romantic melodrama,
with lots of comedy, of course.

And, uh, deep down underneath,
a substrata of social comment.

Oh, well, if I could just
see the pages you've written,

I could estimate
the size of the typing job.

The pages, my dear girl,
are right here.

An Alexander Meyerheim
Production.

The Girl Who Stole
the Eiffel Tower.

Original story
and screenplay by Richard Benson.

Here, with a page of interestingly
photographed establishing shots,

possibly from a helicopter,
the boy and the girl meet.

- But, Mr. Benson, I--
- Now, after some, uh, chitchat,

getting-to-know-you kind of stuff--
the thing I do so brilliantly--

we feel unconscious attraction
between the two,

uh, an indication
to the audience...

of the tremulous
beginnings of love.

And then... conflict!

We can tell by the music how
deeply fraught with danger it is.

And now... the first switch.

The audience gasps when
they realize they've been fooled.

Things are not what they seem.
Not at all.

In fact, the whole situation
is completely reversed...

involving
the magnificently ingenious...

switch on the switch.

Amazed by the sudden
turn of events,

the boy and girl realize
how they've misjudged each other.

At that moment,
the music turns ominous once more.

They become aware
of the danger that they're in.

And the chase is on.
Screaming tires...

rooftops, long shots
of their tiny figures...

racing through the empty,
fear-gripped city.

When suddenly, in a deserted alley,

we see, seated on the closed cover
of a garbage can,

licking its rain-bedraggled fur--
close shot-- the cat!

And now, as we build step-by-step
to the climax,

the music soars!

And there, totally oblivious of
the rain pouring down upon them,

the two fall happily and tenderly
into each other's arms.

And as the audience drools
with sublimated sexual pleasure,

the two enormous and
highly paid heads come together...

for that ultimate
and inevitable moment,

the final, earth-moving,

studio-rent-paying,
theater-filling,

popcorn-selling...

kiss.

Fade out.

The end.

That's it.
One hundred and thirty-eight pages.

No point making it any longer.
We'd only have to cut later.

- Mr. Benson?
- Yes.

This screenplay,
when does it have to be finished?

Well, let's see. Today is Friday.

My friend, and in this case,
patron and producer...

Mr. Alexander Meyerheim, arrives
in Paris from Cannes at 10:00 on...

Sunday morning.

Which happens to be Bastille Day.

That's perfect.
10:01 we hand him the script,

and then you and I,
we celebrate.

Drink champagne.
Dance in the streets.

Whatever they do on July 14.

I already have a date
for Bastille Day.

You mean you haven't
written anything at all?

You have a date.

You mean this entire movie
has to be done in two days?

Miss Simpson,
if you don't think...

you're up to your part of the job,
just tell me right now.

- I can always find someone else.
- Oh, no! No!

I didn't mean that. It's just that
it's rather unusual, isn't it?

Not for me.

I imagine you've been giving
the story a great deal of thought.

No, I haven't.

May I ask what
you have been doing?

I have been doing what any other
red-blooded American writer...

would, or should, if he had sense,
have been doing...

for the first 19 and a fraction
weeks of his employment.

Water skiing in St. Tropez.

Lying in the sun in Antibes.
Studying Greek.

- Greek.
- There was this starlet...

representing the Greek film
industry at the Cannes Festival.

Then, of course,
a few weeks spent unlearning Greek,

which involved
a considerable amount of vodka...

and an unpremeditated trip
to Madrid for the bullfights,

which, fortunately, since
I can't bear the sight of blood,

had long since gone on to Seville.

Week 17 and 18 were spent
in the casino at Monte Carlo...

in a somewhat ill-advised attempt
to win enough money...

to buy back my $5, 000-a-week
plus expenses contract...

from my friend, employer and patron
Mr. Alexander Meyerheim.

Thus not having
to write the picture at all.

Take a note. For the textbook
which I will do on screenwriting:

Never play 13, 31
and the corners thereof...

for any serious length of time
for any serious amount of money.

It doesn't work.

And now I have to.
Shall we begin?

An Alexander Meyerheim
Production. Caps. Quotes.

"The Girl Who Stole
the Eiffel Tower."

"The Girl Who--"
Y-You do like the title, don' you?

Oh, yes. It certainly
sounds intriguing.

It intrigued Meyerheim too.
He bought the title, script unseen.

Uh, original story
and screenplay by Richard Benson.

Page one. Fade in.

Exterior. Paris, naturally.
Let's see, night or day?

Day.

Begin with a shot of--
of the Eiffel Tower.

The camera zooms to ward it.

Standing windswept and alone
on the platform...

is a mysterious woman in black.
She glances at her watch.

And we see--

How the hell do I know what we see?
Mysterious woman in black.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Mustn't be obvious.

We can't tip the story too early.
Okay, fade in.

Exterior.
Le Sacre Coeur. Day.

No.

Make that, uh--

The Grand Palais.

Mm-mmm.

We've got
to give the audience...

the taste and smell
of the real Paris.

Okay.

Exterior. Christian Dior.

The camera pans.
We see a white Rolls Royce...

pull up and come to a stop.

Now wait a minute.
Uh, make that a white Bentley.

It's chicer.

A chauffeur in white livery
leaps out and opens the door.

From inside emerges
some classically glamorous star,

like, uh, Marlene Dietrich.

And now she, uh--

Dot, dot, dot.

She sweeps majestically
into the store and--

And that's the last
we ever see of her.

It doesn't make much sense,
but Alex would have loved it.

He could have stolen the Bentley
and charged it to the picture.

- What'd you say your name was?
- Gabrielle Simpson.

- How long have you lived in Paris?
- Two years.

And you came here to write?

Well, that too.
But mostly to, uh--

I don't know
how to say it exactly-- live.

Live. Uh, would you mind, uh--

You were saying you, uh,
came here to live.

Yes. I spent
the first six months...

making a comprehensive
study of depravity.

- No kidding?
- Seriously.

Never got to bed
before 8:00 in the morning.

I can't tell you
the number of cups...

of that poisonous black coffee
I must have consumed.

I didn't drink then, so it was hard
to get totally into the spirit.

Depravity can be terribly boring
if you don't smoke or drink.

But a person does have to
try to grow.

And this guy you've got a date with
on Bastille Day,

is he part of the growth process?

Oh, no, he's just a friend,
a struggling young actor.

An actor! Ooooh!

A tragic relationship
to begin with.

I only hope he's not one of those
method actors...

who scratches and mumbles
and pauses a lot,

thereby destroying the rhythm
of the author's prose.

Oh, he's a little intense,
but lots of fun.

Uh-huh. Yeah. Well--

And you and this... actor,

what do you plan to do
on Bastille Day?

We're going to spend
the whole day together,

starting with breakfast
at this little cafe we go to.

Then we're going to dance
from one end of Paris to the other.

The opera at 5:00.

Then to the Guards
and the singing of "Marseillaise."

And off to Montmartre
for the fireworks.

And then supper and champagne
and, you know, live.

You really like it, don't you?

- What?
- Life.

Oh! Every morning
when I wake up...

and I see there's a whole new day,
I just go absolutely ape.

I've got an idea.

I've got an idea!
First good one I've had in months.

Not true. I had an idea to give up
drinking, but it didn't photograph.

Now, this could be good.
Very good, indeed.

A simple story of a simple
Parisian working girl...

and how she spends July 14.

The whole picture plays in one day.

And I've got two days to write it.

Fade. Exterior Paris.
As our story begins...

it's early Bastille Day morning.

And all the trumpets of Paris
are sounding reveille.

Now, over a shot
of the Arch of Triumph,

superimposed, "An Alexander
Meyerheim Production."

Cut to the Eiffel Tower.

The main title.

The trumpets segue
into the inevitable title song.

Maybe we can get Sinatra
to sing it.

♪ The Girl Who Stole
the Eiffel Tower♪

♪ Also stole my heart♪♪

There follows
an interminable list of credits...

acknowledging the efforts
of all "the little people, "

whom I shall graciously thank
in my acceptance speech...

at the Academy Awards.

As the cymbals crash--

Original Story and Screenplay
by Richard Benson.

Okay. Fade out...

and fade in.

A picturesque Parisian square where
the festivities are in progress.

A simple Parisian working girl...

who looks remarkably like you,
Miss Simpson,

emerges from her
simple Parisian dwelling...

and makes her way through the crowd
and across the square.

She seats herself at a table
at this little cafe she goes to.

With breathless anticipation,
she a waits the arrival of her date.

Some... actor.

Now I suppose
we'll have to describe him.

I see him
as curiously unattractive.

Not at all.
Philippe happens to be handsome.

In fact he looks
rather like, uh, Tony Curtis.

I see him as
one of those mumbling actors...

destined only for minor roles
and character parts.

And his name is not Philippe.
It's Maurice.

Maurice!

- Like, uh, bonjour, baby.
- Bonjour, Maurice.

- Hey.
- Oh, darling, I'm so excited.

I didn't sleep a wink all night.

- You do like my dress, don't you?
- Yeah, very groovy.

Do you think it would be too wicked
if instead of breakfast,

we had a glass of champagne
right here before we start?

Uh, thanks.

- Uh... look, baby.
- Yes, Maurice?

Uh, this Bastille Day gig,

like, uh, we're gonna
have to cool it.

But, Maurice,
I don't understand.

Well, you see, baby,
I'm gonna have to cut.

See, what happened, last night,

while I was, uh, making the scene
at Le Drug Store,

uh, I was tearing an espresso
with a couple local citizens...

when, uh, all of a sudden, this
new-wave looking stud comes in...

and says to me
his name is Roger Rosen...

and he's, like,
making a film about Bastille Day:

No Dancing in the Streets.

No Dancing in the Streets?

In Roger's flick,
it like, uh, rains.

Anyway, he offers me the lead.

Oh, Maurice, I'm, like,
so happy for you.

Uh, you see,
I'm gonna have to split.

We're gonna be shooting all day...
in the sewers.

I see.

Hey, baby, like, I got wheels.
Can I drop you?

No, thanks. I prefer to walk.

Crazy.

Uh, toot a l'hoor.

With the almost
lunatic narcissism...

peculiar to his curious calling,

Maurice rather preciously
mounts his motor scooter.

Our heroine is left grief-stricken.

Not realizing how much better off
she really is.

But they were going to spend
the whole day together.

My dear girl, you have
just witnessed the first switch.

Well, maybe. But I know Maurice
would never behave that way.

Besides, his name is not Maurice.
It's Philippe.

Now then,
having thus successfully...

disposed of her date, we move on
to important matters: conflict.

- Conflict?
- The other man.

The third corner
of the obligatory triangle.

Didn't Roger What's-His-Name,
the No Scrabble director,

teach you anything
about writing movies?

- No. For a moment, Gaby sits--
- Gaby?

We've got to call her something.

For a moment, Gaby sits there,

a lonely and pathetic figure.

But unbeknownst to her,
this heart-breaking little scene...

has been witnessed by--

dot, dot, dot--

a mysterious stranger.

A mysterious stranger.
How exciting.

Before you escape the confines
of this unpretentious hotel room,

it's my intention to show you...

just how exciting
a mysterious stranger can be.

Now I suppose
we'll have to describe him.

- Yes, I suppose so.
- He's American, of course.

I can write him better that way.

Now let's see. What else?

I see him as rather tall,
rather suntanned.

Rather handsome,
athletic-looking.

With a rugged, but...
curiously sensitive face.

Poor sad creature.

Little does she realize
that she and the audience...

will have totally forgotten that
dull clod Maurice or Philippe...

or whatever his name is.

At this magic moment,
her life has indeed begun.

Tenderly,
he folds her into his arms.

And moving with
the nimble grace of a Fred Astaire,

he dances her off into the crowd.

In exactly ten seconds, I want you
to slap me in the face...

as hard as you possibly can.

- What?
- There is no time to explain.

No reason for you to trust me.
But I trust you.

There's something about
your big magic eyes.

And I am--
Well, the name doesn't matter.

Just think of me as...

Thirteen thirty-one,
American Intelligence.

This must be
some kind of a joke.

If you will look
slightly to your left--

without moving your head, please--

you will see in that window--

In the bouquet I've handed you,
there's a piece of microfilm.

I can't tell you what it is,
of course. All I can say is...

if it should fall
into the wrong hands,

it might well mean the end
of civilization as we know it.

The time has come for you
to slap me as hard as you can.

Stop! Stop!

Spies in trench coats?

I'm afraid I got carried a way.
We'll have to go back.

Okay.

That brings us back
to where we were.

We're all right through getting rid
of her date for Bastille Day.

The boy and the girl meet and--

And they dance, and they dance
and they dance.

And they dance and they dance.

Mr... Benson?

The stranger. Who is he? What--

- There's someone at the door.
- What does he do?

What suffering, what torment
caused the deep sadness...

that lurks behind his eyes?

And why, while
we're asking questions,

didn't I listen to my father
and learn some useful trade?

- Merci.
- Merci.

It-- It's a telegram.

Well, aren't you going to open it?

No, Miss Simpson,
I'm not going to open it.

The reason that
I'm not going to open it...

is because I'm fully aware
of what it says.

The reason I know
what it says is...

because in the last
19 and a fraction weeks...

I have received 134 telegrams
from Mr. Alexander Meyerheim,

all saying exactly the same thing.

When's the script
going to be finished?

When's the script
going to be finished?

How does he expect me to write
when he keeps badgering me?

Day and night:
wires, messages, telephone calls.

"How'd it go today? When's
the script going to be finished?"

Talk about men in trench coats.

He spies on me constantly.

His people are everywhere.
For all I know, you might be one.

Mr. Benson!

I'm sorry, but some days...

I just feel like What's-His-Name
in Les Miserables.

- Jean Valjean.
- I guess so.

Only last night, I swore to him
on the telephone...

that I had 138 pages
in front of me on the desk.

I said, "Alex, any man
who takes your money...

and tells you he's got 138 pages
in front of him and doesn't...

is nothing but a liar and a thief."

Sometimes I get the feeling
he doesn't trust me.

I know who
the mysterious stranger is.

He's a liar and a thief.

Sure. A latter day
Francois Villon...

who lives by his wits
and what he can steal.

A jewel thief, maybe.

Expert safecracker!
There isn't a safe in the world...

he can't open with his bare hands
in a matter of seconds.

I've got it. We have to start over,
but that's not too serious.

We've only got eight pages.

Let's see. We're all right through
Alexander Meyerheim Production,

Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower,
original story by Richard Benson.

We can still use
the Bastille Dayjazz.

Only this time
we don't start on Gaby.

We start on Rick.

Rick. That's a wonderful name
for the mysterious stranger.

Don't editorialize.
Just start typing.

Exterior. Day.
A picturesque square.

Amidst the throng
of merrymakers,

the camera picks up
a rather tall,

rather suntanned American.

We'd better change his wardrobe.
Put him a liar-and-a-thief suit.

You know,
various shades of black.

Now moving with the lithe grace
of a jungle cat,

Rick approaches the table where
Gaby is getting the brush-off.

His almost superhuman intelligence
takes in the situation at once.

He hesitates. If there is
a single chink in Rick's armor,

it's a pretty face.

He comes to a decision,
and moves off to another table...

where two denizens
of the underworld a wait him.

Just call them First Gangster
and Second Gangster.

Well, Rick--

have you thought it over?

Let's say
I'm considering the proposition.

It is a plan of great simplicity
and beauty,

and yet highly original.

- Very daring.
- Voila, Monsieur Rick.

Now we need you
for two things only:

to open the safe
and deliver the note.

A few hours work.
And for this, a million dollars,

which we will, of course,

split three ways.

Half for me, the other half to be
divided between you two.

But, Rick,
you have already agreed.

Gentlemen,
it's a well-known fact...

that I'm not only a safecracker,
I'm also a liar and a thief.

Half for me and the other half
divided between you two.

Very well. Well, I will pick you up
with the car at 4:00.

Until 4:00 then.

And, Rick, resist at all costs...

your overwhelming impulse
to perform the double cross.

We will not, this time,
be so understanding...

as we were last year in Tangier.

Now, having established
a climate of suspense,

intrigue and high romance,
we've arrived at that magic moment:

the boy and the girl meet.

Okay, now we need more conflict.
A new character, maybe.

I've got it. Seated nearby
is Rick's deadly enemy...

Inspector, uh, uh, Gillet
of the International Police Force.

It is apparent
that he knows something...

the audience does not know.

And now that we have set the wheels
of our plot in motion...

and inflamed the audience with
a desire to find out what happens--

And I don't blame them.
I'm just dying to find out myself--

we can pause
for a few pages of chitchat.

Getting-to-know-you kind of stuff.
The thing I do so brilliantly.

The question is,

where should this charming
little scene be played?

At lunch!

That's it!

He takes her to a beautiful
restaurant for lunch in the Bois.

But that's ridiculous.
She wouldn't just go to lunch...

with someone who picked her up
in a public square.

I mean, he's a perfect... stranger.

Miss Simpson, nobody's perfect.
"Why," he asks as they dance,

and they dance, and they dance,

"are you so sad
when everyone else is so gay?"

And then a suggestion
from the mysterious stranger.

"If you will try
raising your upper lip,

you might at least create
the illusion of a smile."

That being
somewhat of a disaster,

now he really
has to turn on the charm.

"Do you know the meaning
of the word serendipity?" he asks.

- She shakes her head.
- What does it mean?

Why, Miss Simpson, I'm surprised.

It means opening your eyes and
looking at the bright new day...

and going absolutely ape.

- Serendipity?
- Right.

- Are you just making it up?
- No. Serendipity is a real word.

The ability to find pleasure,
excitement and happiness...

in anything that occurs,
no matter how unexpected.

Serendipity.

He explains the word in a more
fascinating way than I did...

and, at the right moment, proposes
that they have lunch in the Bois.

- She's tempted.
- Of course she is. But don't you--

Miss Simpson, he's not asking her
to spend a weekend with him...

in a motel
in Asbury Park, New Jersey.

He's inviting her to lunch. Don't
you think if he were charming...

- she'd go?
- Well--

- Serendipity.
- All right, maybe she would,

if he promises they'll just have
lunch and that's absolutely all.

He promises. Unless, of course,
she can think of something...

- she would like to do afterwards.
- Which she won't.

Sere-- All right, then.

He hails a horse and carriage,
and they go off to the Bois.

- Settled?
- Settled. We ought to write it.

Not at all.
The audience is way ahead of us.

They've known she was going to
have lunch with him for an hour.

How do we get them from the square
through all that serendipity...

and everything
you do so brilliantly?

In the motion picture business,
we have a simple device...

which takes care of this kind
of situation: the dissolve.

Over the years, the audience has
been conditioned to understand...

that when a scene fades away--
like an old soldier--

and another scene gradually appears
to take its place,

a certain amount of time
has elapsed.

So, Miss Simpson, we dissolve.

We dissolve slowly
and lingeringly...

to the Bois.

A hansom cab bearing
our handsome couple...

clippity clops its way past
waterfalls and trees...

to ward a magnificent restaurant.

Notice how cleverly I will play
our suspense-filled melodrama...

against a background of
holiday serendipity in gay Paree.

We spare the audience
the ordeal of listening...

to pages of dreary small talk
and get directly to the matter...

by the simple use of the device
I've just explained to you:

the dissolve.

Who are you?
What do you do?

Who am I and what do I do?

I'm nobody and I've done everything
and nothing.

Driven racing cars.
White hunter for a while.

Piano player in a rather curious
establishment in Buenos Aires.

This and that,
everything and nothing.

It's the curse of having
been born too rich.

Oh, I know so well what you mean,

about the curse
of having been born too rich.

That's why I left the castle
and came to Paris to live.

We've got houses
all over the world, of course.

But my favorite was our place
in Deauville with its private zoo.

When I was a little girl,
on Sunday, if I'd been good,

I was allowed to feed the giraffes.

Giraffes? Don't tell me
that you had giraffes too.

- You mean you?
- But of course we did.

Oh, what fun, both of us
having had giraffes as children.

It's a small world, isn't it?

Voila. Madame. Monsieur.

- To Rick.
- To Gaby.

If I may recommend.

I prefer to do it myself.

To begin, we'll have thin slices
of prosciutto ham...

wrapped carefully around
well-ripened sections of melon.

To follow,
a touch of Dover sole...

sauteed lightly
in champagne and butter.

- With that, a bottle of, uh--
- Pouilly Fuisse.

Fifty-nine will do.
And after that...

We'll have
a Chateaubriand for two.

Uh, make that for four.
Charred and brown--

Nay! Black on the outside
and gloriously rare on the in.

With the beef,
we'll have white asparagus...

and a bottle of
Chateau Laffitte Rothschild '47.

And for dessert, an enormous order
of Fraises de Bois.

Served, or course,
with globs of heavy cream...

so thick you can put it on
with a shovel, s'il vous plait.

Mmm!

You heard the lady. Make it snappy.
We're starving to death.

Now, while awaiting
the thin slices of prosciutto...

so skillfully wrapped around
perfect sections of ripened melon--

Please, stop. I can't stand it.

They'll really do the sole
in champagne and butter?

Mm-hmm. In any case,
while we're waiting.

I wonder if the very lovely
Miss Gabrielle Simpson...

would consider joining
the talented Mr. Richard Benson...

for a small, very dry aperitif.

I think she's earned it.
I think they both have.

All right. I think
that would be very nice.

You know, I didn't
really like Rick at first.

But he's beginning to grow on me.

Mmm!

You were saying you
find Rick growing on you.

Oh, yes, I think
he's very attractive.

Important. The reaction
of the female audience.

All right, lunch is over.

The martinis, the two kinds of wine
and the brandy...

have had their effect.

And a glorious dream-like glow
is settling over them.

The pages, Miss Simpson,

those that we have covered so far
with our fabulous prose.

Here you will notice, as advertised
in the discussion earlier on today,

the opening: a series of interesting
establishing shots.

And, uh, here,
the boy and the girl--

if a middle-age stranger
can indeed be called a boy-- meet.

You're not middle-aged,
Mr. Benson.

In fact, I think
you're remarkably well-preserved.

As chilling a compliment
as I've ever received.

However, to continue,

pages eight, nine, ten
of romantic chitchat.

- Which you do so brilliantly.
- Well, thank you, Miss Simpson.

Now you can feel the unconscious
attraction between the two.

The-- The tremulous
beginnings of love.

You see how easy it is when
you've got professional know-how...

running on your side?

Miss Simpson,
I don't think you realize this,

but a writer's life
is a terribly lonely one.

- Mr. Benson?
- Mm?

Have you any idea at all
what happens next?

Do you, Miss Simpson,
have any idea what will happen?

Well--

We've got to remember no matter how
charming he seems on the surface,

he is a liar and a thief!

It says so right... here.
Mr. Benson--

I do know what happens next.

What happens next
is the second switch!

The audience gasps as they realize
they have been fooled.

He has been plying her
with martinis, wine, brandy...

for only one reason:
To make her drunk.

Which, incidentally, she's not.

Not in the least.
No matter what he thinks.

Now, as he forces
one last brandy...

to her unwilling lips-- Oh!

Poor ingenuous girl.

She has been charmed
and serendipitied into believing...

that she was safe in the hands
of this suntanned American.

Alas, things are not
what they seem. Not at all.

The music turns ominous.

And she becomes a ware
of the danger that she is in.

The mysterious stranger.

Who is he?
What is he really like?

And why does he keep
nibbling on her neck?

Don't be frightened, my dear.

It's only a bat.

The creatures of the night
are my friends.

Now I know why you keep
nibbling on my neck.

You're some kind of a werewolf.

No, no, my dear.

I'm a vampire.

The inner reaches
of these caverns...

make an ideal setting
for my laboratory.

And yet there's
something about his eyes,

even though
they are rather bloodshot.

A vampire's life must be
a terribly lonely one.

But not for nothing has she made
a comprehensive study of depravity.

There are girls who let vampires
nibble their necks the first date.

But not our Gaby. She tears herself
free from his evil grasp,

and the chase is on!

Ooh!

He's caught her. No, Gaby. No!

You can't give in now.
You fought him in the cave,

You fought him on the beaches.
You fought him on the plains.

That's it! Planes!

Her face registers terror.

Mr. Benson, Mr. Benson!
She's killed him!

Oh, there, there, Miss Simpson.

It's perfectly all right.

It must be said in your defense,
it's been a hard day,

and you've had
a good deal to drink.

Anyway,
he had it coming to him.

Plying her with all that booze,
making her drunk.

Which, incidentally, she is not.
Not in the least.

- Of course not.
- Not only did she kill him,

but when I think
of that poor horse...

and the way she beat him
with that terrible whip--

Anyway, I think she's the one
who had it coming to her.

That was what?

Whatever it was
he was gonna do to her.

I don't see why she was
making such a fuss anyway.

It's not as if he were some kind
of a vampire or something.

Actually,
I think he's very attractive.

I think it would be a good idea
if you were to go to bed and sleep.

You do? What about you?

I am going to think. If you will
please go in there and lie down--

Maybe if I did get
a few hours sleep--

But if you do get an idea,
and I know you will,

you've got to promise to wake me.

- Sure.
- Promise?

I promise.

All right then.

Good night, Mr. Benson.

Good night, Miss Simpson.

Good night.

Good night.

Operator, I'd like to place a call
to a Mr. Alexander Meyerheim...

in Cannes.

Well, it's 1:30.

You can probably find him
at the casino.

Uh... uh, Benson.

Mr. Richard Benson calling.

Person to person.

I'll hold on.

Dear Alex--

Dear Alex...

it is my unpleasant duty
to inform you...

The Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower
will not take place.

You see, my friend,

that there's no point for you
to come to Paris on Sunday...

to read the script,

because there is no script.

And as I see it, there will be no--

Eh?

Como?

Try him at the chemin de fer game--
the big table.

Excuse me.
I forgot to cover Richelieu.

Good night.

Oh, Mr. Benson,

please don't think
I'm quitting on you.

I'll be right here
when you need me.

Good night.

Operator... cancel that call.

♪ That face♪

♪ That face♪

♪ That wonderful face♪

♪ It shines♪

♪ It glows♪

♪ All over the place♪

♪ And how I love to watch it♪

♪ Change expressions♪

♪ Each look becomes the prize♪

♪ Of my possessions♪

♪ I love that face♪

♪ That face♪

♪ Oh, it just isn't fair♪

♪ You must♪

♪ Forgive♪

♪ The way I stare♪

♪ For never will
these eyes behold♪

♪ A sight that could replace♪

♪ That face♪

♪ That face♪

♪ That face♪

♪ That face, That face♪

♪ Wherever I go ♪

♪ It's here♪

♪ It's there♪

♪ Bewitching me so ♪

♪ It's got my crazy heart♪

♪ In such a tangle♪

♪ It drives me simply wild♪

♪ From many angles♪

♪ I love♪

♪ Those♪

♪ Eyes♪

♪ Those lips♪

♪ That beautiful smile♪

♪ She laughs♪

♪ And spring goes
right out of style♪

♪ For never will these eyes♪

♪ Behold a sight
that could replace♪

♪ That face♪

♪ That face, That face♪♪

Unfortunately, Miss Simpson...

we are not writing a musical!

Mr. Benson, you mean
you did all these pages last night?

All by yourself?

While some of us were sleeping
snug in our beds,

other citizens were toiling in
the vineyards of beautiful letters.

I'm only sorry that you,
as a fledgling writer,

weren't present to observe...

with your own big magic eyes...

a seasoned professional in action.

I was, in those few short hours,

the great DiMaggio going back,
back, back for the high fly ball!

I was Manolete in Seville...

going in over the horns
for the kill!

Missing, fortunately, because
I can't stand the sight of blood.

I was Pablo Picasso deftly...

adding the third eye
to a portrait of his lady love.

I was, uh--

How do you spell "ingenuous"?

I-N-G-E-N-U-O-U-S.

I was afraid of that.

In addition to the 9 1/2 yards
of pages I wrote last night,

I discovered some errors
in the earlier pages...

which had to be corrected,

dealing, basically,
with the character of Rick.

I found I had,
at a moment of insecurity...

underestimated
the brilliance of the man.

No simple safecracker he,

but a master criminal wanted
by the police of three continents.

The dazzling scheme has been
worked out step by painful step...

for over a year by Rick himself.

The two other characters
are just employees.

Now then, that brings us
back to where we were.

Rick and Gaby had by now
demolished a glorious lunch,

and it's almost 4:00--
time for the car to arrive.

- Page 14.
- Now then,

sit down and brace yourself.

Here comes the switch
on the switch.

In a minute and a half,
both you and the audience...

will gasp as you realize
you've been fooled.

Things are not as they seem.
Not at all!

In fact...

the whole situation
is completely reversed.

Mr. Benson.

Miss Simpson, don't sit there
gazing at me in mute adoration.

Read the script.

"Rick and Gaby are sitting
with brandy glasses before them.

Her big magic eyes are shiny."

I can't imagine when I've had
a more marvelous lunch.

- I don't know how to thank you.
- Please.

And now I'll tell you the plans
for the rest of the afternoon.

- The rest of the afternoon?
- Exactly.

I've asked my chauffeur
to pick us up here at 4:00...

for a tour of Paris, to see how
the celebration is progressing.

A brief stop at my office
to pick something up,

and then on to a party
being given in my honor...

at the restaurant
in the Eiffel Tower.

- Pardon. You are Monsieur Rick?
- Oui.

Your chauffeur is here. He says
he has an important message.

Merci, Jacques.

Pardon me for a moment.

- It's almost 4:00.
- I know, I know.

What's the matter?
Have you gone mad?

Bringing a girl along
on a job like this?

In our arrangement,
my dear Francois,

you were to do the driving
and I was to do the planning.

But the plan does not call
for the presence of a girl!

The ability to improvise
in a moment of crisis...

is one of the reasons I am
a highly paid, successful thief.

If you will look to the left,
just behind you,

as casually as possible,

you will see, stupidly trying to
hide behind yesterday's newspaper,

our old friend Inspector Gillet.

What is he doing in Paris?

Do you think he suspects something?

Of course not. Even if he does,
I'm one step ahead of him.

- Why do you think I picked her up?
- Because she has big magic eyes.

Well, that too, but,
actually, I picked her up...

to throw our inspector friend
off the scent.

Never in his wildest
imagination...

would he think that the highly paid
and successful Rick...

would be so foolish as to take
a girl along with him on a job.

Therefore, that's exactly
what I'm going to do.

She's a perfect cover.

Meet you at the car
in one minute.

Shall we?

My dear Gillet.
Our paths cross again.

My dear Rick.
What an extraordinary coincidence.

This is Monsieur Gillet.
He is a business associate of mine.

Enchanted. Any friend of Rick's
is a friend of mine.

Please sit down, enjoy your lunch.
And I beg you, watch the calories.

This, my friend,
is a moment to savor.

For three long years
I've waited, and now, at last,

my brilliant, highly paid friend
has risen to the bait.

What he doesn't know, poor Rick,
is that the girl is ours.

You're sure he suspected nothing?

Inspector, my imitation
of a method actor was impeccable.

I played the role internally,
of course,

indicating all the basic elements
of this curious calling--

the deep,
almost lunatic narcissism,

the lack of personal daintiness,

the appalling grammar.

Pops, it was--
Sir, it was flawless.

I came in on a motorbike
in wheat-colored Levi's--

I beg of you, Philippe,
please don't get carried away.

Let me remind you that you are not
the star of this drama,

but merely a supporting player--

and a very minor one at that.

If life, like the theater,
came equipped with programs,

your billing, way down on the page
and in tiny letters,

would simply be "Second Policeman."

As I was saying,

what he doesn't know, poor Rick,
is that the girl is ours.

But can she be trusted?

A creature of the streets
with a record as long as your arm?

Nothing will go wrong,
my dear Philippe.

There's a tiny, little chink
in Rick's armor-- a pretty face.

One way or another,
using such talent as she has,

the girl will extract from him
the details of the plan.

The plan.

But should they not be followed?
I have the car.

There would be no point.
On the streets, Rick is a master.

There's no policeman alive
who can stay on his trail.

- Yes. No.
- No.

I shall sit here,
have a glorious lunch--

everything to be cooked in
this nonfattening safflower oil--

And eventually,
having followed my luncheon...

with several digestifs
and a short walk,

rejoin my friend tonight for
the climax of his adventures at--

At...

the Eiffel Tower!

Brilliant, Inspector. Brilliant.

- To the studio, Francois.
- Studio?

I told you I have to stop in
at my office...

and pick something up there.

Have you ever been inside
a motion picture studio?

No. Are you in the movie business?

In a way.

The studio is particularly
marvelous on a holiday like this.

Silent. Empty.

The vast sound stages
completely deserted.

Like the night before Christmas,

not a creature is stirring.

Wait here. I won't be long.

Mmm. Nice-ish.

Isn't it.

I-I don't understand.
Are you an actor?

A writer? Producer? Director?

Nothing as creative. My interest
in pictures is purely financial.

Gracious. I can't tell you
how exciting this is for me.

I just love movies.

Not those new-wave pictures
where nothing happens, of course.

What I like-- uh...

Westerns.

Good old pictures with switches
and switches on switches and...

things like that.

Do you happen to have
an emery board in your purse?

- Those things to file the nails?
- I think so.

Thank you.

I particularly like movies with
complicated robberies, don't you?

Absolutely.

I know this sounds childish, but
next to pictures about robberies,

I think I like
horror pictures best.

I always have.

When I was a girl,
I was in love with Dracula.

My mother was very upset.
She thought it was unhealthy.

She used to say, "That vampire's
old enough to be your father!"

Whom, she would add,
he in many ways resembles.

I'm glad-- not that your father
resembled Dracula.

Which he didn't, at least not
after he had his teeth fixed.

But that you are interested
in pictures.

That makes two things
we have in common.

Movies... and giraffes.

Here are the keys. Meet you
at the gate in a half an hour.

Giraffes and movies.
It's a small world, isn't it?

Let me see that!

Oh! No, no.
Please, Rick, you're hurting me.

The lipstick.
It's been written with.

The napkin!

The napkin you gave Gillet,
what was on it?

What was on it?

You--

Oh!

Stop, Rick! Stop.
I'll shoot. I swear I will.

- Mr. Benson, what happens next?
- I don't know.

I don't know.

That's as far as I got.

- Mr. Benson.
- Yes?

You know what I think? I think
there's going to be another--

What, a switch on a switch on
a switch on a switch on a switch...

on a switch on a switch...
on a switch?

Working for Roger Roussin
was never like this.

Wonder if he knows
about switches...

and switches on switches...

and switches on switches
on switches.

I don't think so. If he did,
it would change his whole life.

Suddenly, not only would
they not be playing Scrabble,

they would also
not be playing Parcheesi.

I must say, the mind reels.

- Anyway, you know what I think?
- Yes.

She is not really a creature of
the streets with a police record.

You think she's an American
intelligence agent.

Well, Miss Simpson,
you happen to be wrong.

Our Gaby happens to be
that most reliable, steadfast,

and you-cannot-possibly-
miss-with character...

in all popular literature.

The prostitute
with a heart of gold.

No. Actually, the "P" with
the "H" of "G," is second-most.

The most is Frankenstein.

Sure. Someone who creates
or remakes another human being...

and either falls in love with it
or it destroys him.

It can go either way.

That's what gives it
such flexibility.

Miss Simpson,
did you ever realize...

that Frankenstein
and My Fair Lady...

are the same story?

One ends happily...

and the other one doesn't.

Think about that for a while.

You smell wonderful.

That's the bath oil.

When I took my bath this morning,
I put some bath oil in.

Only a few drops, of course.

For which I am most grateful,
for both our sakes.

Now, uh, where were we?

Bang, bang, bang!
That's where we were.

Or rather, where you were.

She was standing with a gun,
and he was moving toward her.

I don't see how Frankenstein
and My Fair Lady are the same.

Oh, yes, I do.

Professor Higgins created Liza,
Frankenstein created the monster.

Oh, yes. Of course.

But don't tell anybody.

I'm saving it for the textbook
on the art of screenplay writing.

Uh-huh. He's chased her through
the jungle and all that stuff.

Blah, blah, blah.
And, uh, past the bathtub--

If you think there's going to be
a Benson movie without a bathtub,

you're out of your head.

And into the bedroom.

She pulls out a gun,
blah, blah, blah, blah,

and, uh...

my dear big magic-eyed,

bath-oil-scented Miss Simpson,

is where we are.

Slowly...
Rick continues toward her.

Go ahead. Pull the trigger.

Don't reach for your gun.
I'm warning you.

- Cigarette?
- Thanks.

Light?

Well, Rick...

do you mind if I get out
of these wet shoes?

And so my big magic-eyed Gaby...

who came to Paris to...

live...

turns out to be
a spy for the police,

an informer,

a common stool pigeon.

No, Rick. Don't say it!

It's that devil Gillet.
Oh, how I hate him!

He's relentless!

He'll stop at nothing
until he tracks you down.

He'll never forgive himself
for what happened in Tangier...

or the year before in Hong Kong.

You are his obsession!

He is a mad, overweight
Captain Ahab...

searching down you,
his Moby Dick, his white whale.

- And you?
- Me?

I'm nothing.

A creature of the streets with
a record as long as your arm.

He had me paroled just for this--
to be the irresistible bait...

squirming on the end
of the hook he has prepared.

If I do not extract the plan
that you have been building...

step by painful step
for the last year,

my life, well, it's over.

Back I go behind the bars.
Maedchen in Uniform once more.

No longer Gabrielle nor Gaby,

but simply a number.

If, however, I succeed--

- And if you succeed?
- Freedom!

What exactly do you have to do
to extract this plan?

Anything.

- Anything?
- Anything.

It's not so hard. I, too,
am a highly paid professional.

Well, not so highly paid as you,
perhaps, but still a profession.

We're two of a kind, you and I.

There's no reason for us
to be enemies. We can perhaps be...

friends.

Perhaps.

Their two bodies,
now moving as one,

roll like breakers crashing
on an undiscovered shore.

And now... now...

we slowly... and lingeringly...

dissolve.

Gracious.

Exactly, Miss Simpson. Well said.

You might even add
"Heavens to Betsy."

What's the matter?
Don't you like it?

Oh, I like it, but do you think
you can get away with it?

Get away with it?
Get away with what?

It's just that scene with them
in the bed like that--

it's, uh, rather suggestive.

Don't you think
the censors will object?

How can they possibly object?

- We dissolved, didn't we?
- Yes, but--

Miss Simpson, as I said before,

a dissolve is a most useful device.

Not only can it take you
from one place to another,

but it also leaves what's happening
on the screen to your imagination.

Now, if I were you, Miss Simpson,

I would stop going to
those sinful art theaters...

and start seeing more wholesome
American family-type pictures.

I don't know what you think
they're doing on that bed,

but I take the position
that they're playing...

Parcheesi.

As much as I've enjoyed
our little game,

it's almost 8:30.

Time for the climax
of our glorious day.

We must be off.

Off? Where to?

You know perfectly well where.

To the costume party at
the Eiffel Tower to finish the job.

No, Rick, you mustn't.
You can't go through with the plan.

Gillet will be there and the place
will be surrounded by police.

Gillet was in Tangier last year.
The entire city was surrounded.

Now, if you'll excuse me--

Where are you going?

To the wardrobe department
to find something for us to wear.

I always carry a packet
of bubble bath in my purse,

and I'm getting on swimmingly.

Howdy...

stranger.

You must be the new schoolmarm.

I hate to rush you, ma'am,

but it's gettin' late.

How long will it take you
to get outta that tub,

into this costume
and out to the car?

Absolutely no time at all.

Now, according to my master plan,
the time has come...

for me to take the most
dangerous step of all.

Yes, Rick?

I must trust you
and tell you the details.

I can trust you, can't I, Gaby?

How can you ask, Rick?

After our Parcheesi game,
I am yours forever and ever.

Can I trust you, Gaby?
Can I really trust you?

In the back of this car
there are 28 cans of film.

The party is being given
by the producer of the picture.

You can tell me the plan
in a minute, Rick.

It's a long drive
to the Eiffel Tower,

and traffic is heavy.

Mr. Benson.

Rick.

Gaby, maybe, but I'm not--

Well, I'm not that kind of a girl.

Oh, I can't stand girls
who say things like that.

Oh, dear.

I guess maybe we are
that kind of a girl.

Exterior.

Eiffel Tower. Night.

Rick and Gaby have been driving
and driving and driving.

Through all that
marvelous traffic.

Mmm.

- The tower is ablaze--
- Richard...

how can I type if you’re going to--

All right. All right.

The tower is ablaze,
and the limousines are pulling up--

Miss Simpson, how can I dictate
if you're going to-- Mmm.

Trust me, darling.

I do. We go.

And now, Rick and Gaby
make their way to the elevator,

which will carry them and us
to the inevitable party scene...

so dear to the hearts
of mo vie directors everywhere.

It's summertime,
and the vita is dolce,

breakfast is at Tiffany's
and everybody is high.

Now that the director
has distracted the audience...

with these totally
extraneous vignettes,

he reluctantly
returns to the plot...

and another new character--
the producer, host and victim,

who looks like my producer
and victim, Alexander Meyerheim.

If you will look to the left
as casually as possible,

you will see that idiot Gillet...

dressed appropriately enough
as an executioner.

- Ready, darling?
- Ready, darling.

Excuse me for a moment, darling.

- You're late.
- Untrue, Gillet.

Everything is going
precisely according to plan.

- And the plan. Do you have it?
- Of course.

While not exactly highly paid,
I'm at least...

a professional.

If you will be good enough
to read this,

I believe the entire situation
will become clear immediately.

At this very moment,
he's delivering the ransom note.

- The ransom note?
- Exactly.

He has in the trunk of his car
28 reels of film.

They are the negative
and only existing work print...

of the producer's just completed
$6-million spectacle,

The Girl Who Stole
the Eiffel Tower.

You have both the negative
and the only work print?

Absolutely.

And it is your serious intention
to destroy them?

Unless you turn over to me,
at once,

the key to your safe deposit box
in your bank in Casablanca.

My dear boy,

I haven't the faintest idea
who you are,

but you are beautiful.

Absolutely beautiful.

Not only that,
you've saved my life.

The Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower
is, frankly, a disaster.

The title, by the way, is symbolic.

She doesn't actually steal it.
At least I don't think she does.

But the end's so confusing,
it's hard to tell.

Anyway, the script is so ghastly
that it could never be released.

I was finished, done for.
This party tonight...

was planned as a final
farewell gesture.

A sort of swan song.

When the check was presented,
it was my plan to sign it,

add a lavish,
if purely imaginary, tip,

and as the fireworks were exploding
in the black velvet sky,

to hurl myself from the top
of this grotesque edifice.

Now, suddenly, at the last minute,
in the nick of time--

Don't tell me
there isn't someone up there...

who watches
over whimsical movie producers--

you appear!

Unbelievable!

If you swear to me
that you will destroy this film,

hook, line and sinker,

not only will I give you the key...

to my safe deposit box
in Casablanca,

but we will split
the insurance... 60/40.

Fifty/fifty.

Oh, my darling.

If ever you consider going into
the motion picture business,

do not hesitate to call me.

I've been searching
for a partner like you all my life.

We understand each other perfectly.

You're so beautiful.

It's a rugged,
but curiously sensitive face.

It's so beautiful!

His plane is waiting for him
at Le Bourget Airport.

His chauffeur is even now
warming up the engines.

Good girl.

Tomorrow your entire
police record...

will disappear oh-so-mysteriously
from my files,

and you will be free.

Thank you, my dear Gillet.

And now, Gillet,
if you will be good enough...

to quite casually
dance me across the floor...

and over to
the gentlemen's lounge--

You fool! You little fool.

He's using you like he did that
poor girl last year in Tangier.

Keep dancing, Gillet.

I should have known that man
is irresistible to women.

He is, my dear Gillet.
Keep dancing!

You fool. You little fool.

I've worked the whole thing out
with my analyst.

I don't really hate
Inspector Gillet.

I just feel sorry for him.

He insists on projecting himself
into the starring role...

and relegating me
to some minor character.

Got me waiting for him
outside the Eiffel Tower. Okay.

Got me saying lines like
"Brilliant, Inspector. Brilliant,"

or, uh, "I have the car
right here, sir."

- Maurice.
- Inspector,

I am Philippe.

It doesn't matter. Rick is making
his escape at Bourget Airport.

Where is my car?

Uh, I have the car
right here, sir.

You read that line beautifully,
Maurice.

Inspector, please.
I-- I am not Maurice.

I am Philippe.

My dear boy,
you are a minor character,

and your name
is of no importance.

Now, you were saying
something about the car.

I have the car right here, sir.
Ayyy.

Faster, Maurice! Faster!

Faster, Philippe. Faster.

I keep forgetting.
My God, you are a dull character,

even in the nontaxing role
of second policeman.

Bourget Airport! Quickly!

But if you are the inspector,
then who--

You are only third policeman
and shouldn't have any lines,

so shut up and drive.

- Do you know what this is?
- The key!

The key to our future and
$1 million worth of happiness...

for the two of us.

Inspector Gillet of Interpol here
calling all voitures.

Faster! Faster!

Uh, the gate, sir. It is closed.

Then go through it, you fool!

- Wait here. I'll take him alone.
- Inspector, can I speak to you?

You're Rick!

- But I don't understand.
- You're not supposed to.

Can't you get it through your mind?
You're only a bit part.

Nobody cares anything about you.

You're a mere literary convenience,

someone for the hero to punch
in the jaw at the correct moment.

And that moment, I'm happy
to state, has finally arrived!

Stop, Rick!

Stop or I'll shoot!

Philippe!

Philippe!

Mauri-- Philippe.

Darling.

It's all right.

Perhaps it's better this way.

No, no, no, my darling.

We'll make it to Casablanca.

And when we get there,
we'll buy a darling little castle.

With its own-- Unh-- private zoo.

And will there be giraffes?

Of course... giraffes.

This is what it means to be a cop.

You're first policeman now.

Thus, having proved
once again that crime does not pay,

unless you happen to be me.

Fade out.

The end.

Well, there it is.

All hundred
and thirty-odd pages of it.

Finished with...

hours to spare.

It's wonderful, Richard,

only does it have to end that way?

I mean, Philippe could miss
when he shoots.

And Rick could tell the inspector
where the stolen film cans are...

and give him back the key and...

he could explain
that now that he's met Gaby,

he's retiring from
the liar-and-a-thief business.

Then the inspector might let them
go away together.

It could be the last
big switch on a switch.

Couldn't it?

It won't work.

You see, he is a liar and a thief.

And he's been one for too long.

He can't retire now.

In addition to which,
he has become, I'm afraid,

a hack.

He may think he's all those things,
but she knows he's not.

What gives her
that curious idea?

She's been with him constantly
for the last few days.

She's seen him when he was shaking
with terror, ready to quit.

She's watched him
pull himself together again and...

she's also seen him be warm...

and tender...

and funny.

Not famous,
international-wit funny,

but really funny.

Do you think she's an idiot?

Do you think she doesn't know
what kind of man he is...

or what he needs?

And what he needs is L-O-V-E?

Uh-uh.

It's too late.

He's 43 years old.

He will be this October.

Been married twice,

both times disastrously.

And there have been
too many years of...

too much dough,

too much bad writing,

and too much whiskey.

He's got nothing left
inside to give.

Even if he could, which he can't--

But that's not true, Richard.
You can. You have.

- I just love it.
- No, you don't.

It's lousy.

In any case, the problem is...

you're not in love with the script.

You're in love with me.

And why shouldn't you be?

Suddenly waltzing into your life...

comes this charming
and relatively handsome stranger.

Me.

Smooth as silk with a highly
practiced line of chatter...

specifically designed to knock
unsophisticated chicks...

like you, Miss Simpson,

right on their ears.

Which, I'm terribly afraid,
I've done.

Well...

if it's the last decent thing
I do in this world,

and it very well may be,

I'm going to fix that.

I'm going to send you packing,
Miss Simpson...

before I cause you serious...

and irrevocable...

harm.

You want the truth?

Of course you don't.

I'll give it to you anyway.

I do not give one damn
about anything!

Certainly not my work,
as you so ingenuously call it.

No, that's not true.

There is something I care about.

Money. And good whiskey.

I am, as you've probably noticed,

rather fond of that.

But my work?

That's a hideous
little something...

that must occur
five days out of the year...

so I can spend the other 360...

in the manner to which
I have become--

and fully intend to remain--

accustomed.

To you, Richard Benson.

To you... and your glorious
professional know-how.

Long may you wave.

And may you go on...

fooling the people.

Miss Simpson? Mm.

Miss Simpson.

Gabrielle?

- Pardon, Maurice.
- Maurice?

No, no. Philippe.

Oh, come on.
You don't know when a joke is over.

- Ahh.
- Why, Mr. Benson.

What are you doing here?

Miss Simpson. Stop overacting.
You know what I'm doing here.

Of all the hokey, cornball,
grade-B picture devices--

She forgot the bird.
She forgot the bird.

I don't know what
you're talking about.

Girl leaves bird,
boy has to come looking for girl.

I've written that scene
a thousand times myself.

Always works, of course.
That's point one.

Point two. How dare you quit me
when we haven't even started?

Point three. I love you.

Miss Simpson, if you don't feel
you're up to your part of the job,

just tell me
and I can get somebody else.

Oh, no. I'm perfectly capable.

Very well then.

I hold here in my hand a hundred
and thirty-some odd pages...

of contrived, utterly preposterous,
totally unmotivated--

Ooh! If you could
only say it in pictures--

Come on. We've got
a screenplay to write.

Not from scratch, of course.
We've got two great characters.

She's sweet and bright
and very, very beautiful.

And he, well--

Since he's gone straight,
he's rather dull.

We've got to jazz him up,
find something for him to do.

Uh, some physical action.

Uh, to accentuate
the masculine image.

There is something
in American movies.

It's a terrible cliche,
but you did use it in the script.

Oh, yes.

Whoo!

I think maybe
we should, like, split!

Aah!

This new movie you're going
to write, what is it about?

It's a love story, naturally.

It will have a happy ending.
He won't get shot running?

On the contrary, Miss Simpson.

The music soars, and there,

totally oblivious of the fireworks,
the fountains,

and the holiday-mad throngs,

they fall happily and tenderly
into each other's arms.

- I know what will happen next.
- You do?

The two enormous and
highly paid heads come together...

for that ultimate
and inevitable moment.

The final, earth-moving,

studio-rent-paying,
theater-filling,

popcorn-selling--