All language subtitles for Night Gallery S02E12 Cool Air.DVDRip.NonHI.en.UNVSL

SERLING: Staring tonight:

Barbara Rush,

Ross Martin,

Henry Darrow,

René Auberjonois,

and Marty Allan.

To the shoppers, the hunters,

the sifters and winnowers,

to those of you who comprise that
vast fraternity of picture-watchers,

we offer you this salon of the
special and the supernatural.

Painting number one.
It has to do with death,

usually the last chapter
in every man's book of life.

The ashes and the dust, the tomb
and the engraving on the stone.

Death the finale.

But our first painting
offers up a tale

with the final curtain
not quite the final curtain.

There's an epilogue.

We offer you now a
little item called Cool Air.

Tonight's first painting
in the Night Gallery.

Once a year I visit his grave,

a ritual born of
habit and, I suppose,

some fleeting little
ghost of obligation.

Fleeting, for it was over 50
years ago that I knew him,

and there are times
when I find it difficult

to remember his face
or the sound of his voice.

And the circumstances are
indistinct around the edges,

like an aging photograph,

clouding and
yellowing with the years.

But I remember the cool air.

I remember it with
a special horror,

an icy draft that still
whistles across half a century

like a mournful dirge,

a fitting kind of music

to this man.

Yes?

Is there a Professor Munoz here?

Who's asking?

Howard, Agatha Howard.

He's expecting you?

Well, no, not exactly.

Well, not exactly isn't
good enough for me, sister.

The doctor don't like visitors.

Oh, no, I'm sure
he'd want to see me.

He and my father
were acquaintances.

Just tell him Professor Howard

from the Massachusetts
Institute of Technology.

The Massachusetts
Institute of Technology?

Tell him yourself, sister. I got
enough getting myself upstairs

without dragging the Massachusetts
Institute of Technology with me.

This way.

I don't know why I have to climb
these stairs all day long in this heat.

Up and down, up and
down, that's all I do.

Smell that?

Yes.

Ammonia.

I never could understand foreigners,
and this one I understand least.

He's got a refrigeration
machine in there uses ammonia.

Well, the darn thing
leaks half the time and

that machine keeps
the whole house awake.

If he wasn't paying me so much rent
and paying it as promptly as he does,

well, he wouldn't be
occupying three of my rooms.

Could you knock?

Don't be impatient, sister. I have a
feeling you'll be wanting to leave soon.

What do you mean?

You'll see.

Cold as a grave, like a tomb.

Yes?

You got a visitor, Doctor.
Says you know her father.

Yes?

I'm Professor Walter
Howard's daughter, Doctor.

From MIT. Please come in.

Thank you very
much, Mrs. Gibbons.

House rules, Doctor.

When a young
ladies comes visiting,

the door stays open.

Applicable when it is young men that
the young ladies are visiting. Thank you.

It's delightfully
cool in here, Doctor.

Well, I keep a refrigerating
machine on most of the time.

Please sit down, Miss Howard.

Thank you.

I have heard that your father...

Yes. Last summer.
A sudden heart attack.

I'm deeply sorry. He was
an exceptionally astute man.

We'd had much
correspondence together.

Yes, I'm aware of that.

Well, as a matter of fact, a few weeks
ago, I was sorting out some of his papers.

Several universities have
requested that I donate them.

Well, anyway, I was trying to
isolate some of the personal things

and that's when I
came across your letters.

The last one was
dated about a year ago.

Just about the time I
first arrived from Spain.

Well, I didn't know whether or
not you'd heard about his death,

so I took the
liberty of calling.

So you...

You read all the
correspondence between us?

Yes. Yes, I found
them fascinating.

You and my father shared
something in common.

You both refused to
accept the finality of death.

Your father was doing
cellular research, Miss Howard,

the rejuvenation of organs.

I'm afraid my own approach
took the research a step further,

perhaps into the mystic.

Yes, so you said in your letter.

Something about human
will staving off death.

Coming from such a
warm climate, Doctor,

it's odd how you
prefer the cold.

Did I say I preferred it?

Well, it would seem that you do.
The temperature in here must be...

Let us say then that I prefer
it to death, Miss Howard.

My illness was of a rare
form. It left me very vulnerable.

I can't survive temperatures
over 55 degrees, Miss Howard.

It's as simple as that.

I know how uncomfortable
you must feel,

but I do thank you for coming.

Well, I hope that I'll have a
chance to talk to you again.

Perhaps we could
have dinner together?

That would be very
enjoyable for me, Miss Howard,

but unfortunately I don't
leave my rooms here.

Ever?

Ever. I'm afraid I'm imprisoned.

A most comfortable penitentiary, with
my books, my paintings, my research,

but a solitary
confinement at best.

Well, then you'll have to
invite me for dinner here.

Here?

That would be a
great pleasure for me.

Well, perhaps I should
ask... Are you married?

Well, I'm a widower,
Miss Howard.

My wife...

She died a year
after I was taken ill.

She was lovely.

She was, indeed.

She...

Please...

Please call on me again
whenever you are free, Miss Howard.

I would very much
like to see you.

And when you come, I'll
supply a coat and gloves for you

for the duration
of your visit here.

I'll bring my own.

I'll look forward to it.

Until next time, Doctor.

Thank you.

Forgive me, Miss Howard,

but like the room, my
touch is uncomfortably cold.

But I am sure, Doctor, like
the man, I will find it warm.

You are very dear, Miss Howard.

Lips and touch, both
cold beyond description,

and yet the man
was warm, sensitive.

And I found myself
instinctively liking him

and somehow moved by
him, moved by his loneliness,

his isolation.

And I carried with
me an impression

of a man full of
all the fiery passion

peculiar to vibrant men

but enclosed by walls of ice.

I know how fragile is
life and how temporal.

But in the case of Dr. Munoz,

it seemed to be measured in the
piston strokes of a small engine.

And those walls of ice,
did they imprison him,

or did they protect him from
death waiting impatiently outside?

Now El Greco, he was the
mystic of the Spanish painters,

but his people bore
no relationship to reality.

On the other hand, Velázquez,

a court painter to Philip IV,
was much more rooted to reality.

Well, just look at his
painting of the infantas.

But towering over both of
them, Agatha, must be Goya.

Goya to me is el
corazón de España,

the heart of Spain

but even more than that,
the brush and palette of man.

You look for example at the
May Third Execution, 1808.

This was all the horror
of war put on canvas,

the brutality, the
slaughter, the damnation.

I went there frequently
after our first meeting,

and I could sit by the
hour, listening to him.

He talked of art, of
sculpture, of Spanish history.

It was as if all the
richness of his knowledge,

all the passion of man
had been stored up,

and by my presence,
I had released it.

It came out in a torrent,

and I found myself getting more
and more accustomed to the cold.

So, as is so often the case,

necessity becomes
the mother of invention.

And survival, you might
say, the father of desperation.

We cling to life, don't we?

And why not?

The alternative? A life after?

How can we be sure?

What about reincarnation?

It holds charm, does it? To come
back as a donkey or a rooster or a duck?

No, Agatha, this is
the life that counts.

It's the only one
that has substance.

It's the only one
we can be sure of.

And that is why we clutch at
it so jealously and so selfishly,

because we know it to be
brief and very precarious.

My wife, she believed as I did

that you could forestall death,
defeat it by strength of will.

She must have
had an infinite faith.

Not quite infinite I'm afraid.

She committed
suicide a year after...

Well, the year after my illness.

Which perhaps isn't as
inconsistent as it sounds.

Her faith in man had to
do with her ability to survive

and her own free will to reject
or accept death as she saw fit.

And there have been
times recently when...

When I have found
myself wondering.

It was a week later,

a week smothered in
an insufferable heat.

I'd come into town unexpectedly

and I'd brought
Dr. Munoz a little gift.

Juan?

Juan, I've brought
a surprise for you.

You mentioned not being
able to get real Spanish olive oil.

Forgive me, Agatha. I'm not...

I'm not feeling
well this evening.

Is there anything I can do?

Juan? Do you need anything?

Juan I'm at the Hotel Astor.
Call me if you need me.

Did you see him?

No. No, he wasn't feeling well.

When did you see him last?

Last week. Why?

Well, yesterday afternoon
there was a repairman up there.

His machine was
on the blink again.

Well, that repairman came
down the stairs four at a time

and then he took the door
with him when he went.

I don't understand.

He was scared.

I've never seen any man
that scared in all my life.

Of what?

That's what I'd like to know.

But it had something
to do with the doctor.

I'm sure you're exaggerating
this, Mrs. Gibbons.

Oh, am I? Well, try telling
that to the repairman.

Well, it seems like we're
going to have a storm.

Well, maybe it'll break
this terrible heat spell.

And what a storm!

That part of the nightmare
I shall never forget.

For the thunder seemed like
some massive earthquake.

I was in my hotel room
and another sound intruded.

A new note to the
orchestrated terror of that night.

Yes?

Agatha? Please, please
come immediately.

Juan? What is it, Juan?

I need you. Please,
you must hurry.

Juan?

Juan?

Who is it?

It's Agatha Howard.
Please, please, let me in.

Thank God you've come.

He's been pounding on that
fool machine half the night.

Can't you turn the lights on?

No, the storm has
shut off the electricity.

See?

Between that and the thunder, it's a
wonder the whole house isn't awake.

Juan?

Agatha.

The piston on the pump is stuck.

Find a mechanic. I
must get it started again.

Juan, let me in first.
I must talk to you.

Juan? What's happening?

I told you. The
machine has stopped.

The temperature is rising.

No!

You mustn't touch me.

You mustn't even look at me.

Agatha, please,
find me a mechanic.

I've been phoning half the night.
No one will come up at this hour.

Oh, but surely,
Juan, in the morning...

In the morning
it'll be too late!

Now, do you understand? That
engine must be fixed tonight.

I'll do what I can.

Why is he hammering like
that? What's the matter with him?

Where can I find a mechanic?

At 3:00 in the morning?

Is there anyone in the building?

Well, there's Charlie Crowley
down here on the first floor.

He works in a garage.

But he won't take
kindly to you waking...

He...

Mr. Crowley? Mr. Crowley?

Why don't the lights work?
Where's that flashlight?

In the drawer.

All right.

What is it?

Mr. Crowley, it's Dr. Munoz,
just above you. He needs help.

Help? What kind of help?

He has a gasoline engine, a
refrigeration machine, and it stopped.

Well, what am I
supposed to do about it?

Please, please, just take a look
at it. He must get it started again.

Lady, I don't know whether you
know it or not, but it must be near dawn,

and I got to get
up at 7:00 as it is.

Oh, please!

Who is it, Charlie?

Oh, it's some
friend of Dr. Munoz.

Tell them to make
him stop that racket.

Please, please,
just take a look at it.

All right, lady, all right. Wait till
I get some tools. Wait a minute.

Everybody wants something
this hour of the morning.

Go ahead. With Dr. Munoz...

I don't know what time it
is and I've got to get up...

It's open.

What smells?

It's incense.

It's over there.

Agatha, please.

I think it best that
you leave immediately.

I can't do anything.
That pump arm is shot.

Well, can you get one?

Not at this hour.

You'll just have to make do
until the supply house opens.

Ice, can you get me ice?

Mister, the only thing I'm
gonna get now is some sleep.

Agatha, please.

I must have ice. A lot of it.

Then in the morning I can
have the machine repaired.

I'll see to it,
Juan. Right away.

That's the last of it, Doc.
Want me to bring it in there?

No. Just leave.
I'll get it myself.

Where do you want the bill?

Put it on the table.

Excuse me, Miss,
are you related to him?

Well, I was just wondering.

He's locked himself
up in that bathroom

with like 300
pounds of ice in there

and I was just wondering
what the deal was.

I mean, what's a guy
use that much ice for?

I'm afraid I wouldn't know.

Juan? Juan? Are you all right?

I'm afraid the ice
isn't working anymore.

It's getting warmer.
The tissues can't last.

Juan, I just spoke
to the supply house.

They have to send down to
the Battery for a new pump arm,

but the man assured
me they could have it here

within an hour and a half.

Were it no more than 15
minutes, it would still come too late.

Juan. Juan, please,
please, let me fetch a doctor.

Agatha, I am a doctor.

"Physician, heal thyself."
Isn't that the phrase?

Juan, please. Please,
Juan, come out.

Juan, I must see you.

You must see me?

I think that very unwise.

I've changed considerably
in the past few hours.

You remember what I was telling
you about the will and the nerves?

How we could delay death even
after the organs ceased to work?

It was an interesting theory.
But unfortunately, only a theory.

You see, dear Agatha, it
can't keep up indefinitely.

There is a gradual
deterioration of the organs.

However you preserve the outer shell,
the organs, they simply don't work again.

The best I could
hope for was for

a kind of artificial
preservation.

Juan! Juan! Juan, please!

Let me finish. I mentioned
my wife's suicide.

Do you understand now why
life became so unbearable for her?

No, no, I don't understand.

I only know that
I must help you.

Juan, you're not going
to die, and I won't let you.

You don't understand,
dear Agatha.

My wife committed suicide

because

she couldn't stand living

with a corpse.

You see, my darling,

I died that time,

ten years ago.

Juan! Juan! Please! Juan!

Yes, each year I visit his grave

and I wonder if I'm
mourning something that was

or something that
might have been.

But I won't ponder the question.

What might have been
embraces elements of horror

that could drive me insane.

And as always, I find any
icy draft of wind unbearable.

It conjures up images, memories,

remembrances of the nightmare.

It's a funeral dirge
that sings of death.

And so I'll leave.

We branch out a bit this evening and
move a few feet away from the usual

and get into the
area of photography.

Now, this painting here had
best be viewed in a dark room,

because it conjures up the
ghostly, the ghastly and the ghoulish.

It tells the story about a
very remarkable device

that offers up a
vision as things are

and a hellish vision of
what they were and shall be.

Our painting is called
Camera Obscura.

Yes?

William Sharsted, Mr. Gingold.

I rang you up last week, if you'll
recall. Told you I'd be here today.

Oh, yes, Mr. Sharsted.
Of course I recall.

Do come in, won't you?

Thank you very much.

Well, well, well, well.

You certainly do have some
lovely things here, Mr. Gingold.

Thank you, Mr. Sharsted. Yes.

Over there on the wall, that's a
Constable reproduction, is it not?

An original, Mr. Sharsted.

Yes, one of his early works.

An original? Well, now.
Well, well, well, now.

That would fetch a pretty penny.

Oh, it might perhaps,
if I were to sell it,

but I have no plans to do so.

Would you follow me, please?

German. 16th century.

My sitting room is right upstairs if
you would, please, Mr. Sharsted.

I didn't come here
to sit, Mr. Gingold.

I came to collect,

a £300 loan at 13%.

Payment due in
full on August 13th.

That would be Monday,
Mr. Gingold. Monday next.

Yes.

I've not heard from you.

Why not a glass of
wine, Mr. Sharsted?

My sitting room is right
up here if you'll follow me.

Mr. Gingold, Mr. Gingold...

Right this way.
I'm not here to...

Here we are.

Excuse me.

Ah-ha. A Corot.

Yes.

Well, now. Well,
well, well, now.

You certainly are quite
a collector, Mr. Gingold.

Thank you.

Ever had any of this appraised?

Well, I've never felt
the need, Mr. Sharsted.

You see, I collect things for
their beauty, not for their value.

Will sherry do?

Please.

About your loan, Mr. Gingold.

Monday is three days off. I
presume you are prepared to repay.

Well, I am prepared
to discuss it,

in good time.

Oh, there is one thing I would
very much like to show you.

Are you familiar with this?

Some sort of Victorian toy.

Oh, it's hardly a
toy, Mr. Sharsted.

It's a camera obscura.

Fascinating, I'm sure.

However I'm not a
photography buff, Mr. Gingold.

No?

No.

What are you, Mr. Sharsted?

What am I?

I'm a businessman, Mr. Gingold.

A moneylender.

I'm not ashamed of that fact.

Nor should you be. I was
merely identifying your occupation,

not judging it.

Let me explain the
camera obscura to you.

You know, very few
of my acquaintances

have had the privilege of
seeing what you are about to see.

To begin with, these controls

are coupled with a series of
prisms and lenses on the roof.

The hidden camera,

as the Victorian
scientists so aptly called it,

gathers a panoramic
view of the town below

and then, by means of
those same prisms and lenses,

transmit them down to
this viewing table here.

Provide a most absorbing
study of one's fellow man.

Let me show you.

Why, that... That's incredible.

Truly incredible.

Yes.

Distance sweetens, does it not?

How do you mean?

There is a softening effect on
anything when viewed from a cloud.

However, on closer look...

Yes.

The residence of Norton Thwaite.

You recognize it?

I recognize it.

What's that got to do with me?

Oh, you must know
the answer to that.

I believe you're responsible
for destroying Mr. Thwaite.

Destroying him?

That's a bit
melodramatic, Mr. Gingold.

I happen to hold a mortgage
on that ratty little building of his,

and since he is unwilling to keep
up the payments on his mortgage...

Unwilling or unable?

The distinction eludes
me, Mr. Gingold.

Unwilling or unable, he
has a most cavalier way

of borrowing money and
then not paying it back.

And you, sir, have a most cavalier
way of charging a usurious interest,

which in the case of
a man of Mr. Thwaite's

advanced years makes
it almost impossible for...

I charge the legal
rate, Mr. Gingold.

The legal rate yes. But what
is legal is not always just.

I would suggest, Mr. Gingold,

that you preoccupy yourself
with your own financial difficulties.

I'm repossessing old
man Thwaite's building

since he can't meet his obligations
and must suffer the consequences.

The significance of this
should not be lost to you.

Now there are a number of
objets d'art in the other room

that I could force you to relinquish
in lieu of payment of your loan.

You have that right, of course.
But in the case of Mr. Thwaite...

The case of Mr. Thwaite is no
different than any other dishonored debt.

Is it not, Mr. Sharsted?

The man is 76 years old,

and you are stripping him of
everything he owns in the entire world.

That may be business, Mr. Sharsted,
but it is a far cry from humanity.

Humanity, Mr. Gingold,

applies to funeral eulogies and
Valentine cards, not business.

Now, may I suggest
that you stop this

oh-so-subtle tugging
at me heartstrings,

and let's get down to your case.

£300 payable and due on Monday.

Now, this altogether
fundamental question.

Are you prepared to pay me?

Or do I put some kind of distraint
on some of these charming pieces

to pay off your loan?

Before you go, Mr. Sharsted...

I'm not going, Mr. Gingold.

Not until you tell me what
I'm to expect from you.

Another glass of sherry,
perhaps. A tour of the house.

An examination of the paintings.

That much you can expect
of me if it pleases you.

It neither pleases
me nor interests me.

I'll be here on Monday and I'll have the
proper legal papers to take what I want.

One moment, Mr. Sharsted.

There is one more thing
which I think you should see.

Another camera obscura,

but this one is quite unique.

The only one of its kind still
in existence, insofar as I know.

Well, show it to me,
then I'll be on my way.

Fine.

It's this way, Mr. Sharsted.

Well, I'm not sure.

It's in one of the back rooms
toward the rear of the house.

Follow me, if you
will, but do be careful.

The stairs are very
narrow and quite

old.

Now, then, Mr. Sharsted.

If you think what you've already
seen is arresting, look at this.

Wait a minute.

That building, the
old Corn Exchange...

But that building burned
down when I was a boy.

And that...

That park across the way.
We called it the Victoria Greens.

Why, that hasn't been
there since the 90s.

And just beyond the park,
Mr. Sharsted, if you'll recall.

Just beyond the park was...

Henderson Street, where
my father had his shop.

Yes, the elder Sharsted.

The creator of the dynasty.

The hander down of
your impoverished legacy.

My father was a
most successful man.

At the art of backing people into a
corner of despair, he was without peer.

Observe.

But...

But the shop hasn't
been there for years.

The whole building...

You're a shrewd old dog,
are you not, Mr. Gingold?

Old pictures, are they not?

Ancient slides you put into
some sort of magic lantern.

You gave me a turn,
Mr. Gingold, you really did.

Well, now I'll bid
you good evening.

Mr. Sharsted!

About Mr. Thwaite...
What about him?

You won't reconsider?

Reconsider? Why
the devil should I?

No, I won't reconsider.

And I won't reconsider your
obligation either, Mr. Gingold.

The one I'll be addressing
myself to as of dawn on Monday.

But for this brief
diversion, I thank you.

Now I will bid you good evening.

And I, Mr. Sharsted,

bid you goodbye.

Say, could you tell me
where I might find a taxi?

Taxi, sir? Uh-huh.

Don't know of any taxis
that come up this way, sir.

Don't be a bloody fool. I
came out here in a taxi.

Idiot Gingold must have sent
me out to the wrong street.

Is that gas?

That's right, sir, gas.

But they haven't used gas
in a quarter of a century.

Well, now.

You don't see horses...

Well, now...

I must be suffering from some
sort of heatstroke or something.

The whole thing is a delusion.

But that can't be.

Corn Exchange?

Why, that building
came down in the war.

Victoria Greens!

No, I told Gingold that hasn't
been there since the 90s.

Gingold. He's the one
that planted the seeds.

Rotten, vindictive old man.

Oh, say... Say,

I don't suppose you could tell me
where I could find a taxi or a bus stop?

Can't say that I would.

Mr. Sharsted.

How do you know who
I am? Now, look here...

Why, we're old
friends, Mr. Sharsted.

Old chums, you might say,
from way back, you might say.

Sanderson.

At your service, Mr. Sharsted.

You...

You used to rob graves.
They caught you at it.

You died in prison.

Right. Right, right as
rain you are, Mr. Sharsted.

But then you always
was a keen lad.

Sharp as paint, you was.

But...

But I couldn't have...

I was going in the opposite
direction. I couldn't have circled back.

Back again, Mr. Sharsted?

Back again, Mr. Sharsted?

William Sharsted?

Yes! Yes!

Young Billy-boy?

Amos Drucker. I remember you.

Indeed, you do, dear Billy-boy.
And why shouldn't you?

Your dear father and I, many's the
little transaction he and I engaged in.

Of course, of course there were
some who didn't take to kindly to us.

War profiteering, or
something of the sort.

You... You hanged yourself.

I hadn't much of
a choice, Billy-boy.

It was maybe 20
years in prison or this.

No! Evening, William.

I thought you'd be
coming sooner or later.

Remember me?

Abel Joyce.

At your service, William, your
fellow moneylender and usurer.

I was at your funeral.

Aye, that you were, dear fellow.

And a pretty paltry
affair it was, too.

Or at least that's
my recollection of it.

Go away!

Go away!

No, wait, wait.

Hello, Billy-boy.

Come in here, Billy-boy.

Come in here, son.

You don't exist. You're dead,
you hear me? You don't exist!

Gingold! Gingold!

I don't belong here. I swear
to you, these aren't my kind.

These are ghouls
and grave robbers,

bloodsuckers and usurers! I
don't belong here! Gingold! Gingold!

You're wrong, Mr. Sharsted.

You're in your element.

I'll reform.

You're with your
colleagues and your peers,

the damned and doomed
fraternity of the leech.

Never mind the £300.

Oh, no, Mr. Sharsted.
Too late for reprieve.

Now you shall stumble
and weep and swear

along the alleys and squares
and streets of your own private hell.

Reform. I'll change.

Gingold, wait...

I'll change.

And you shall do
so for all eternity.

From the pen of Edgar Allan
Poe, more or less, Quoth the raven.

"Once upon a

"midnight dreary,

"while I pondered..."

"Once upon a midnight
dreary, while I pondered

"weak and..."

"Weak and..."

"While I pondered weak and..."

"While I pondered weak and..."

"Weary." "Weary,"
dummy! "Weary."

Can't you get anything
right? "Weak and weary!"