Original subtitles

Memorandum to Paramount Pictures, Hollywood, California,

from Alexander Meyerheim. Subject, my latest production.

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

we here in the trenches are progressing brilliantly.

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

I talked to the author last night in Paris.

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

which are even now being typed.

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

Period. Paragraph.

Gentlemen, success is inevitable.

An Alexander Meyerheim production

of an original story and screenplay by Richard Benson.

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

Know him?

I hate him! Richard Benson...

It seems there are certain facets of him

that you know even better than I do.

I cannot imagine when he finds time to write.

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

The last 10 pages were found floating off Malibu in a vodka bottle.

Send the usual telegram to Benson.

Richard assures me that, for all practical purposes,

he's on the wagon.

It's open. Come in.

- Yes? - Mr. Benson?

You are, I assume, the young lady from the typing bureau?

I am.

In that case, if we are to have a happy and harmonious relationship,

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

- Is that clear? - Did I?

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

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

Question mark implied, of course.

You do know the difference between implied and inferred?

Isn't that a question?

Yes.

Well, then you answered my question with a question.

To imply is to indicate without saying openly or directly.

To infer is to conclude from something known or assumed.

My name is Gabrielle Simpson.

- Is that by any chance a bird? - Yes. I hope you don't mind.

But I was told the job would take several days,

and I had nobody to leave him with.

Well, this is it. The office there, I live up here,

and the terrace is out there.

That rather grotesque object

looming so prominently on the horizon is the Eiffel Tower.

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

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

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

which no doubt to your mind has terribly sinister connotations.

- Not at all... - If so, dismiss them.

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

but the joint's all filled up. Bastille Day weekend and all that.

It's quite all right, really.

I once worked for an American novelist who could only write in the bathtub.

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

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

and from then on, we got on swimmingly.

I see. Does that imply that the bird's name is Richelieu?

It's inferred, I believe, rather than implied.

Swimmingly. Interesting figure of speech.

You call the canary Richelieu because you always wanted a cardinal?

- That's very funny. - No, it isn't.

Just one of the hazards of being a famous international wit,

which I am.

Have to keep trying all the time.

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

And to have the opportunity to work with a screenwriter of your stature.

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

- I'm sure I can learn a great deal. - Thank you.

Last month, I worked for Roger Roussin, the New Wave director.

You've heard of him, of course?

No, I'm more of an Old Wave man myself.

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

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

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

It was called The Scrabble Game Will Not Take Place.

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

It's called Blow Out No Candles.

Roger believes the only important thing to put on the screen

is what doesn't happen.

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

Of course.

The Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower.

The Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower. It sounds just fascinating.

The title is symbolic, of course.

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

What's the story about?

It's an action-suspense,

romantic melodrama with lots of comedy, of course.

And deep down underneath a substrata of social comment.

Well, if I could see the pages you've written,

I could estimate the size of the typing job.

The pages, my dear girl, are right here.

An Alexander Meyerheim production. The Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower.

Original story and screenplay by Richard Benson.

Here, with a page or two of interestingly-photographed

establishing shots, possibly from a helicopter,

a boy and a girl meet...

But, Mr. Benson...

Now, after some chitchat,

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

we feel an unconscious attraction between the two,

an indication to the audience of the tremulous beginnings of love,

and then, conflict!

We can tell by the music how deeply fraught with danger

the whole situation is.

And now, our first switch.

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

Things are not what they seem, not at all.

In fact, the whole situation is completely reversed,

involving the magnificently ingenious switch on the switch.

Amazed by the sudden turn of events,

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

At that moment, the music turns ominous once more.

They become aware of the danger that they're in, and the chase is on!

Screaming tires, rooftops, long shots of their tiny figures

racing through the empty, fear-gripped city.

When suddenly, in a deserted alley,

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

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

Now, as we build step by step to the climax, the music soars.

And there, totally oblivious

of the torrential rain pouring down upon them,

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

And as the audience drools with sublimated sexual pleasure,

the two enormous and highly-paid heads come together

for that ultimate and inevitable moment,

the final, earth-moving,

studio-rent-paying, theater-filling, popcorn-selling...

Kiss. Fade out. The end.

That's it. 138 pages. There's no point in making it any longer.

We'd only have to cut later.

- Mr. Benson... - Yes?

This screenplay, when does it have to be finished?

Well, let's see. Today is Friday.

My friend and, in this case, patron and producer Mr. Alexander Meyerheim

arrives in Paris from Cannes at 10:00 on Sunday morning,

which happens to be Bastille Day.

Perfect! 10:01 we hand him the completed script,

and then you and I, we celebrate.

Drink champagne, dance in the streets, whatever they do on July 14th.

You're very kind, but I already have a date for Bastille Day.

You haven't written anything at all?

You have a date?

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

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

just tell me right now.

- I can always find someone else. - No, no, I didn't mean that.

It's just that it's, well, rather unusual, isn't it?

Not for me.

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

No, I haven't.

May I ask what you have been doing?

I have been doing what any other red-blooded, American screenwriter

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

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

Water-skiing in Saint-Tropez,

lying in the sun in Antibes, studying Greek.

Greek?

There was this starlet representing the Greek film industry

at the Cannes Festival.

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

which involved a considerable amount of vodka

and an unpremeditated trip to Madrid for the bullfights,

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

had long since gone on to Seville.

Weeks 17 and 18 were spent in the casino at Monte-Carlo,

in a somewhat ill-advised attempt to win enough money

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

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

thus not having to write the picture at all.

Take a note.

For the textbook, which I will someday do on the art of screenwriting,

never play 13, 31 and the corners thereof

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

It doesn't work. And now I have to. Shall we begin?

An Alexander Meyerheim production.

Caps, quotes. The Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower.

You do like the title, don't you?

Yes, it certainly sounds intriguing.

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

Original story and screenplay by Richard Benson.

Page one. Fade in. Exterior. Paris, naturally.

Let's see. Night or day?

Day.

Begin with a shot of the Eiffel Tower.

The camera zooms toward it.

Standing windswept and alone on a platform

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

And we see...

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

How the mighty have fallen!

Mustn't be obvious. We can't tip the whole story too early.

Okay. Fade in. Exterior, le Sacré Coeur. Day.

No.

Make that the Grand Palais.

We've got to give the audience the taste and smell of the real Paris.

Okay.

Exterior. Christian Dior. The camera pans,

and now we see a white Rolls-Royce pull up and come to a stop.

No, wait a minute. Make that a white Bentley.

It's chicer.

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

From inside emerges some classically glamorous star

like Marlene Dietrich.

And now she...

Dot, dot, dot.

She sweeps majestically into the store and...

That's the last we ever see of her.

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

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

- What did you say your name was? - Gabrielle Simpson.

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

- And you came here to write. - Well, that, too, but mostly to...

I don't know how to say it exactly. Live.

Live? Would you mind...

You were saying you came here to live.

Yes. I spent the first six months

making a comprehensive study of depravity.

No kidding?

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

I can't tell you the number of cups of that poisonous black coffee

I consumed.

I didn't drink then,

so it was hard to get totally into the spirit of the thing.

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

But a person must try to grow.

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

is he part of the growth process?

No, he's just a friend. A struggling young actor.

An actor?

A tragic relationship to begin with.

I hope he's not a method actor

who scratches and mumbles and pauses,

thereby destroying the impeccable rhythm of the author's prose.

He's a little intense but lots of fun.

Yeah, well...

And you and this actor, what do you plan to do on Bastille Day?

We'll spend the whole day together. First, breakfast at a little café,

then we'll dance from one end of Paris to the other,

opera at 5:00, then the guards and the singing of the Marseillaise,

off to Montmartre for the fireworks,

then supper and champagne and, you know, live.

- You really like it, don't you? - What?

Life.

Every morning when I wake up and see a whole new other day,

I just go absolutely ape.

I've got an idea.

I got an idea! The first good one in four months.

No, I had an idea to give up drinking, but it didn't photograph.

Now this could be good. Very good indeed.

A simple story of a simple Parisian working girl

and how she spends July 14th. The whole picture plays in one day.

And I've got two days to write it. Fade in. Exterior, Paris.

As our story begins, it's early Bastille Day morning.

And all the trumpets of Paris are sounding reveille.

Over a shot of the Arch of Triumph,

superimpose "An Alexander Meyerheim Production."

Cut to the Eiffel Tower. The main title.

The trumpets segue into the inevitable title song.

Maybe we can get Sinatra to sing it.

The girl who stole the Eiffel Tower

Also stole my heart

There follows an interminable list of other credits

acknowledging the efforts of all the "little people",

whom I shall graciously thank in my acceptance speech

at the Academy Awards.

As the cymbals crash,

"Original Story and Screenplay by Richard Benson."

Okay. Fade out.

And fade in. A picturesque Parisian square

where the holiday festivities are in progress.

A simple Parisian working girl,

who looks remarkably like you, Miss Simpson,

emerges from her simple Parisian dwelling

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

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

With breathless anticipation, she awaits the arrival of her date.

Some actor.

Now I suppose we'll have to describe him.

I see him as curiously unattractive.

Not at all. Philippe happens to be very handsome.

In fact, he looks rather like Tony Curtis.

I see him as one of those mumbling, scratching actors

destined only for minor roles and character parts.

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

Maurice!

Like, bonjour, baby.

- Bonjour, Maurice! - Hey.

I'm so excited. I didn't sleep a wink. Do you like my dress?

Yeah, very groovy.

Would it be too wicked if instead of breakfast

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

Thanks.

- Look, baby... - Yes, Maurice?

This Bastille Day gig?

Like, we're gonna have to cool it.

But, Maurice, I don't understand.

Well, see, baby, I'm going to have to cut. See, last night,

while I was making the scene at le drug store,

I was tearing an espresso with a couple of local citizens

when, all of a sudden, this New Wave-looking stud comes in

and says his name is Roger Roussin

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

No Dancing in the Streets.

No Dancing in the Streets?

In Roger's flick it, like, rains.

Anyway, he offers me the lead.

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

See, I have to split. We're gonna be shooting all day. In the sewers.

I see.

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

No, thanks. I prefer to walk.

Crazy.

With the almost lunatic narcissism peculiar to his curious calling,

Maurice rather preciously mounts his motor scooter.

Our heroine is left grief-stricken,

not realizing how much better off she really is.

They were going to spend the whole day together!

My dear, you just witnessed the first switch.

Maybe, but Maurice would never behave that way.

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

Now then, having successfully disposed of her date for Bastille Day,

we move on to important matters. Conflict.

- Conflict? - The other man.

The third corner of the obligatory triangle.

Didn't Roger what's-his-name, the No Scrabble director,

teach you anything about writing movies?

No.

- For a moment, Gaby sits there... - Gaby?

We've got to call her something.

For a moment, Gaby sits there,

a lonely and pathetic figure.

But unbeknownst to her,

this heart-breaking little scene has been witnessed by...

Dot, dot, dot.

A mysterious stranger.

A mysterious stranger. How exciting.

Miss Simpson, before you escape the confines

of this unpretentious hotel room, it's my intention to show you

just how exciting a mysterious stranger can be.

- I suppose we'll have to describe him. - Yes, I suppose so.

He's American, of course. I can write him better that way.

Now let's see. What else?

I see him as rather tall, rather suntanned,

rather handsome, athletic looking,

with a rugged but curiously sensitive face.

Poor, sad creature. Little does she realize

that in a moment she and the audience will have totally forgotten

that dull clod Maurice, or Philippe or whatever his name is.

At this magic moment, her life has indeed begun.

Tenderly he folds her into his arms,

and moving with the nimble grace of Fred Astaire,

he dances her off into the crowd.

In exactly 10 seconds, I want you to slap me as hard as you can.

What?

There is unfortunately no time to explain.

And no reason to trust me. But I trust you.

There's something about your big, magic eyes, and I am...

Well, the name doesn't matter.

Just think of me as 1331, American Intelligence.

This must be some kind of a joke.

If you will look slightly to your left...

Without moving your head, please. You will see in that window...

In the bouquet I handed you is a piece of microfilm.

I can't tell you what it is, but should it fall into the wrong hands,

it may mean the end of civilization as we know it.

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

Stop. Stop! Spies in trench coats?

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

Okay. That brings us back to where we were.

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

The boy and the girl meet,

and they dance, and they dance, and they dance...

And they dance, and they dance... Mr. Benson?

Now then, the mysterious stranger. Who is he?

There's someone at the door.

What does he do? What suffering, what torment

caused the sadness that lurks behind his eyes?

And why, while we're asking questions,

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

It's a telegram.

Well, aren't you going to open it?

No, I'm not going to open it.

The reason I won't open it is I'm fully aware what it says.

The reason for that is because in the last 19 and a fraction weeks

I have received 134 telegrams from Mr. Alexander Meyerheim,

all saying exactly the same thing.

"When will the script be finished? When will the script be finished?"

How can I write with him badgering me this way?

Day and night, wires, messages, telephone calls.

"How was it today? Did you work well? When will it be finished?"

Talk about men in trench coats! He spies on me constantly.

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

Mr. Benson!

I'm sorry. Some days I just feel like what's-his-name in Les Misérables.

- Jean Valjean. - I guess so.

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

that I had 138 pages in front of me.

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

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

"is nothing but a liar and a thief!"

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

I know who the mysterious stranger is.

He's a liar and a thief.

Sure. A latter-day François Villon,

who lives by his wits and what he steals.

A jewel thief, maybe.

Expert safe-cracker.

There isn't a safe in the world he can't open with his bare hands.

I've got it!

We have to start all over again, but that's not too serious.

We've only got eight pages.

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

Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower, story and screenplay, Richard Benson.

We keep the Bastille Day jazz. Only this time we don't start on Gaby.

We start on Rick.

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

Don't editorialize. Just start typing.

Exterior, day. A picturesque square.

Amidst the throng of merrymakers,

the camera picks up a rather tall, rather suntanned American.

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

You know, various shades of black.

Moving with the grace of a jungle cat, Rick approaches the table

where Gaby is getting the brush-off from her actor.

His almost super-human intelligence takes in the situation at once.

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

it's a pretty face.

He comes to a decision and moves to another table

where two denizens of the underworld await him.

Call them first gangster and second gangster.

Well, Rick?

- Have you thought it over? - I'm considering the proposition.

It is a plan of simplicity and beauty yet highly original, very daring.

Voilà, Monsieur Rick.

We need you for two things only. To open the safe and deliver the note.

A few hours' work. And for this, $1 million.

Which we will, of course, split three ways.

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

But you already agreed.

Gentlemen, it's a well-known fact

that I am not only a brilliant safe-cracker, but a liar and a thief.

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

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

Until 4:00, then.

And, Rick, resist at all costs

your continuous and overwhelming impulse to perform the double-cross.

We will not this time be so understanding,

as we were last year in Tangier.

Now, Miss Simpson, having established a climate of suspense,

intrigue and romance, we've arrived once more at that magic moment.

The boy and the girl meet.

Okay. Now we need more conflict.

A new character, maybe.

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

Inspector Gilet of the international police force.

It is apparent he knows something the audience does not know.

And now, Miss Simpson, we have set the wheels of our plot in motion

and inflamed the audience with a passionate desire

to find out what happens next.

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

We can pause for a few pages of chitchat,

getting-to-know-you stuff, which I do so brilliantly.

The question is, where should this charming little scene be played?

At lunch!

Yes, he takes her to a beautiful restaurant for lunch in the Bois.

Ridiculous. She wouldn't go off with a man who picked her up in a square.

I mean, he's a perfect stranger.

Miss Simpson, nobody's perfect.

"Why," he asks, as they dance and dance and dance,

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

And then a suggestion from the mysterious stranger.

If you try raising your upper lip,

you might at least create the illusion of a smile.

That being somewhat of a disaster, he really has to turn on the charm.

"Do you know the word serendipity?" he asks. She shakes her head.

- What does it mean? - Why, Miss Simpson, I'm surprised.

It means opening your eyes each morning

and looking at the bright new day and going absolutely ape!

- Serendipity? - Right.

- Are you making it up? - No. Serendipity's a real word.

Actually, it means the ability to find pleasure, excitement

and happiness in anything that occurs.

- No matter how unexpected. - Serendipity!

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

and at the right moment, proposes a glorious lunch in the Bois.

She's tempted.

Of course she is. But don't you think...

Miss Simpson, he's not asking her for a weekend at a motel

in Asbury Park, New Jersey. He's inviting her to lunch!

Now, don't you think if he were terribly, terribly charming, she'd go?

- Well... - Serendipity.

All right, maybe. If he promises it's just lunch, and that's absolutely all.

He promises. Unless she can think of something she'd like to do after.

- Which she won't! - Seren... All right, then.

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

Settled. And now I suppose we ought to write it.

Not at all. The audience is ahead of us.

They've known she'll have lunch with him for an hour.

But how do we get from the square

through the charm and serendipity you do so brilliantly?

In motion pictures, we have a simple device

which takes care of exactly this situation, the dissolve.

Over the years, the audience has been conditioned

to understand that when a scene fades away,

like an old soldier, before their very eyes,

and another scene gradually appears to take its place,

a certain amount of time has elapsed.

So, Miss Simpson, we dissolve...

We dissolve slowly and lingeringly to the Bois.

A hansom cab bearing our handsome couple

clippety-clops its way past waterfalls and trees

toward a magnificent restaurant.

Notice, Miss Simpson, how cleverly I play

our suspense-filled melodrama

against a background of holiday serendipity in gay Paris.

We will spare the audience the pages of dreary small talk,

and get to the heart of the matter

by the simple use of the device I've just explained, the dissolve.

Who are you? What do you do?

Who am I, and what do I do?

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

Driven racing cars, white hunter for a while,

piano player in a rather curious establishment in Buenos Aires.

This and that, everything and nothing.

The curse of having been born too rich.

I know what you mean. The curse of having been born too rich.

That's why I left the castle for Paris.

The castle?

We've got houses all over the world, but my favorite

was our summer place in Deauville with its own private zoo.

As a little girl, on Sundays, if I'd been good,

I was allowed to feed the giraffes.

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

- You mean, you... - But of course.

What fun! Both of us having had giraffes as children.

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

- To Rick. - To Gaby.

- If I may recommend... - I prefer to do it myself.

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

wrapped carefully around well-ripened sections of Persian melon.

To follow, a touch of Dover sole

sautéed lightly in champagne and butter.

With that, a bottle of...

- Pouilly-Fuissé? - '59 will do. And after that...

We'll have a Chateaubriand for two.

Make that for four. Charred and brown.

Nay, black on the outside and gloriously rare on the in.

With the beef, we'll have white asparagus

and a bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild '47.

And for dessert, an enormous order of fraises des bois...

Served, of course, with globs of heavy cream

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

You heard the lady. And make it snappy. We're starving.

Now, while awaiting the paper-thin slices of prosciutto,

so skillfully wrapped around

perfect sections of ripened Persian melon...

Please, stop. I can't stand it.

Do you think they'll really do the sole in champagne and butter?

In any case, while we're waiting,

I wonder if the lovely Miss Gabrielle Simpson

would join the very talented Mr. Richard Benson

for a small dry aperitif? I think she's earned it. They both have.

All right. I think that would be very nice.

I didn't really like Rick at first, but he's beginning to grow on me.

So, you find Rick growing on you?

Yes, I think he's very attractive.

Important. The reaction of the female audience.

All right. Lunch is over. The martinis,

the two different wines and brandy have had their effect,

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

The pages, Miss Simpson.

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

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

the opening, a series of interestingly-photographed

establishing shots.

And here, the boy and the girl,

if a middle-aged mysterious stranger can indeed be called a boy, meet.

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

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

As chilling a compliment as I've ever received, Miss Simpson.

However, to continue, pages eight, nine, ten of romantic chitchat.

- Which you do so brilliantly. - Why, thank you.

Now you can feel the unconscious attraction between the two,

the tremulous beginnings of love.

You see how easy it is with professional know-how

and experience on your side?

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

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

Mr. Benson.

Have you any idea at all what happens next?

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

Well...

We've got to remember that no matter how charming he seems,

he is a liar and a thief. It says so right here.

Mr. Benson...

I do know what happens next.

What happens next is the second switch.

The audience gasps as they realize they have been fooled.

He has plied her with martinis, white wine, red wine, brandy,

for only one reason. To make her drunk!

Which incidentally, she is not. Not at all, whatever he thinks.

Now, as he forces one last brandy to her unwilling lips...

Poor, ingenuous girl has been charmed and serendipitied into believing

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

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

The music turns ominous.

And she becomes aware of the danger that she is in.

The mysterious stranger. Who is he? What is he really like?

And why does he keep nibbling on her neck?

Don't be frightened, my dear. It's only a bat.

The creatures of the night are my friends.

I know why you nibble on my neck. You're some kind of werewolf.

No, no, my dear.

I'm a vampire.

The inner reaches of these caverns

make an ideal setting for my laboratory.

And yet, there's something about his eyes.

Even though they are rather bloodshot.

A vampire's life must be a terribly lonely one. But no!

Not for nothing has she made a comprehensive study of depravity.

I suppose there are girls who let vampires nibble their necks

on the first date, but not our Gaby.

She tears free from his evil grasp, and the chase is on!

He's caught her. He's caught her. No, Gaby, you can't give in now.

You fought him in the cave, on the beaches.

You fought him on the plains. That's it, planes!

Her face registers terror.

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

There, there, Miss Simpson. It's perfectly all right.

In your defense, it's been a hard day, and you've had a good deal to drink.

Anyway, he had it coming to him.

Plying her with all that booze, making her drunk.

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

Of course not.

Not only did she kill him, but when I think of that poor horse...

The way she beat him with that terrible whip.

Anyway, I think she had it coming to her.

That was what?

Whatever he planned to do to her. Why did she make such a fuss, anyway?

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

Actually, I think he's very attractive.

Miss Simpson, I think you should go to bed and get some sleep.

- You do? What about you? - I wish to think.

Now, Miss Simpson, if you'll please go in there and lie down.

Maybe for a few hours. But if you do get an idea,

and I know you will, you must promise to wake me.

- Sure. - Promise?

I promise.

All right, then. Good night, Mr. Benson.

Good night, Miss Simpson.

- Good night. - Good night.

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

It's 1:30. You can probably find him at the casino.

Benson. Mr. Richard Benson calling.

Person to person. I'll hold on.

Dear Alex.

Dear Alex, it is my unpleasant duty to inform you

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

You see, my friend,

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

to read the script, because there is no script.

As I see it, there will be no...

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

Excuse me. I forgot to cover Richelieu.

Good night.

Mr. Benson. Please don't think I'm quitting on you.

I'll be right here when you need me. Good night.

Operator. Cancel that call.

That face That face

That wonderful face

It shines It glows

All over the place

And how I love to watch it

Change expressions

Each look becomes the prize

Of my possessions

I love that face That face

It just isn't fair

You must

Forgive

The way I stare

For never will these eyes behold

A sight that could replace

That face That face

That face

That face, that face

Wherever I go

It's here, it's there

Bewitching me so

It's got my crazy heart

In such a tangle

It drives me simply wild

From any angle

I love

Those eyes

Those lips

That beautiful smile

She laughs

And spring

Goes right out of style

For never will these eyes

Behold a sight that could replace

That face That face

That face

Unfortunately, Miss Simpson, we are not writing a musical.

Mr. Benson, you did all these pages last night? All by yourself?

While some of us were snug in our bed, other more productive citizens were up

toiling in the vineyards of beautiful letters.

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

weren't present to observe with your own big, magic eyes

a seasoned professional in action.

I was, in those few short hours,

the great DiMaggio going back, back, back for the high-fly ball.

I was Manolete in Seville, going over the horns for the kill.

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

I was Pablo Picasso,

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

I was...

How do you spell ingenuous?

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

I was afraid of that.

In addition to the nine and a half yards of pages I wrote,

I discovered some errors in the earlier pages,

which I corrected, dealing basically with the character of Rick.

I found I had, in a moment of insecurity,

underestimated the brilliance of the man.

No simple safe-cracker he, but a master criminal,

wanted by the police of three continents.

The dazzling scheme has been worked out,

step by painful step, for over a year by Rick himself.

The two other characters are just employees.

That brings us back to where we were.

Rick and Gaby have demolished a glorious lunch,

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

Page 14.

Sit down and brace yourself.

Here comes the switch on the switch.

In a minute and a half, you and the audience will gasp

as you realize you've been fooled.

Things are not as they seem. Not at all.

In fact, the whole situation is reversed.

Mr. Benson...

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

Read the script.

Rick and Gaby are sitting with brandy glasses before them.

Her big, magic eyes are shiny...

I can't imagine a more marvelous lunch.

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

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

- The rest of the afternoon? - Exactly.

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

for a tour of Paris to see how the celebration's progressing,

a brief stop at my office to pick something up,

and then on to a party in my honor at the restaurant in the Eiffel Tower.

Pardon. You are Monsieur Rick?

Your chauffeur is here, sir. He has an important message for you.

Pardon me for a moment.

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

What's the matter? Are you mad? Bringing a girl on a job like this!

Our arrangement, François.

You do the driving, and I do the planning.

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

The ability to improvise brilliantly in a moment of crisis

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

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

as casually as possible,

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

our old friend, Inspector Gilet.

What is he doing in Paris? Do you think he suspects something?

Of course not. If so, I'm one step ahead.

Why do you think I picked up the girl?

Because she has big, magic eyes.

That, too, but actually I picked her up

to throw our inspector friend off the scent.

Never in his wildest imagination would he think

that the highly paid and successful Rick

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

Therefore, that's exactly what I'm going to do. She's a perfect cover.

Meet you at the car in one minute.

Shall we?

My dear Gilet, our paths cross again.

My dear Rick, what an extraordinary coincidence.

Monsieur Gilet is in a curious way a business associate of mine.

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

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

This, my friend, is a moment to savor.

For three years, I've waited, and at last my brilliant,

highly-paid professional friend has risen to the bait.

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

You're sure he suspected nothing?

Inspector, my imitation of a method actor was impeccable.

I played the role internally, of course,

indicating all the basic elements of this curious calling.

The deep, almost lunatic narcissism.

The lack of personal daintiness. The appalling grammar.

Pops, it was... Sir, it was flawless, brilliant.

I came in on a motorbike in wheat-colored...

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

I remind you, you are not the star of this drama

but merely a supporting player, a very minor one, at that.

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

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

would simply be second policeman.

As I was saying, what he doesn't know, poor Rick,

is that the girl is ours.

Can we trust a creature of the streets,

with a police record as long as your arm?

Nothing will go wrong, my dear Philippe.

There's a tiny chink in Rick's armor. A pretty face.

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

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

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

There would be no point.

On the streets of Paris, Rick is a master.

No policeman alive can stay on his trail if he wishes to elude him.

Yes.

- No. - No.

I shall have a glorious lunch, everything to be cooked, of course,

in this remarkable non-fattening safflower oil,

and eventually, having followed my luncheon

with several digestifs and a short walk,

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

At?

The Eiffel Tower? Brilliant, Inspector. Brilliant.

- To the studio, François, please. - Studio?

I said, I have to stop at my office and pick something up there.

Have you been inside a motion-picture studio?

No. Are you in the movie business?

In a way.

The studio is particularly marvelous on a holiday like this.

Silent. Empty.

The vast sound stages completely deserted.

Like the night before Christmas, not a creature is stirring.

Wait here. I won't be long.

- Nice-ish. - Isn't it?

I don't understand. Are you an actor, a writer, producer, director?

Nothing so creative, I'm afraid.

My interest in movies is purely financial.

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

This is for me. I just love movies.

Not those terrible New Wave pictures where nothing happens. Would I like...

Westerns.

Good old-fashioned pictures with switches

and switches on switches. Things like that.

Do you have an emery board on you? One of those things to file the nails?

I think so.

Thank you.

I particularly like movies with complicated robberies in them.

Don't you?

Absolutely.

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

I think I like horror pictures best. I always have.

As a little girl, I was madly in love with Dracula.

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

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

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

I'm glad.

Not that your father resembled Dracula.

Which he didn't. Not after he had his teeth fixed.

But that you are interested in pictures.

That makes two things we have in common.

Movies and giraffes.

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

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

Let me see that!

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

The lipstick. It's been written with.

The napkin! The napkin you gave Gilet. What was on it?

What was on it?

You...

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

Mr. Benson, what happens next?

I don't know. I don't know.

That's as far as I got.

- Mr. Benson. - Yes?

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

What would that make it?

A switch on a switch on a switch on a switch. On a switch.

I thought I knew movies, but Roger Roussin was never like this.

I wonder if he knows about switches. And switches on switches.

And switches on switches on switches. I don't think so.

It would change his whole life.

Not only would they not play Scrabble, they would also not play Parcheesi.

I must say, the mind reels.

Anyway, you know what I think?

Yes. You think she is not a creature of the streets with a police record.

You think she's an American intelligence agent.

Well, Miss Simpson, you happen to be wrong.

Our Gaby happens to be that most reliable, steadfast,

and you-cannot-miss-with-no-matter- how-badly-you-write-it character

in all popular literature.

The prostitute with a heart of gold.

No, actually, the P with the H of G is secondmost.

The most is Frankenstein.

Sure, someone who creates or remakes another human being

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

It can go either way. That's what gives it such flexibility.

Miss Simpson, did you ever realize

that Frankenstein and My Fair Lady are the same story?

One ends happily, and the other one doesn't.

Think about that for a while.

You smell wonderful.

That's the bath oil. When I took my bath earlier, I put bath oil in.

Only a few drops, of course.

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

And now, where were we?

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

Or rather, where you were.

She was by the bed with a gun, and he was moving toward her.

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

Yes, I do.

Professor Higgins created Eliza, and Dr. Frankenstein created the Monster.

Yes, of course.

But don't tell anybody.

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

Yeah, well...

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

Passed the bathtub. If you want a Richard Benson movie

without a bathtub, you're out of your head.

And into the bedroom.

She pulls out a gun, and...

My dear big, magic-eyed, bath-oil-scented Miss Simpson

is where we are.

Slowly, Rick continues toward her.

Go ahead. Pull the trigger.

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

- Cigarette? - Thanks. Light?

Well, Rick...

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

And so my big, magic-eyed Gaby,

who came to Paris to live...

turns out to be a spy for the police, an informer,

a common stool pigeon.

No, Rick, don't say it! It's that devil Gilet.

How I hate him. He is relentless!

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

He'll never forgive himself for last year in Tangier,

or the year before in Hong Kong. You are his obsession.

He is a mad, overweight Captain Ahab, searching down you, his Moby Dick.

His white whale.

- And you? - Me?

I'm nothing. A creature of the streets with a long police record.

He had me paroled to be the luscious and irresistible bait

squirming on the hook he has prepared.

If I do not extract the plan you have been building

step by painful step for the last year,

my life, well, it's over.

Back I go behind the bars, matron in uniform once more,

no longer Gabrielle or Gaby but simply a number.

- If, however, I succeed... - And if you succeed?

Freedom!

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

Anything.

- Anything? - Anything. It's not so hard.

I, too, in my own way, am a highly paid professional.

Not so highly paid as you, perhaps, but still a professional.

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

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

Friends.

Perhaps...

Their two bodies now moving as one

roll like turbulent breakers crashing on an undiscovered shore.

And now, now...

We slowly and lingeringly dissolve...

Gracious.

Exactly, Miss Simpson. Well said. You might even add heavens to Betsy.

What's wrong? Don't you like it?

I like it, but can you get away with it?

Get away with it? Get away with what?

Well, that scene with them on the bed is rather suggestive.

Don't you think he censors will object?

How can they possibly object? We dissolved, didn't we?

Yes, but...

Miss Simpson, as I said before, a dissolve is a most useful device.

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

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

Now if I were you, Miss Simpson,

I would stop going to those sinful art theaters,

and start seeing more good, wholesome American family-type pictures.

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

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

As much as I've enjoyed our little game, it's almost 8:30.

Time for the climax of our glorious day. We must be off.

- Off? Where to? - You know perfectly well where.

The costume party at the Eiffel Tower, to finish the job.

You mustn't. You can't go through with the plan, whatever it is.

Gilet will be there, and the place will be surrounded by police.

Gilet was in Tangier last year.

The entire city was surrounded by police. Now if you'll excuse me...

Where are you going?

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

Quite all right. I always carry a packet of bubble bath in my purse,

and I'm getting on swimmingly.

Howdy,

stranger.

You must be the new school marm.

I hate to rush you, ma'am, but it's getting late.

How long will it take to get out of that tub,

into this costume and out to the car?

Absolutely no time at all.

And now, according to my master plan,

the time has come to take the most dangerous step of all.

Yes, Rick?

I must trust you and tell you the details.

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

How can you ask, Rick? After our Parcheesi game this afternoon,

I am yours for ever and ever and ever.

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

In the back of this car are 28 cans of motion-picture film.

The Eiffel Tower party is being given by the picture's producer.

Tell me the plan in a minute, Rick. It's a long drive to the Eiffel Tower,

and the traffic is heavy.

Mr. Benson...

Rick.

Gaby may be, but I'm not...

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

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

Dear...

I guess maybe we are that kind of a girl.

Exterior. Eiffel Tower. Night.

Rick and Gaby have been driving and driving and driving.

Through all that marvelous traffic.

The tower is ablaze.

Richard, how can I type if you're going to...

All right, all right.

The tower is ablaze,

and chauffeur-driven limousines are pulling up.

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

Trust me, darling.

I do. Here we go.

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

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

so dear to the hearts of movie directors everywhere.

It's summer time, and la vita is dolce.

Breakfast is at Tiffany's, and everybody is high.

And now that the director has distracted the audience

with these totally extraneous vignettes,

he reluctantly returns to the plot and another new character.

The producer, host and victim,

who looks remarkably like my producer and victim,

Mr. Alexander Meyerheim.

If you look left, just behind you, as casually as possible,

you will see that idiot Gilet

dressed appropriately enough as an executioner.

- Ready, darling? - Ready, darling.

Excuse me for a moment, darling.

You're late.

Untrue, Gilet. Everything is going precisely according to plan.

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

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

Well?

If you will kindly read this,

I believe the entire situation will become clear immediately.

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

- The ransom note? - Exactly.

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

They are the negative and only existing work print

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

The Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower.

You are certain you have both the negative and the only work print?

Absolutely.

And it is your serious intention to destroy them?

Unless you turn over the key

to your safe-deposit box in your bank in Casablanca.

My dear boy, I haven't the faintest idea who you are,

but you are beautiful.

Absolutely beautiful.

Not only that, you've saved my life.

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

The title is symbolic. She doesn't actually steal it.

Or I don't think she does.

The end's so confusing it's hard to tell.

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

I was finished. Done for.

This party tonight was planned as a final farewell gesture,

a sort of swan song.

At midnight, when the check was presented, I planned to sign it,

add a lavish if purely imaginary tip,

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

to hurl myself from the top of this grotesque edifice.

And now, suddenly at the last minute,

in the nick of time, don't tell me there isn't someone up there

who watches over whimsical movie producers.

You appear! I can't believe it.

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

hook, line and sinker,

not only will I give you the key to my safe-deposit box in Casablanca,

but we will split the insurance, 60-40.

50-50.

My darling, darling boy. If ever you consider going into

the motion-picture business, do not hesitate to call me.

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

We understand each other perfectly.

You are so beautiful!

It's a rugged but curiously sensitive face.

It's so beautiful!

His plane is waiting for him at Le Bourget Airport.

His chauffeur's even now warming up the engines.

Good girl. Tomorrow, your entire police record will disappear

so-mysteriously from my files, and you will be free.

Thank you, my dear Gilet.

And now, Gilet, if you could quite casually

dance me across the floor and over to the gentlemen's lounge.

You fool. You little fool. He's using you

like he did that poor, unfortunate girl last year in Tangier.

Keep dancing, Gilet.

I should have known! I should. That man is irresistible to women.

He is, my dear Gilet. Keep dancing.

You fool. You little fool.

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

I don't really hate Inspector Gilet. I just feel sorry for him.

He insists on projecting himself into the starring role

and relegating me to some minor character.

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

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

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

Maurice!

Inspector, I am Philippe!

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

Where is my car?

I have the car right here, sir.

You read that line beautifully, Maurice.

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

Dear boy, you are a minor character, and your name is of no importance.

Now, you were saying something about the car?

I have the car right here, sir.

- Faster, Maurice, faster! - Faster, Philippe, faster.

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

Even in the non-taxing role of second policeman.

Bourget Airport, quickly!

But if you are the inspector, who was...

You are third policeman and should have no lines. Shut up and drive.

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

The key to our future.

$1 million in small unmarked bills' worth of happiness for the two of us.

Inspector Gilet of Interpol here. Calling all voitures.

Faster! Faster!

- The gate, sir, it is closed. - Go through it, you fool.

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

You're Rick.

- I don't understand... - No, you're not supposed to.

Can't you get it through your mind?

You're only a bit part. Nobody cares about you.

You're a mere literary convenience.

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

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

Stop, Rick!

Stop, or I'll shoot!

Philippe.

Philippe!

Maurice... Philippe.

Darling...

It's all right. Perhaps it's better this way.

No, no, no, my darling, we'll make it to Casablanca.

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

With its own private zoo.

And will there be giraffes?

Of course... Giraffes.

If this is what it means to be a cop...

You're first policeman now.

Thus having proved once again that crime does not pay

unless you happen to be me.

Fade out.

The end.

Well, there it is. All 130-odd pages of it.

Finished with hours to spare.

It's wonderful, Richard. Only, does it have to end that way?

I mean, Philippe could miss when he shoots,

and then Rick could tell the Inspector

where the stolen film cans are and give him back the key.

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

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

and then the Inspector might let them go away together.

It could be the last big switch on the switch. Couldn't it?

It won't work. You see, he is a liar and a thief.

And he's been one for too long. He can't retire now.

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

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

What gives her that curious idea?

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

She's seen him shaking with terror, exhausted, ready to quit.

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

She's also seen him be warm and tender.

And funny.

Not famous-international-wit funny but really funny.

Do you think she's an idiot?

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

Or what he needs?

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

It's too late. He's 43 years old.

Or will be this October.

He's been married twice, both times disastrously,

and there have been too many years of too much dough,

too much bad writing and too much whiskey.

He's got nothing left inside to give.

Even if he could, which he can't.

But that's not true, Richard. You can. You have. I just love it.

No, you don't. It's lousy.

In any case, the problem is...

You're not in love with the script.

You're in love with me.

And why shouldn't you be?

Suddenly, waltzing into your life

comes this charming, relatively handsome stranger.

Me.

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

specifically designed to knock relatively unsophisticated chicks

like you, Miss Simpson, right on their ears.

Which I'm terribly afraid I've done.

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

and it very well may be, I'm going to fix that.

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

Before I cause you serious

and irrevocable harm.

You want the truth?

Of course you don't.

I'll give it to you anyway.

I do not give one damn about anything, certainly not my work,

as you so touchingly and ingenuously call it.

Well, that's not true.

There is something I care about.

Money. And good whiskey.

I am, as you've probably noticed, rather fond of that.

But my work?

That's a hideous little something

that must occur five days out of the year,

so I can spend the other 360 in the manner to which I have become

and fully intend to remain accustomed.

To you, Richard Benson.

To you and your glorious professional know-how.

Long may you wave.

And may you go on...

fooling...

the people.

Miss Simpson?

Miss Simpson!

Gabrielle?

- Pardon, Maurice. - Maurice? No, no. Philippe.

You don't even know when a joke is over.

Why, Mr. Benson, what are you doing here?

Miss Simpson, stop overacting.

You know very well what I'm doing here.

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

She forgot the bird, she forgot the bird...

- I don't know what you mean. - Yes, you do.

Girl leaves bird. Boy has to come looking for girl.

I've written that scene 1,000 times myself.

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

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

Point three.

I love you. Miss Simpson,

if you don't feel up to the job, tell me now. I'll get someone else.

No, I'm perfectly capable.

Very well, then, I hold here in my hand 130-some-odd pages

of contrived and utterly preposterous, totally unmotivated...

If you could only say it in pictures.

Come on, we've got a screenplay to write.

We're not starting from scratch, of course.

We've got two great characters.

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

Since he's gone straight, rather dull. We need something to jazz him up.

Find something for him to do, some physical action.

To accentuate the masculine image.

There's something in American movies, a terrible cliché,

but you did use it in the script.

Yes...

I think maybe we should, like, split.

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

It's a love story, naturally.

It will have a happy ending? He won't be shot running for a plane?

On the contrary, Miss Simpson.

The music soars and there,

totally oblivious of the fireworks, the fountains

and the holiday-mad throngs,

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

- I know what happens next. - You do?

The two enormous and highly-paid heads come together

for that ultimate and inevitable moment.

The final, earth-moving, studio-rent-paying, theater-filling,

popcorn-selling...