All language subtitles for The.Woman.Chaser.1999.720p.NF.WEBRip.AAC2.0.x264-NTb-English

Tell the boy to sing it again.

Thank you, sir.

And God bless you.

Stand there, Captain.

Your feet hurt.

I don't think I better sit down.

My feet are tired.

And just for a minute.

I've got a deal for you.

You don't collect more than
a dollar every 5 minutes

while you make
your rounds, do you?

No, sir, not nearly that much.

All right, then, keep your seat

and be company for a while

and every 5 minutes,

I'll add another dollar
to your collection.

You're collecting for a
worthy cause, aren't you?

Well, we aren't supposed to...

I guess I could stay
a few minutes.

My feet do hurt me.

Of course they do.

Bilbo!

Bucket of ice pronto.

Yo.

If it were possible,

I would offer every moment,
every word,

every thought.

But my memory is too faulty
for total recall.

Instead, I will show
a sequence of events,

some in order, some not.

And somewhere along the way
I may discover

just what it was
that happened to me.

It began at
the 2200 of Cahuenga Boulevard

in Hollywood.

I'd been tracking iron
for over an hour.

284 cars south,
265 north every 10 minutes.

A beautiful average
and a wonderful location.

It was late July,
and my San Francisco wardrobe

was weighing a touch heavy
on my back.

It gave me an air of prosperity.

At that moment,
I was feeling prosperous.

I was about to steal
a used car lot

and every car on it.

Wait a minute.

Now, don't get excited,
Mr. Ealers.

My name's Richard Hudson.

My business is used cars.

I'll take all of these heaps
off your hands

and buy your lease, too.

You don't want to work anyway.

Why not retire permanent,
enjoy the sun at the beach

instead of squatting
in some trailer

on a Cahuenga used car lot?

And what about my lease?

I said I'd take that, too.

Yeah, but you didn't mention
what you'd give me for it.

That's right.

I'll give you nothing
for the lease,

but I'll take over your burden

and the monthly payments.

Cost me a lot of dough here.

I'm not you.

Is it a deal or isn't it?

I'll take it.

Honest Al could have searched
the world.

He wouldn't have found
a better man than me

to open a lot in Los Angeles.

To me.

Except for one little thing.

I was bored.

Next.

William Harris, Master Sergeant, U.S.
Army, retired.

I ran an ad in the "Times"

for a manager.

And it brought me
an uncut jewel.

Bill had never held
a civilian job of any kind.

The space provided
for previous employment

was a complete blank.

Quite an impressive
background, Bill.

Thank you, sir.

Mr. Hudson is fine.
Have a seat.

How about getting us a couple of
sodas out of the machine, Bill?

Yes, sir, Mr. Hudson.

Respectful independence.

What more could
an employer desire?

Do you know how
to run an office, Bill?

Yes, sir. I was a master
sergeant for 5 years,

sergeant major for 3 years,
and a first...

Ok, then, my office
will be your baby.

You hire yourself a good typist.

Read these.

I'll explain the interview
techniques to you later.

Now, I'll work the lot along
with the other salesmen.

And when we send a man or a
woman through that door,

they'll be sold
on an automobile.

When we turn them over to you,

all you have to do
is keep 'em that way.

There are a lot
of little tricks.

Many of the buyers will be lying

because of rotten
credit ratings.

Those people you will
have to spot and refuse.

Think you can handle that?

Yes, sir.

Fine.

State your salary.

Well, I thought you'd do that.

No way. It's not
the American way, Bill.

You're out of the army now.

The time has come for you
to decide what you're worth.

If it's more than I can pay,

I'll be sorry to see you go.

Now that Al's lot was purchased

and my chief man was in place,
I wanted to see mother.

I should have driven
up to the strip to celebrate,

but my desire for women
was at an all-time low.

I knew this was natural
in a period of transition

and hard work.

But I couldn't help worrying.

If a man's sex drive evaporates,
what good is he?

I tried not to think about it.

I hadn't been home
in some years.

But I remembered that mother
was remarried

to a film director
name Leo Steinberg,

and ex-boy wonder who had fallen
out of favor with the studios.

You're Leo's daughter.

Come in. Come in.

I don't think daddy
was expecting you.

Hi, Pop.

Where's mother?

In bed. It's after 8:00.

Sure, sure.

Mother was a one-time ballerina

who spent 5 hours a day
dancing in front of a mirror.

She took very good care
of herself, and it showed.

In fact, I believe mother was the
most beautiful woman in the world.

How do I look?

Just wonderful, Mother,
wonderful.

Swan-like
neck, white, unblemished skin,

firm jutting breasts which had never
known the touch of a brassier.

Leo was a fortunate man,
all right.

What brings my baby
to Los Angeles?

Did they run you out
of San Francisco?

Where are you staying?

I'm down here for good.

Starting a new division
for Honest Al.

Right now I'm staying
at the Bahia Lodge,

but I'm gonna get an apartment
as soon as I can find one.

Why don't you stay
with us, Angel pants?

I don't know, mother.

I'm used to having my own place.

How about the servants'
quarters above the garage?

Hasn't been live-in help
for ages.

It would be fine for you.

Could have it
redecorated, I suppose.

Ok, mother.

You got yourself a tenant.

Good.

It's nice to have you
home again.

The
following week it was August,

and with the heat came a dozen
hard-ridden repos

from Al's main lot
in San Francisco.

Lift the phone, cool one,

and call a costume company.

Any company in particular?

One that sells Santa Claus
suits complete with beards.

What size?

The size worn by Evans,
Cartwell, and Jodi boy,

our 3 star salesmen.

You shouldn't do it, chief.

It's the middle of August.

Those guys will melt out there.

It's the first day of August,

and they'll wear those suits

every damn day 'til I tell
them to take them off!

What's more unusual
than Santa Claus

selling used cars in August?

You got me for the moment.

Nothing!

Honest Al is now Santa Claus

in the middle of summer

bringing the good people
of the City of Angels

goodies in the form
of repos, your repos.

Now get those suits, get
our buddy boys into them.

I want you to take out a
half page in the "Times,"

right some decent copy
for a change.

I don't want those cars
on the lot by Saturday!

Yes, sir.

And, by the way, cold one,

you will inform our
white-bearded salesmen

that the Santa Claus
suits were your idea.

Despite the progress of the lot,

I was always glad
in the evenings.

Almost every night Leo and I
would go to the movies.

It didn't matter what we saw:

Melodramas, westerns,
slave spectaculars.

We were fans.

Thank you, Richard.

And I was glad to take Leo
as my guest.

This is all wrong.

We were a family after all.

This is wrong, too.

You got...

Didn't you learn anything
at that New Jersey school

except how to
play with yourself?

Their constant need
of encouragement and support,

especially Becky, was a burden
that I was glad to bear.

I bought this new cashmere
sweater at Bullet's today.

How does it look on me?

Blue is blue.

No, not the color.

All right, you've got breasts
beneath that sweater.

If they're real.

You...

Back at work,
I just hung around,

directed improvements,

watching my sweltering salesmen
screwing aircraft mechanics

out of their cash.

So what was the problem?

Honest Al was ecstatic.

I was making money
hand over fist.

I mean, isn't the making of
money the reason for existence?

Isn't it?

After rolling down the driveway
that evening,

I learned that it wasn't.

No, they haven't
called me in months,

and they never will call me,

nor will any studio
ever call me.

My films never made them a dime.

I'm broke, Richard.

I'm down to my last oil,

and I can go no further.

Well, this is an original
Ruwalt, isn't it, Pop?

Of course.

And all I have left.

Isn't an original Ruwalt
worth about $100,000?

Worth is relative, Richard.

My painting is like
a framed $1.00 bill

businessmen hang
on their office wall,

a symbolic treatment of the first dollar
they've ever made for themselves.

Well, there's a hell
of a lot of difference

between a framed $1.00 bill

and a framed $100,000 bill.

But I know what you mean, Pop.

And I'm all for you.

You've got real integrity,

artistic integrity,

the only kind
that means anything.

The following day I was low.

I was down.

Christmas, goddamn it!

Way down.

Suit up!

I needed male camaraderie,

good conversation
like I never needed it before.

I needed the toast kings.

Next on the agenda,
the icebreaker speech.

Nicky J. Hewlitt.

Welcome.

You have one minute
to introduce yourself

starting now.

Thank you.

Good evening, toast kings.

The icebreaker speech.

I suppose I feel
a lot like a blender.

I work over there

at Van Paul Restaurant Supply.

People say I'm off
to a flying start,

and I suppose they're right.

I've already been promoted.

I don't want to brag,

but here I am today in charge
of sales for sector "G."

It won't be easy, I know.

All the traveling
and long hours, paperwork,

but I'm willing to do
what I need to

to get kicked upstairs.

Sales. This country was founded
on salesmanship.

Meaningless.

Christopher Columbus was
our first great salesman,

convincing the queen
to let him make this voyage

and discover our great country,

and I'm happy to be continuing
in that tradition as well.

Wasted lot.

What a great thought that is,

a tradition carried down
from generation to generation.

I mean, think about it...

Time!

Atta boy, Nicky!

I didn't know.

I didn't know.

Our lives were so short,

so little time for creativeness.

And yet we're wasting it...

letting it slip
through our fingers.

Like goddamn sand!

But that was it.

Creativeness.

To create something.

One thing.

That was all.

And then maybe two things.

But above all...

One thing.

And at that very moment,

I knew what I was going to do.

My thoughts were hazy,
and I wasn't positive

until the day I danced
with mother.

You've come to dance with me.

Come on.

All right, why not?

Some dancer.

The hell with it.

And so we danced, mother and me.

The longer I danced,
the better I became.

I chased... I pursued,

made impossible leaps
and came down as lightly

as a wind-wafted
cigarette paper.

I pranced...

cavorted...

darted...

turned, and glided.

And did a mad foutee
until I almost lost my reason.

At last, at long, long last,
the music swelled.

And I was done.

It was so beautiful.

So beautiful.

So beautiful.

So beautiful.

Leo, don't get so emotional.

The next day,

I did not go to the lot.

Instead I drove
to Exposition Park

and descended
to the cool basement

of the Los Angeles Museum.

I knew the time
for fooling around was over.

The time had come
for me to create something,

one creative accomplishment that
would wipe away the useless days.

I have been a single package,
my reason for being here.

As an artist, I was limited
to what I could do.

Painting, sculpture, music,
architecture, writing a novel...

all of these art forms
take years of apprenticeship.

But I knew I could
write and direct a movie.

I knew it.

I knew what movies
were all about.

I had seen thousands.

And Leo would help me.

Hell, yes, I would talk to Leo.

Richard, supper's ready.

By the time
mother shouted up the stairs,

I had an entire movie
outlined in my head,

including the title.

The title first.

"The Man Who Got Away."

I like the title.

The title is a clue
to the whole damn movie.

Now as far as the theme
is concerned,

the movie is about America,
Mr. Average American.

The hero is a truck driver.

His job is the dullest
imaginable.

He drives from San Francisco
to Los Angeles,

and the next day he drives back,
10 hours each way.

Worst possible existence
for anybody.

In the first part of the film,
his unhappiness is established.

Messy house, the screaming kids,
that kind of thing.

He's always glad to get back
to his truck.

At least he's alone in the cab.

The next day is supposed to be
his day off.

After a few hours at home
in that kind of atmosphere,

he calls the dispatcher and tells
them he's changed his mind.

The guy is really worn out.

The average moviegoer will
recognize the foreshadowing.

You know.

I know.

The rest of the picture
is now the highway,

atmosphere at first.

Truck stops, coffee,

the other drivers tired
and defeated men,

swampers, hitchhikers,
blowouts, vapor locks.

Montage effect.

Not exactly.

A much slower pace,
a dull, dragging pace.

The hero's inner tension builds,
a near fistfight.

His disposition gets surlier.

He buys a pint,
takes a few drinks.

This would really tip off
the audience,

get 'em interested
in what comes next,

and then it happened.

He's wheeling down the road
like an automaton.

A child darts out onto the
freeway in front of his truck,

a little girl
out picking wildflowers.

That's touching as hell.

And she has her dog with her,
a puppy.

Bang!

He runs over the little girl,
squashes her flat.

Scene couldn't be sadder
than a son of a bitch.

Ok, now, here he was, a nobody.

Now all of a sudden he's the most
important man in California.

Everybody in the state's
interested in him.

He's done something!

Roadblocks are erected.

He plows right through them.

He has this enormous monster
of a semi

and nothing can stop him.

A highway patrol car
gets after him.

He forces it off the road.
The two patrolmen are killed.

Now they're really after him!

The entire highway is cleared
all the way to Los Angeles.

He's all alone on Highway 101.

A good place to work in
some symbolism

a man against the world.

But down in Santa Barbara they are
getting ready for the poor bastard.

The people are working like mad
at the junkyard,

pulling old wrecks out and
piling them up on the highway

to make a king-size roadblock.

Will they have it ready in time?

Back and forth our camera pans,

the driver's white
and frightened face,

the frenzied workers,

the police are lined up
with rifles and machine guns.

Here he comes barreling
down the highway to his doom.

The idea of deserting his truck
never occurs to him.

The truck is his real home.

He only knows
he has to keep driving,

and there's the roadblock
ahead of him,

hundreds of cars piled up
across the 4-lane highway

and a steep wall on each side.

He can't go around it
or under it,

so he crashes right into it.

His truck flips over
and catches fire.

He catches on fire.
He's burning.

He stumbles blindly
from the cab, a human torch.

There's one good Samaritan
in the crowd,

and he rushes over to the hero
to throw a blanket over him

to put the fire out,

but the vicious crowd
turns savagely on the Samaritan

and knock hell out of him.

The police empty their pistols,
rifles, and machine guns

into the burning body
of the truck driver.

It's all over.

The final scene, the poor guy
who tried to help the driver

gets to his feet.

His mouth is bleeding
where someone hit him.

He's kind of dazed.

He asks a policeman,
"Why did everyone turn on me?

What did I do wrong anyway?"

The policeman is very serious.

"You tried to help him,
that's what."

Well?

That's the end, Pop.

That's the end?

That's the end.

Well, will it make a movie, Pop?

Yes, Richard,
it would make a movie.

But how much would it
cost, rock bottom?

You're gonna write the scenario?

Yes, and direct it.

I want you to produce it, Leo.

You're the producer.

You handle all the dough,

the details, the paperwork.

Be your chance to get
back on top again, Pop.

Let me sleep on it, Richard,

do some figuring with a pencil.

We'll talk some more
in the morning, all right?

I had him hooked,

and I knew it.

I knew it.

Yes, Richard,
it would make a movie.

We don't need the light, do we?

All right, Becky,
the joke's over.

You better get into your things

and run back in the house

before Leo finds out.

No, you don't.!

I have waited
a long time for this chance,

and I'm never gonna get up
the nerve to do it again,

so you've got to go
through with it, Richard,

you've just got to.

For weeks
Becky had been asking me

about boys.

And I had taken the time
to explain

the many contraceptive devices
and venereal diseases

she would be likely
to encounter.

Go ahead and look.
I don't care.

I want you to see
for yourself they're real.

I knew how deceptive
teenage males could be,

and I didn't want Becky
romanticizing them,

but now she was
romanticizing me.

You're going to make love to me,

and I'm not leaving here
until you do.

What if I don't want to?

You want to.

I know.

All right, you win.

Let me just get up and
smoke a cigarette first.

I'll get the cigarette.

I didn't want Becky involved with
some immature tattooed youth

who would work the word "love"
into his pitch.

That would be unnecessarily
emotional for her.

Never mind the damn cigarette.

If I continue in this vein,

how will I be able to establish
a strong viewer identification?

The average moviegoer has
a tendency to identify himself

with the lead character,

to project himself
into the story

and actually live the story

with the thoughts, emotions,
and actions

of the lead character.

Poor viewer.

You better get into your things

and hustle back to the house

before Leo wakes up.

Thanks for the party, Kid.

Any night you feel
like you want it,

come on over.

Becky never came back,

but then
I never expected her back.

We were still friends of course.

I had solved her problem,
and she had solved mine

at the time.

And I saved the girl from any
emotional and physical involvement

with another male of any age
for a long, long time.

Jesus, Pop, did you
stay up all night?

Sit down, Richard.

This is rough as hell.

It's a lot to you and me,

but practically nothing
to a studio.

Look at the salary
for the principals.

No actor would work for that.

That's where you're wrong, Pop.

For one thing,
we're after nobodies.

Secondly, it's a good story.

It could make the right man.

This is much too low.

The music alone could run
as high as $25,000.

I'll just hire some son
of a bitch with a guitar

for 50 bucks a day.

It's a solution maybe.

Pop, if your budget
is anywhere near accurate,

we can do it.

I can dig up 50 grand in cash,

40 of it in Honest Al's dough.

As long as he gets
his checks every month,

he won't investigate
what I'm doing

with his working capital.

And right up there, Leo...

is a clown worth 50,000
in cash at least.

My clown?

Your clown.

What the hell, Leo,
you'll get it back.

With close to 50,000 in a story,

you can talk to
the man at Mammoth.

He still remembers you.

All you have to do is

talk him into putting up
the rest of the dough

and loaning us
some contract people

he's paying anyway.

That's all I have to do?

That's all.

I've got to see
the script, Richard.

Never mind the script.
I'll write the script.

Can we do it?

We can do it.

Call the man.

The man should
really call me first.

I know that, Leo.

He doesn't know we have a story.

It's crazy.

I know.

Give me the phone.

"The Man Who Got Away."

Synopsis by Richard Hudson

from an original idea
by Richard Hudson.

A truck driver driving from
San Francisco to Los Angeles

runs over and kills a child.

He tries to get away.

He doesn't.

Steinberg. 4:00 appointment
with the man.

Sell it, Pop.

For the next two hours

I sat in a Chinese restaurant
two blocks away from Mammoth

drinking hot tea
and nursing self-doubts.

More tea, sir?

If by chance we were in,
my real troubles would begin.

I was jettisoning everything I'd
worked for during my last 10 years:

A good job, Honest Al's trust,

most of his dough, too.

If the movie bombed
and I couldn't recoup its cost,

I would not only risk being
blackballed in the used car business,

I might end up in jail.

We're in!

The man bought all of it:

You to write and direct,
me to produce.

Mammoth will put up facilities
and staff in lieu of cash

which is even better
than I expected.

It was such a low-budget,
he didn't think twice.

We've been assigned
a bungalow, Richard.

We start working tomorrow.

Except for the single

highly unsatisfactory
episode with Becky,

there had been little time
in my schedule for women,

and once I became involved
in full-scale work on my movie,

there would be even less time.

What? What's the matter?

You're supposed to be
helping me work on the script.

Don't!

You promised not to
make me feel guilty.

Ok, ok.

You know something, Laura?

You seem a little too
intelligent, well educated

to be a writer's secretary.

A degree from Stanford?

Seems you could do better.

It's a start, Mr. Hudson.

Richard.

Richard.

I hope to be
a writer someday, too.

I've done a few things
already at college,

and a job at the studio,

any kind of job, seemed
like a good place to begin.

And I can learn so much
from writers like you.

I had to laugh at myself.

When a man starts doing
weird stuff like that,

he needs a woman
in the worst way.

Green 33, green 33, hut, hut!

Could you eat a horse, Laura?

No, but I could eat
a small Shetland pony.

Let's drive to the
hangover house instead,

settle for a prime sirloin.

That would be wonderful.

But my hair looks terrible.

The steak won't mind.

I'm really anxious
to start work on your script.

I read the synopsis you wrote.

And there seems to be
so much leeway.

I mean, it's a really
good story and all, I suppose,

but there seems to be
a million possibilities.

It seems that way to me, I mean.

I don't work like other writers.

Two more scotch and sodas.

Just a minute, Richard.

Before you get started,
I better explain the rules.

Yeah.

Number one, you can kiss
me, but not too wet.

I don't like it.

Two, you can fondle
my breasts, but that's it.

When you're ready, just tell me,

and I'll... I'll relieve you.

You'll what?

I'll relieve you.
You know what I mean.

I'm a virgin, Richard,
whether you believe it or not,

and I intend to stay that way.

So you're one of those
fellatio experts.

What's that?

Don't worry about it, Laura.

Well, I don't understand.

I've never had any objections

from anybody before.

I'm not one of your schoolboy
dates, that's all.

Good night, Laura.

Don't you want
to kiss me good night?

Thanks. I kiss too wetly.

After a lukewarm shower,

I changed into my pajamas.

Bored, I picked out a copy of "T.S.
Eliot's Collected Poetry"

and idly flipped the pages.

"And I who will inherit a son

"will proffer my deeds
to oblivion,

"my love to the posterity
of the desert,

the fruit of the gourd."

"Because I do not hope to turn,
because I do not hope.

"Desire in this man's gift
and that man's scope,

"I no longer strive
to strive towards such things.

Why should the aged eagle
stretch its wings?"

The combination of
music and poetry

had unlocked a hidden spring.

To what can equal the tragedy
of a strong man's tears?

Bitter.

Stick to the story,
stick to the story.

The movie is 90 minutes long,
6 short reels in time.

An insane rule, I know,
but there it is.

This is bungalow 19.

Mr. Hudson, welcome to Mammoth.

The studio assigned me
a secretary,

a Miss Laura Harmon.

Yes, sir, a very
competent woman.

I agree. For typing maybe.

But I don't think she's quite
ready to work with a writer.

I'm sending her back, but I
recommend her for the typing pool.

I don't understand...

Desperate
to complete the scenario,

I holed up with a Dictaphone
in a downtown suite.

I was already
a week behind schedule

and was determined to
free myself of all distractions,

female or otherwise.

Hudson, over Dictaphone:
The camera catches the hero...

Come in.

It's me.

How did you find me, Bill?

Your mother told me
where you were.

You must have really
snowed her to find out.

I told her not to tell anybody.

I did, but it's important or I
wouldn't have bothered you.

What I'm doing
is more important.

What are doing anyway?

I haven't seen you
in over a week.

The damn cars aren't moving,

the salesmen won't wear
their Santa Claus suits.

Call Fred McCullers in Pasadena.

He's a jobber.

You tell him that
you're working for me

and that I need some creampuffs.

He won't cheat you.

He owes me a couple of favors.

Get out on the lot
yourself Bill.

I know it's hot,

but if you're out there
watching the salesmen,

they'll produce,
and if they don't,

fire them, hire others.

But the Santa Claus suits
will be worn.

Next, take out a full-page
ad in the "Times"

and list
new rock-bottom prices.

Cut down to exactly
100 bucks profit on every car.

At that price, all you have to
do is get good credit risks.

The sellin' will
take care of itself.

Feel better?

A whole lot better.

How much dough's in the bank?

About 44,000.

Withdraw a certified check

made out to me for 40,000

and bring it to me here.

That's a lot of money, Richard.

Sure it is.

You'll be short on capital,

but hold up on payment
of your deliveries

from McCuller's
for a couple of weeks.

And write in your next report

as to how that
we needed the cash

to buy new stock from the lot

that's closing down
in San Diego.

But what if Honest Al calls
and asks me about it?

Think of a gimmick,
for Christ sake.

You've got to do something
for your 400 a month.

If you're really stuck,

get a high school
mathematics teacher

to juggle your figures for you.

For a hundred dollar bill,

a math teacher will do anything.

Ok, Richard.

I'm not on any secret
project, Bill.

I'm writing a movie.

When I get it written,
I'm gonna direct it.

I'll be goddamned.

I'm out of my field, all right.

I've got this story in my mind,

the characters and everything.

But I've been in
this room for two days,

and I haven't written
a single word.

Not a word.

Have you ever been
in that situation?

I don't even have a conception
of what you're doing.

I wouldn't know
where to begin either.

But I know this much
about writing.

You have to write
something, anything.

When a captain of
infantry tells you

he wants to boot a man out of
the service, for instance,

the first sergeant
has to do the paperwork,

and the writing has to
be effective, Richard,

because the captain
wants the guy the hell out.

It's hard work.

The first board I wrote
almost drove me crazy,

but the guy was bounced
out of the service,

and I didn't have
a damn thing to go on

except that the captain
didn't like the man!

What's the secret, Bill?

Rewrite.

First one word at a time.

When you get enough pages done,

you have something you can read.

If you can read it,
you can revise it.

If you can revise it,

then you'll come up
with something pretty good.

All writing is like that.

Couldn't be any other way.

I'd better be going.

Ok, get me that check before
you do anything else, Bill.

Keep things going
down on the lot for me.

I don't know how you got
into this movie business,

but if anyone can come
out on top, you can.

Thanks, Bill.

The next 10 hours

were the most gratifying hours
and the hardest hours

I ever worked.

And I was proud of the people
I created on paper.

They were composites
of every buyer

who had bought used cars from me
during the last 10 years.

I had them.

Damn it, Leo, he could read
the script in a half-hour.

He's kept us sweating
blood for 3 days.

Take it easy, son.

He may have a few suggestions,

but I don't think
he'll turn it down.

The script is good, isn't it?

I'm not worried.
He'll be crazy about it.

You really think
he'll like it? I do.

I hope so, Richard.

I hawked my clown this morning.

Darling?

Hello?

Richard, darling, I've got
to see you right away.

Get the hell off the line
and don't call again.

I'm expecting an important call.

Please don't hang up.

Who was it, Richard?

Laura Harmon, that
sex-crazed secretary

I told you about.

Get rid of her.

Yes, this is Mr. Steinberg.

Yes, sir.

Yes, sir.

Yes, sir.

The man wants to
see us, Richard.

Both of us.

I'd rather you didn't smoke.

Did you hear the story
about the director

who took a vacation in Miami?

No, sir, we haven't.

I believe it goes
something like this.

The director flew to Florida
one day ahead of his wife.

Checked into this year's hotel.

After being shown to his suite
by the bellboy,

he asked the bellboy to send up
a little entertainment.

5 minutes later,
a beautiful blonde arrived.

He asked her, "How much?"

Her price was $100,

and the director was indignant.

"$100? I've never paid
more than $10 in my life."

And with this
dismissed the blonde.

The next day his wife arrived
and they went down to the beach.

Pretty soon the beautiful
blonde whore walked by.

She stops,
looked at the director,

looked at his wife, and said,

"See what you get for $10?"

Ho, that was good.

"See what you get for $10?"

I'll have to remember that one.

What about the script?

I liked it, Hudson.

Stop by the comptroller's office
when you leave, Leo.

He has the budget
for your production.

3 weeks.
That's all the time you get...

Mr. Director.

I needed a truck driver,

and he had to be perfect...

defeated, cynical.

The whole picture
would fall flat.

I couldn't quite picture him
in my mind

except for
a bitterly twisted mouth.

The rest of his face
was a complete blank.

My new assistant director Milo
knew of just such a mouth.

Where the hell are we
supposed to find him?

The guy at the theater
said he rides a horse.

Just have to split up and look.

6 years ago
Milo had seen Chet Wilson

act in some medieval play
about witches and mountains.

If Wilson was watering
orange trees for a living

and he still had the acting
ability Milo described,

he'd have a bitterly twisted
mouth, all right.

Hey, Wilson!

Over here!
I want to talk to you!

You're Chet Wilson, aren't you?

I'm Richard Hudson
from the studios.

I want you to read for me.

Shall I compare thee
to a fucking turd?

Thou art more simple
and more desperate.

Rough winds do shape
the darling stools of maids.

And diet's peace
has far too long a path...

His evil parody

made the notion of love
and tenderness obscene.

I push...

It was a real discovery.

Stomach's changing course
untrimmed.

Climb down off your high horse.

I want to see how tall you
are out of the saddle.

You want to hear anything else?

No, you'll do.

I've got a part for you.

What part?

I've been thinking about
giving up acting altogether.

Think again, then.

You've got the starring role

in "The Man Who Got Away,"

a Mammoth production.

A movie?

That's right.

And just who in the hell
are you anyway?

The writer and director,

and you're the lead.

Come on, I've got
the contract in the car.

A director
is not an electrician.

An electrician can pin
his job down exactly.

He furnishes light
where it is required.

He knows exactly
what he's doing.

I was working in the abstract
with nonobjective viewpoints

toward a certain objective
that was a nebulous idea.

Once in
a while I would catch myself

thinking about the difference,

and then it would take
great mental effort on my part

to force such thoughts
out of my mind.

What bothered me, though,
was the sense of unreality

in what I was doing.

I felt as though
I was an unreal person

creating a reality
that might become unreal

if I didn't keep my eyes open
every single second.

But unreality or not,
I had a schedule to go by.

The schedule was my lifeline
to reality.

All in all, I think I did
a pretty fair job of hanging on,

especially on one tricky scene
involving Mildred Chance,

a real American housewife

I'd discovered
in the meat section

of Dale's Market
on Van Nuys Boulevard.

Action.

The scene depicted
the truck driver hero

and his wife attempting
to make love to each other

before he left on his final run
to Los Angeles.

Sure do wish you could make
the run with me tomorrow.

The love between them
had disappeared years before,

and the futile attempts
to find it had to be shown

to establish the pathos
and futility of their lives.

The children wear me out, Dear.

Cut!

Because of her lack of talent,

Mrs. Chance became bored... Cut!

Tired! Cut!

Disgusted. Cut!

And developed a passionate
hatred for Chet Wilson

because he was so good,
which was exactly what I wanted.

Except for this
one tender moment.

Come away.

The talents of God.

Do it for me again.

Those children wear me out.

Good!

Try it with the sentence.

The children wear me out.

Empathize with Chet,

couldn't you for his sake?

The children wear me out.

Try again. That's
your best yet.

The children wear...

Excuse me. And action.

It isn't hard to be a director,

not at all.

Come on, baby. Come to Chet.

Whassup?

Why is everyone so hard on me?

What did I do wrong anyway?

You tried to help
him, that's why.

How in the hell did you
ever get the reaction

on the faces of that mob
during the crash scene?

Have you ever heard of Zelda?

She's a stripper from
the Trinidad Club.

We told the extras
there would be

a slight delay in shooting

and that we would provide
them some entertainment

in the interim.

She did her disrobement act

on the piled-up wrecks,
and as the crowd watched,

we filmed their faces.

I got to hand it
to you, Richard,

every face held
a different reaction.

Actually their faces would
probably look the same way

if they were really
watching a body on fire.

I know the saying is old,
but it still holds true:

Movies are made
on the cutting room floor.

I know, I know.

Anyone want to see it again?

I do!

I had the movie shown

3 more times in its entirety.

By the second run,
the film no longer excited me.

By the third I managed to get my
impersonal detachment back again

and take notes for editing.

The pacing had gotten away
from me.

It was much too erratic
for good continuity.

It was impossible for me
to retake any scenes,

so we had to cut...
and cut we did.

When we finished editing,
the movie had perfect pacing.

It was exciting, realistic,
and a work of art.

I was a man with a message,
and my message was.

"The Man Who Got Away."

What do you think, Ruggerio?

With the sound effects
and music dubbed in,

it'll be a little masterpiece.

I've never seen anything
quite like it before.

Unfortunately, we're
gonna have to put back

27 minutes of film.

3 minutes could be
taken in titling,

but the other 24 are gonna have
to be just plain old padding.

Can we pad 24 minutes
and still maintain the pace

after I've set the mood
and so on?

Nope, but we got no choice.

Why is that?

You know as well as
I do, Mr. Hudson,

that a movie is 90 minutes long,

6 full reels.

That's the business.

But unnecessary padding
will ruin my movie.

Not really.

We could stretch the hell

out of that chase
down the highway.

We've got stock stuff

that I haven't even seen yet,

reel after reel of it:

City views, wildflowers,
traffic jams,

all kinds of stuff.

I remember a western once

where I stretched out a
desert chase 25 minutes

with long shots of different
guys riding on horseback.

Nobody knew the difference.

People like chases.

"The Man Who Got Away"
isn't a western.

Yeah, but he doesn't
really get away either.

It's the same thing
as a big chase.

Damn it, no!

As far as I'm concerned,

my movie will run as it is,

27 minutes short, period!

I'm not gonna ruin my movie
because of some stupid ruling

that says it has to be
90 minutes long.

That's up to you, Mr. Hudson,

if you can get it by the man.

It doesn't make
a difference to me.

But you can't.

I only wish you could.

Will you back me
in this thing, then?

Will you go to the man with me

and insist that the movie
should be left as is

at 63 minutes?

Nope.

I'll tell 'em the truth.

The movie's too short.

Well, I think that you
are a son of a bitch,

Ruggerio.

Tell me one thing,

yet you'll tell the man another.

I'm not telling you
any lies, Mr. Hudson.

A movie is 90 minutes long.

How would you like an upper
lip full of front teeth?

I wouldn't like it, Mr. Hudson,

but that wouldn't change
anything either.

You want to take a swing at me?
Go ahead.

But a movie is still
90 minutes long.

Mine won't be.
Is that understood?

Yes, sir.

All right, attend to the
title and the credits.

You keep your damn mouth shut

about the length of my movie.

I'll have the music
and sound effects

put in myself.

You're the director,
Mr. Hudson.

You're damn right I am!

Are you ready?

The juice is buzzing in the box.

Ok, Flaps,

tune down fine,

and I think you know
all the cues.

But once again,
during the opening,

I want you to play as mean
and lowdown as you can.

How many times have you
seen the movie now?

5 times, and it's good,
Mr. Hudson.

Thank you. Would you like

to see it cold again
before we start?

No, sir, I'm ready to play.

You want another dry run?

No, sir, I'm ready. I'm ready.

How about questions? Do you
have any questions at all?

Any at all?

No, sir. Movie damn
near broke my heart.

All right, well, play
that way, then, Flaps.

When the movie starts,

I'm gonna be in the booth,

and I'll give you
the finger like this.

You bang it out hard.
Forget me.

Forget the people in the booth,

everything else except what
you see on that screen.

If you feel like humming
while you play,

go ahead.

I like the way
you did last time.

I didn't mean to start
humming like that, Mr. Hudson,

Sometimes I do it
'cause I just can't help it.

That's all right, Flaps.

I like it.
You're a true artist.

Did you notice during
the last run-through

your name sitting
up there all by itself,

separate frame?

"Music by Flaps Hartwell."

I almost fainted when I
saw that, Mr. Hudson.

That's the way I work, Flaps.

Where credit is due, I give it.

You deserve credit
for the music,

and I'm giving it to you.

Millions of people
all over the world

are gonna see your name
on that screen,

and when this movie
gets released,

you're gonna have
a tote sack full of mail

from people you never heard of.

When the film starts,
Flaps, you're on your own.

We're only gonna do this once

because I want
the music to be spontaneous.

I want to make that clear.

I won't be able to help you.

You'll just have
to watch and play,

watch and play, and let
the emotion you feel

come from this.

I'm ready, gosh darn it,

and I done told you
100 times, I'm ready!

We're ready, too, Mr. Hudson.

Mammoth Studios,
"The Man Who Got Away,"

reel one, cue one,
first and last take.

All ready for the man, Pop.

Where are the other two reels?

It just so happened
I didn't need 6 reels.

63 minutes were all I needed.

I was under the impression

you'd have trouble
cutting to 90 minutes.

But 63?

I realize it's
a bit unorthodox, Pop,

but I had to cut.

That's all there is to it.

You don't think maybe you could
add, say, one more reel?

Another 15 minutes?

No, nothing. I couldn't
add another 15 seconds.

The movie is perfect as is.

I'll stake my reputation on it.

What about mine?

Well, I'll stake yours, too.

This isn't just
another movie, Richard.

I know it isn't.

It'll make people angry.

That's right.

There will be letters.
Bound to be.

That little girl.

The tire marks
across her white dress.

Too bad it isn't in color.

That little girl
is very disturbing.

You're putting it mildly.

The music frightens me.

Good, isn't it?

The movie isn't cynical.

It's bitter.

Right. If that's
how you want to put it.

Why are you so unhappy?

I'm not unhappy, Pop.

I'm the happiest man
in the world.

No!

If you will please refrain
from any more outbursts

until I complete my plans
in detail

for "The Man Who Got Away."

You on his side or mine, Leo?

Can't you just listen?

For once in your life listen.

"The Mammoth Hour"
will be a television series

of 13 one-hour film shows

starting with
"The Man Who Got Away."

The entire series
will attack inequities

in the American way of life

through adequate documentation.

Segregation, taxation, unions,

any and all of the problems
affecting the American people.

It's a grand plan, Richard.

Mr. Steinberg has agreed to be

the executive producer
of the series,

and he will have free rein.

Nepotism is not unheard of
in Hollywood, Mr. Hudson,

and I'm certain your stepfather
will allow you to direct

some of the better scripts
at $1,500 a show.

You'll have your
choice, Richard.

Your movie contains
all the elements

that I was looking for
in a pilot.

A shocker.

It will cause angry comments,
letters, and editorials.

You'll be the most talked about
writer/director on television.

Now, tell me you object.

"The Man Who Got Away"
is exactly 63 minutes long.

In a one-hour television drama

there is first the
announcer, one minute.

He announces the host.

The host informs the audience
about what they're gonna see.

Two minutes.

Then there are the commercials
every 15 minutes.

That's another 10 minutes.

Not counting the station
break at half-hour,

and then the end, more host.

You exaggerate, Mr. Hudson.

No, I don't.

All that would be
left of my movie

would be about 40 minutes.

"The Man Who Got Away"

is like a giant snowball
going downhill

and getting larger
with danger and suspense

until it explodes!

A single break in continuity,

the effect is gone.

Now, on television, your movie
will reach 50 million people.

Who can follow it?

Part of what you say is true,

there will be a host
and commercials.

But I'll be the host,

and I'm positive
the movie can be cut

in many places without
complete loss of continuity.

And with your approval
on each cut...

I won't ok anything!

This is a movie,

an m-o-v-i-e!

It was designed
for movie theaters

with a full audience
in attendance.

If it is projected in a theater,

it'll tear the guts
out of the audience,

throw 'em down the aisles,

but it can't do that
on television!

Not a chopped up with deodorant

and sanitary pad commercials!

Exactly!

Your piddling one-hour movie

would scare moviegoers to death

in a movie theater.

It has to be broken up
to destroy the realism.

But there will be
enough realism left

for an artistic triumph.

You had better wake up,
Mr. Hudson!

I am in this chair to
make money for Mammoth Studios

and for no other reason.

On Leo's faith in your ability,
I took a chance,

and it has paid off.

Don't you think you're being

a little unreasonable, Richard.

Not you, Pop?

I mean, I understand
this stupid son of a bitch.

All he's concerned about
is making money,

but you, Leo, you!

You're only thinking
about yourself.

Try and understand my side.

This is my opportunity.

That's enough, Mr. Steinberg.

You are excused, Hudson.

What do you mean, "excused"?

'Cause I own a third of the
movie and Leo owns another,

where does that leave you?

With 2/3.

It was part of the deal.

In return for my rights,

I was given a 7-year contract

at the end of the series.

In my place, you would
have done the same.

You rat.

I'm sorry.

How did I splash you?

Like this?

I've been trying to figure out

what color your hair is.

It's clear.

School's over, Richard?

No more grade 9, Charlie.

At least 'til next year.

Hi, Ricky.

Free ride on my handlebars
if you come out this week.

Could we get that Coke
some other time, Richard?

I really must be running.

In one terrible moment,

I realized that I had reached
a point of no return.

It was nice to meet you.

In a pair of swimming trunks,

I was a man in the eyes
of a woman.

But on dry land
on the seat of a Schwinn,

the illusion was broken.

From that moment on,
my childhood was over.

I began to dress the part,
act the part.

And I moved into the adult world
with its adult veterans.

But when I fled blindly from the
office of the man almost in tears,

I knew that I was still a child
in an adult world.

People like Leo and the man
feed on men like me.

And borrow our dreams
for their own ends

because they're too grown up
to have any dreams of their own.

Like getting rid of a moth.

A moth will follow a light.

You can lead them
right out the door

if you know the trick.

Watch it, pal.

When the porch light
is finally switched off,

the moth is out in the cold
and cannot understand

what happened to
all the pretty lights.

5 minutes under a cold shower
and 3 cups of instant coffee

peeled away several layers
of drunkenness.

I felt mildly exhilarated,
light, strong, and angry.

Leo was, after all
was said and done, a genius.

If his nose was to be broken,

it should be done so
respectfully.

Now is the time
for all good and bad

to come to the aid
of their party.

Right-o, Mr. Hudson.

He couldn't wait.

He couldn't wait
to get his damn clown back.

Good evening, Mr. Hudson.

Working late tonight?

Look forward to
seeing your movie.

What are you doing in my office?

I wanted to see you, Richard.

Ok, you've seen me.
Now get out.

Not until I've talked to you.

Go ahead and talk, then.

Throughout her little speech,

I pulled out all
of the mimeographed copies

of "The Man Who Got Away."

The scripts would make
an excellent fire.

This time you're
gonna listen to me.

Talk fast. I'm
leaving in a minute.

No, you're not going anywhere.

I'm pregnant.

Yeah? Go on.

You have to marry me, Richard.

No.

I've been going crazy.

I couldn't see you. I couldn't
get you on the telephone.

I even wrote you a letter.

We get a lot of crank
letters at the studio.

You don't understand.

I'm gonna have a baby.

Our baby, Richard.

Does the light bother you?

The studio has a
campaign, you know,

saving electricity.

Somewhere in this library

in 4 cans my movie
was filed away,

but it would take too long
to find it.

It was much easier to burn
the entire library.

After burning down the studio,

I was thirsty and lonely.

By accident I happened to select
a fairy hangout,

but that didn't bother me.

It wasn't that I wanted
contact companionship,

male, female, or in between,

I just wanted to be near people.

Tell the boy to sing it again.

Yes, sir.

It's a very popular song here.

♪ My buddy ♪

♪ My buddy ♪

♪ Nobody... ♪

My buddy.

My buddy Leo...

♪ My pal ♪

Thank you, sir,
and God bless you.

One minute, Captain.

I'm gonna give you
some more money,

but you're gonna have to wait

until the waiter
brings me some change.

All ones.

♪ I dream about you ♪

How long have you
been doing this?

Almost 25 years now,

but my husband had more
than 30 years of service

before he died.

We traveled all
through Europe together.

Why should
she tell me indirectly

she was a widow?

I had merely asked
an indifferent question

to have someone to talk
to for a couple minutes.

But our favorite was L.A.

Why hadn't I ever suspected Leo

the way I suspected
this poor, innocent woman

for no reason at all?

Would you like
a cold drink, Captain?

And then I had to know.

No.

Bring a Coke for the officer

and another one of these for me.

I had to make the test.

And then I would truly know
once and for all.

I've got a deal for you.

Who do you think you are?

How dare you.

After two more drinks apiece,

it was time for the test.

Just incredibly rude.

When was the last time
you had a man?

No, keep your...

I'm all right.

You might enjoy the evening.

In the end,
we settled on 150 cash.

I would have gone higher,
much higher.

I had no feelings of triumph.

She had her price, just like
everybody else I had ever known.

Like Leo, the one man
in the world I had respected

for incorruptible integrity.

I had Rio over,

and she clacked away,
loquacious with excitement

of the unaccustomed liquor.

It began to sink in:

Anyone and everyone
could be bought.

I remember I used to take
money from my mother's purse.

Started out with pennies,

and then I moved up to nickels,

and then I finally
took some dimes,

and I felt really bad
about that.

Captain Louise Havershaw,

widow, saver of souls,
and now at the age of 53,

call girl.

All at once I knew I couldn't
go through with it.

8:00 wake-up call, room 101.

Well, not the face of a failure
surely.

Somehow I had gotten reality

mixed up with a dream,
a bad dream.

Now that the dream was over,
I had to get back to work,

sell cars, as many of them
as possible

so I could get even again,
get Honest Al even again.

Movies were not for me,
Richard Hudson.

My kind of artistry
was salesmanship,

the selling of used cars.

Bill, come out here!

Are these men
supposed to be salesmen?

Sure, Richard, they're
working for us.

Not anymore. Tell them
to turn in their suits

and head for the showers.

Pay 'em off.

I resolved
to sell the first person

who stepped on my lot
an automobile

whether I lost money or not.

In my mind, I set a goal
of 10 cars for the first day.

And then I heard the siren.

Wanted for public indecency,

embezzlement, arson, assault,
destruction of public property.

God rest ye merry gentlemen.

Ho ho ho!

And that's what I learned

about storytelling
at Mammoth Studios.

A likeable and sympathetic hero,

one who affords a good measure
of your identification...

That's me, all right.

Is faced with the necessity
of solving

a serious and urgent problem

which affects
his vital interests.

The hero makes an effort
to solve this problem,

but this only succeeds
in making matters worse.

That is a take.

Is it?

Finally there's an integrated
series of complications

which build up an intensity until a
definite point of crisis is reached.

It is here the viewer cannot
possibly understand

how the hero
can possibly succeed.

But he does.