All language subtitles for See.How_.They_.Run_.2022.1080p.WEB-DL.DDP5_.1.Atmos_.H.264

Agatha Christie's
The Mousetrap.

In my opinion, a second-rate
murder mystery.

Not that I've seen it,
you understand.

But it's a whodunit.

You've seen one,
you've seen 'em all.

You know the drill.

An interminable prologue

in which
all the key players
are introduced.

You get a sense
of the world they inhabit,

and then
the most unlikable character
gets bumped off.

There's been
a murder?

Cue the entrance
of a world-weary detective,

who comes in
and pokes his nose around.

Talks to witnesses.
Takes a couple of wrong turns.

And then gathers
all the suspects
in the drawing room

and points the finger
at the least likely chump

because of the way the guy,

I don't know,

ties his shoelaces.

Now you've seen our play,
you're an accomplice
to murder.

And so,
we ask you to remember

that it is very much
in your interests

not to tell a soul outside
of this theater who done it.

But what do I know?

The Limeys,
they just lap it up.

The play's a smash hit.

Not to mention a cash cow.

Right there is
the milkmaid in chief,
Petula Spencer.

This lavish affair
is a party to celebrate
the 100th performance.

No wonder film producer
John Woolf

wants to turn the play
into a major motion picture.

Here he is now in the arms
of his slightly paranoid wife.

I sense that death
is close at hand.

It's probably
just a draft.

This is where
I come in.

Leo Kopernick's the name.

Big-shot Hollywood director.

Hired to make
the film adaptation

marginally less boring
than the play.

Easier said than done
when the writer's
a giant pompous ass.

Mervyn Cocker-Norris.

I say,
you're rather tall.

Am I? Haven't really
thought about it,
to be honest.

Is that what
happened here?

Sort of. I had
a bit of an accident
backstage.

Sure, he's educated
and he knows
a lot of $10 words,

but it's like
he's never seen
a film before,

let alone try to write one.

Oh, ma vattinne!

Chi e chistu?

No one important.

Omm, femmina o bestia,
basta che respira!

You know, at times
you do rather overdo
the temperamental Neapolitan.

That's a nice jacket.

Say, why don't you
scare me up a real drink,
will you, kid?

Like a pint of rye
or bourbon or motor oil,
if you have to.

Yeah. Hop to it,
now, huh?

In England, that actually
counts as good service.

I was stationed here
during the war

and, if anything,
the locals are
more uptight now

than when they had
the Luftwaffe overhead.

Mervyn?

Shouldn't you
be home?

I thought we had
a deadline.

I thought so too.

But then
our esteemed director
tore up the screenplay

and told me to start
all over again.

He's of the opinion
that a modern audience
will walk out in protest

if they're not served
at least one violent death
in the opening frames.

Suffice to say,
we are no longer
on speaking terms.

Merv!

London's most
sensitive writer.

How is
The Mousetrap, huh?

Did they catch
the guy who did it?

I will not stand here
and be insulted.

Well, I guess
he's gonna go over there
and be insulted.

Huh.

What passes for glamour
in these parts.

Sheila Sim
and Dickie Attenborough.

Kid likes the sound
of his own voice.

Even money,
he makes a speech.

I suppose
I ought to say
a few words.

Not too many.

And when have I ever?
Our wedding, remember?

We almost missed
the honeymoon.

Yes.

Darlings,
you're ever so kind.

I'd like to ask
you all to raise
a metaphorical bat

to the old pavilion.

The Mousetrap is 100,
not out.

- Cheers!
- Cheers!

I tell you
what else is 100 not out.

Petula's mother.

The old kook's
just crazy about seafood.

They just brought out
more langoustines.

Excuse me,
I just need to
deal with that.

Mother! Please,

you've had
quite enough.
Hi.

Now, I'm not one
to tell tales
out of school,

but the girls over here,

they go wild
for an American accent

and the promise
of a pair of nylons.

But the husbands...

Right. I think it's time
someone taught you
a lesson.

...they're not
so easily won over.

It's only fair to warn you
that I learned to box
in the RAF.

Yeah? Well, I learned
to fly a plane
in Gleason's Gym.

All of which explains,
in an admittedly
roundabout fashion,

how I come to be
in the theater's
backstage area

in need of
a change of clothes.

Hello?

Hello?

Aw, jeez.

I guess I should have
seen this coming.

It's always the most
unlikable character
who gets bumped off.

It's a whodunit.

You've seen one,
you've seen 'em all.

We're closed.

Clear off.

Honestly.

Oh, I'm so sorry, sir.
Inspector, uh, Stoppard, sir.

Sorry, I was under
strict instructions
not to let anyone in.

Just open the door.

Yes, sir. Of course.
Sorry, I didn't
recognize you, sir.

I've actually,
uh, just been
transferred myself.

Thought it was
Leeke and Priestley
on rotation tonight.

Careful, sir.

In you come.

Constable.
Stalker, sir.

God, you're all
wet through, sir.

Hope you don't
catch a cold
after that.

Yep, after you, sir.

Victim's name is
Leo Kopernick, sir.
The film director.

Suspected Communist,
blacklisted
in Hollywood,

so he came out here
to work on a picture
for John Woolf.

You know John Woolf,
the film producer.

He made
The African Queen
with Humphrey Bogart.

"Nature, Mr. Allnut,

"is what we are
put in this world
to rise above."

That didn't sound
anything like Bogart.

No, that was
Katharine Hepburn, sir.
She's in it too.

Wonderful actress.

I go to the pictures
quite a lot, actually.

It's the escape,
I suppose.

The romance of
the silver screen.

Yes, thank you, Constable.

Yes, sir.

Eh, signs of a struggle.

Actually, sir,
I believe that happened

when Mrs. Boyle
was killed.

Mrs. Boyle? Who's...

Yes, sir. Um...

She's that woman
in the front row there.

Well, she seems
to have bounced back.

Oh.

Sorry, sir. No,
she was killed in the play.
Also strangled.

Not that I've seen it,
although I would like to.

It's an Agatha Christie,
and I do like
a good murder.

Yes, thank you, Constable.

Yes, sir.

A ski did that, sir.

They use it
in the play,
apparently.

As I said,
I haven't seen it.

And then the large dent
in the cranium
is a sewing machine.

Seems he was killed
in the costume store
initially,

and then he was
deposited here.

Staged,
so to speak.

Sorry, sir.

Yeah, that's the ski
that he took
in the face, sir.

And, uh, I'm afraid
it was downhill
from there.

Oh. Sorry, sir.

That one just came out
on its own.

Seems he came
down here

for a change
of clothes.

Why?

It was a party to celebrate
the 100th performance, sir.

The other nought
must have...

When the victim
upset the sponge.

Um, and he then proceeded
to sit in the assortment
of crustaceans.

I'm told he was
intoxicated, sir,
as a newt.

This was actually
a lot more fun than
I thought it would be.

Then he left. No one
saw him again until
the body was discovered.

That's correct, sir.

Perhaps they were
all in on it together, sir?

Hmm.

Looks like the killer
tried to pull out
the victim's tongue.

Why would anyone
do a thing like that?

Excuse me,
Chief Inspector.

It's just
"Inspector."

Yes. Of course.
Inspector.

I hate to interrupt,
I do.

There really is
nothing worse...

Petula Spencer, sir.
Prominent theater
impresario.

Yes, thank you,
Constable.

Tell me, how much longer
do you intend to keep us
all hostage here?

Or is that
the idea?

"Let the galled
jade wince."

Gather all
the suspects
under one roof

and then interrogate
each of us in turn until
the mystery is solved?

Mervyn Cocker-Norris,
overrated playwright.

Celebrated
playwright.

Oh, I'm so sorry, sir.

I can't read
me own handwriting.

Not that
we are suspects,
necessarily.

Are we suspects?

It was just
a reference to
Agatha Christie

and her penchant
for denouement,

in which the detective
gathers the susp...

I dare say,
that's not...

Please continue.
Yes, thank you, Mervyn.

Inspector,
I want you to know

that I have nothing
but the utmost respect

for the Metropolitan Police.

But, well, do you think
you might be finished

in time for curtain up
tomorrow night?

Oh, for goodness' sake.

John Woolf,
esteemed
film producer.

Yes, thank you,
Constable.

This is
a murder
investigation.

Surely that
takes precedence,
sold out or not.

Yes, it's all going
to plan for you,
isn't it, Woolfie?

You want the run to end.

I want nothing
of the sort.

It's the decent thing
to do, that's all.

Close the theater
out of respect for Leo.

Such a tragic loss.

Inspector,
I implore you
not to overreact.

I would hate
to have to go
over your head and

talk directly
to your superiors.

Oh, we wouldn't
want that, now,
would we, madam?

But I'm afraid that
under the circumstances,

as a precaution...
Precaution?

He's already dead.

He is, madam.

But until we have an idea
as to a likely motive,

who's to say
this is the end
of it?

What is that
supposed to mean?

We are no longer
merely suspects.

We are also
potential victims.

Oh.

Mmm.

Oh, God,
I wasn't in that, was I?
I must look dreadful.

Excuse me, sir.

Stoppard!

My office.

Hello, sir.

What in God's name
possessed you

to close down
the Ambassadors?

Uh, protocol, sir.
It's a crime scene.

No, it's a public relations
disaster, is what it is.

Public what, sir?

Stalker!
Sir.

Not to put too
fine a point on...

Yes, please.
Here.

Not to put
too fine a point
on it, Inspector,

but your latest blunder
is front page news.

Fleet Street
is all over this,

like hot jam
on a Devonshire scone.

You are slap-bang
in the crosshairs.

Now, we need to do
everything we can

to make sure the bullet
doesn't miss you and hit me.

Yeah, of course, sir. Yes.
Good.

Then you'll inform
the theater at once.

Well, I thought
as a precaution, I...

The Home Secretary

is a close, personal friend
of Agatha Christie.

His brother-in-law
is Rex Harrison.

Wonderful actor.

Yes, thank you, Constable.
Sir.

It's actually worked
in our favor to have the press
distracted like this.

It means we can keep a lid on
the Rillington Place murders.

Rillington Place murders.
Yes. What's that?

Blimey.

Haven't you heard?

We have
a serial killer
on the loose.

You didn't think
all of this was for you,
now, did you?

No, of course...
No.

Of course not.

Well, have all the resources
been allocated
to this other investigation?

No, not all of them, no.

I understand you,
uh, met WPC Stalker
last night?

I did, yes.

Constable.
Inspector.

A very capable
officer.

Or at least she will be
once she gets
the proper instruction.

Sorry, sir,
I'm not sure I, uh...

You don't mean
you want me to...

Yes, I do. I'd like you
to show her the ropes.

I'm hoping some of her
enthusiasm for police work
might rub off on you.

But the, uh, bullet, sir.
Is that why...

This is not
a debate, Stoppard.

I have a reputation
as a modernizer.

I have to be seen
to keep it up.

I have said in public

that I think
women are the future
of the force.

Absolutely, sir,
I agree.

But we're not looking

for stolen sweets...
Sweets.

...or a lost
bleeding bicycle.

This is
a murder investigation,
and she is inexperienced.

They were
inexperienced
in the war.

Ask Jerry
how that turned out.

Yes, sir. But, uh...

That...
Huh?

...will be all.
Thank you.

Commissioner.
Inspector.

Constable.
Inspector.

Commissioner.
Constable.

Um, sorry again
about last night, sir.

With the rain
and everything...

Water under
the bridge, Constable.
No harm done.

You all right?

Yeah. Do we have
an address
for the victim?

Yep. It is
"Laurel Canyon,
Hollywood, USA."

Where was he staying
in England, Constable?

Oh. Um...

Right.

If I am honest,
Monsieur Kopernick,

he was not
a very good guest.

In arrears,
was he?

La, non,
but he did not pay
for his room.

Monsieur Woolf did.

Hmm.

What part of France
are you from, sir?

Belgium.

Ah, right.

Oh, my, my.

What a bloody pigsty.

They don't clean
the rooms
at the Savoy?

Helas, not this one.

Hmm.

The maids,
they refuse.

We offer them more money,
but still they say non.

There was

an incident.

Always avec
Monsieur Kopernick,
there was an incident.

Hmm.

Ooh.

Thank you,
Constable.

Oh. Sorry, sir.

Did one of these incidents
ever turn violent?

Oui. Une fois.

How dare you
call me a bad writer!

I didn't say that.
I said it's bad writing.

I did the best
I could within the confines
of the genre,

and Woolf loved it!

Woolf wouldn't know
a good script if it came up
and bit him on the ass.

It's horseshit!
No, it isn't!
Not all of it!

All right, what I read
is horseshit!

You mean you didn't
even finish it?

I read enough, pal,

to know that
nobody gets killed
in the first 10 pages!

You charlatan!
Give it back!

Listen. Listen to me. Listen!
Give...

We need to go
in a completely
different direction!

I'll kill you for this,
Kopernick, you bastard!

That's that then, sir.
It's as good
as a confession.

Let's not jump
to conclusions,
Constable.

No, sir.

The least we can do is
talk to this other party.

Yes, sir.
Cocker-Norris, sir.

Tell me,
do you write
everything down

in that little notebook?

Only if it's
important, sir.

How do you know
if it's important?

Well,

uh, I'll just sort of
put everything in
as we go,

and then down the line
when we know
what's important,

we'll know
that it's already
in the notebook.

So you do write
everything down.

Yeah, everything.

That's what I thought.

Make yourself
comfortable.

You're just in time
for elevenses.

Oh.

Oh!

You must excuse
the desordre,

it's research for
the film adaptation.

Police statements,
court reports,
newspaper cuttings.

The Mousetrap is
actually based on
a real-life case.

Nettle tea?

I appreciate you've
not yet had time
to come to terms

with the death of
Mr. Kopernick, but...

Is it true
his tongue was
pulled out?

I'm afraid I can't
divulge details

of an ongoing
investigation.

It was disgusting.

Amore, non pozzo
fatica cosi!

What?

E na cos' 'e pazz!

That's Gio.
Nephew of mine.
Very hotheaded.

I wonder if it isn't
all the fumes.

You know,
from the chemicals.

He's an amateur taxidermist.

He has a fascination
with the macabre.

I call it his
Stymphalian Bird series.

Hmm.

Macabre in a strictly
"ornithological" sense,
that is.

You wanted to ask me
about Leo?

We heard
there was an argument
at the Savoy,

and I noticed you had
the other half of this.

Inspector,
that was a contretemps,
nothing more.

Read that part.
Yeah.

"I'll kill you for this,
Kopernick, you bastard."

Well, obviously, I...

Taken out of context, I...

Those words were spoken
in anger and under
extreme provocation.

We had creative differences,
that's all.

Hmm.

How did you
like The Mousetrap?

Oh, yeah, the play?
Mmm.

Yeah, I, uh...
I didn't see it yet.

Well, if you'd like,

I can precis this...
No, no, no.

I got the basics.
It's a whodunit, right?

So, you got
a dead body,
a detective,

and then all the suspects
rather conveniently

end up in a remote
country house together.

In a nutshell.

Our task will be to
present this improbable
series of events

to an audience of
moderate intelligence

in a manner
that does not cause
too much offense.

Easy.

Flashbacks.

No.

No what?

No flashbacks.

They are crass, lazy,
and they interrupt

the flow of the story.

In my opinion,
they are the last refuge
of a moribund imagination.

Whatever next?

A caption that says,
"Three weeks later"?

Merv. Merv,
will you come on?

This is crazy.
Will you open the door?

I'm not coming out
until Woolf gets here.

What is it this time?

I'll tell you
what it is.

I pitched
a new ending,

Cockamamie-Novice over here
locks himself in the bathroom.

Is this instead
of the car chase?

As well as.

I think he thinks
"denouement" is French
for "shootout."

Will you at least
hear me out first,

and then tell me
you don't like it?

Come on,
I storyboarded it for you.
Come on, have a seat.

Why can't we just
have the detective gather
everyone in the drawing room

and then
reveal to them
who did it?

Why? 'Cause it's old,
it's tired.

It's been done
a thousand times.

So then who explains
to the audience
what on Earth's going on?

No one.

I don't know.
The killer.

Now you see
what I have to
put up with?

Will you please
have a seat?

So, a remote
country house.

We got all the, uh,
suspects gathered in
the drawing room, right?

So far, soporific.

Suddenly,
the lights go out.

Our hero grips
his Colt Special,
edges into the hall.

The killer's got a hostage,
can't get a clear shot.

Suddenly, kaboom!

The place goes up
in flames.

Blam! Blam!

Our hero
plugs the killer.

One in the gut!

One in the knee!

Then, all of a sudden...

His goddamned gun jams.

He's a sittin' duck.

Sorry, not that one.

I'm sorry about this.

He's a sittin' duck.

Our killer,
dying but not dead,

takes aim.

Boom! He fires.

Out of nowhere,

our hero cop's partner
dives in slow motion!

Takes a bullet!

Our hero cradles his partner
like a father would his child.

His face
a gumbo of emotions.

We hold on the inferno,

and we pan left,
to a dead butler.

Hank Williams plays us out.

I Saw The Light.

You hate it.
No, no,
I don't hate it.

But you don't love it.
Of course he doesn't!

It's preposterous

and totally out of keeping
with the rest of the film.

Oh, who cares?

The audience
only ever remembers
the last 20 minutes.

Oh, poppycock.

Uh, Hitchcock,
actually.

How does
he get the gun?

He's a cop!

Uh, police are
not armed in England.

What?
How do they kill
the bad guys?

They don't.

They ask them to stop
in the name of the law.

Huh.

Well, he fought
in the war,

so he kept
his service revolver.

God damn it,
we're gonna have to
pick this up another time.

Say, uh, Merv.

You wouldn't want to
lend me this pad,
would you?

Just for the night.

Only I got this dame
parked outside
I wanna impress.

As in,
she actually
is a dame.

And, well, you know.

My place ain't exactly
the Savoy.

I thought his place
exactly was the Savoy.

No, he didn't take up
residence there
till a month later.

And the production company
footed the bill when he did.

How he finagled that,
I'll never know.

Either I need a new agent,
or he had dirt on Woolf.

Hmm.

Did you ever meet
these women?

Who were they?

Oh, girls he met
during the war

who had low standards
and even lower self-esteem.

I never had the pleasure.

Oh, wait.

Tell a lie.

Merv! Come on.

When I said we should
tear up the script,

I didn't mean literally!

Hello, Leo.

What is that
doing here?

He was
Kopernick's son!

Peas in a pod.

And the mother?

I didn't get a good look.
A plain girl, rather homely.

Dark hair, glasses,

thick lenses.

So there we have it, sir.
Cherchez la femme.

What?

It's Belgian, sir.
It means,
"Look for the woman."

I know what it means,
Constable. What woman?

The mother
of Kopernick's
illegitimate son.

Cocker-Norris
couldn't remember
her name,

but I bet it's in
that little black book.

You know,
the one that you found
in the hotel room, sir.

If we find her,
we have our answer.

We need to get
a police sketch artist
down here at once

before he forgets
anything.

Mmm. I'm doing it again,
aren't I, sir?

Jumping to conclusions.
Conclusions, yeah.

Little bit.

Sorry.

Constable.

I have a very important
mission for you.

Mmm-hmm.

I need you to find
a telephone box.

Call the station.

Get an address
for John Woolf,
the film producer.

And I'll wait
for you here.

Uh, "Romulus Films, Soho,"
sir. I wrote it down.

You did?
Mmm-hmm.

Right.

Well done.
Thank you.

Shall we?

Uh, telegram
came for you.

Bad news?

It's the studio.

Grace Kelly's doing
a Hitchcock picture
for Warner,

so it's Dial M for
Maybe Next Time.

Grace Kelly?
Yes.

For the part
you promised Sheila?

Yes, that's right.

Which is why
this is such
good news.

Ann?

Darling,
what's the matter?

You do know a promise
is only a promise
if you keep it.

What do you mean?

I mean you promised me
a night out months ago.

I have been
so busy lately.

Yes, I know.
I am your assistant.

I promise,
as