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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,

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

which are even now being typed.

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

Period. Paragraph.

Gentlemen,
success is inevitable.

An Alexander meyerheim
production...

Of an original story
and screenplay
by Richard Benson.

Richard Benson?
you know him,
my little angel?

Know him?
[ Speaking Greek ]

I hate him.
Richard Benson? Phooey.

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 ten 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.

[ Doorbell buzzes ]

It's open. Come in.

Yes?
Mr. Benson?

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

- I am.
- If we're to have a happy
and harmonious relationship,

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

- Is that clear?
- did I?

There you go again
answering a question
with a question.

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

Question Mark implied,
of course.

You do know the difference
between implied and inferred?

Isn't that a question?

- Yes.
- well, then you just answered
my question with a question.

To imply is to indicate
without saying openingly
or directly.

To infer is to conclude
from something known
or assumed.

My name is Gabrielle Simpson.

Is that by any chance a bird?

Yes.
I hope you don't mind.

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

Well, this is it.
The office there.

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

That rather grotesque object...

Looming so formidably
on the horizon
is the Eiffel Tower.

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

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

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

which, to your mind,
has terribly sinister
connotations.

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

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

but the joint's all filled up.

Bastille day weekend
and all that.

It's quite all right,
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.
on the second day, I gave him
a packet of bubble bath...

And from then on in
we got along swimmingly.

I see.

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

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

"Swimmingly."
interesting figure
of speech.

[ Bird chirping ]

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

[ Chuckles ]
that's very funny.

No, it isn't.

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

You have to keep trying
all the time.

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

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

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

And I'm sure
I can learn a great deal.
Well, thank you.

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

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

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

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

And decide
not to play scrabble
and then go home again.

It was called:
The scrabble game
will not take place.

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

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

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

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

I could estimate
the size of the typing job.

[ Exhales ]
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,
the boy and the girl meet.

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

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

uh, we feel, uh,
unconscious attraction
between the two,

uh, an indication
to the audience...

Of the tremulous
beginnings of love.

And then... conflict!

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

And now...
The first switch.

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

Things are
not what they seem.
Not at all.

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

Involving
the magnificently
ingenious...

Switch on the switch.

Amazed by the sudden
turn of events,

the boy and girl
realize how 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!

And 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
making it any longer.
We'd only have to cut later.

Mr. Benson?
yes.

This screenplay,
when does it
have to be finished?

Well, let's see.
Today is Friday.

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

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

Sunday morning.

Which happens to be
Bastille day.

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

and then you and I,
we celebrate.

Drink champagne.
Dance in the streets.

Whatever they do on July 14.

I already have a date
for Bastille day.

You mean you haven't
written anything at all?

You have a date.

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

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

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

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

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

Not for me.

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

No, I haven't.

May I ask what
you have been doing?

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

Lying in the sun
in Antibes.
Studying Greek.

- Greek.
- there was this starlet...

Representing
the Greek film industry
at the Cannes festival.

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

which involved
a considerable amount
of vodka...

And an unpremeditated trip
to Madrid for the bullfights,

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

had long since
gone on to Seville.

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

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

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

From my friend,
employer and patron
Mr. Alexander meyerheim.

Thus not having
to write the picture at all.

Take a note. For the textbook
which I will 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.

[ Sighs ]
and now I have to.
Shall we begin?

An Alexander meyerheim
production. Caps. Quotes.

"The girl who stole
the Eiffel Tower."

"The girl who--"
y-you do like the title,
don't you?

Oh, yes. It certainly
sounds intriguing.

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

Uh, original story
and screenplay
by Richard Benson.

[ Typing ]
page one. Fade in.

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

Day.

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

[ Richard's voice ]
the camera zooms toward it.

Standing windswept
and alone on the platform
is a mysterious woman in black.

She glances at her watch.
And we see--

how the hell
do I know what we see?
mysterious woman in black.

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

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

Exterior.
Le Cacre Coeur. Day.

No.

Make that, uh--

the Grand Palais.
[ Typing ]

Mm-mmm.

We've got
to give the audience...

The taste and smell
of the real Paris.

Okay.

[ Richard ]
exterior. Christian Dior.

The camera pans.
And now we see
a white rolls Royce...

Pull up and come to a stop.

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

It's chicer.

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

From inside emerges
some classically glamorous star,

like, uh, Marlene Dietrich.

And now she, uh--
[ Typing pauses ]

Dot, dot, dot.
[ Typing ]

She sweeps majestically
into the store and--

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

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

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

[ Sighs ]

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

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

And you came here to write?

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

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

Live. Uh, would you mind, uh--

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

Yes. I spent
the first six months...

Making a comprehensive
study of depravity.

No kidding?
seriously. Never got to bed
before 8:00 in the morning.

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

Of that
poisonous black coffee
I must have consumed.

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

Actually, depravity
can be terribly boring
if you don't smoke or drink.

But a person does have to
try to grow.

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

is he part
of the growth process?

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

An actor!
ooooh!

A tragic relationship
to begin with.

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

Who scratches and mumbles
and pauses a lot,

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

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

Uh-huh. Yeah.
Well--

and you and this... actor,

what do you plan to do
on Bastille day?

We're going to spend
the whole day together,

starting with breakfast
at this little cafe
we go to.

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

The opera at 5:00.

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

And off to Montmartre
for the fireworks.

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

You really like it,
don't you? Life.
What?

Oh! Every morning
when I wake up...

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

I've got an idea.

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

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

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

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

And how she spends July 14.

The whole picture
plays in one day.

And I've got two days
to write it.

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

It's early Bastille day morning.

And all the trumpets of Paris
are sounding reveille.

** [ trumpets ]

[ Richard ]
now, over a shot
of the arch of triumph,

superimposed,
"an Alexander meyerheim
production."

Cut to the Eiffel Tower.

The main title.

The trumpets segue
into the inevitable title song.

** [ orchestral ]
Maybe get Sinatra to sing it.

[ Sinatra ]
* the girl who stole
the Eiffel Tower *

* also stole my heart *

[ Richard ]
there follows an interminable
list of other credits...

Acknowledging the efforts
of all quote-- little people--
unquote,

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

At the academy awards.

As the cymbals crash--
** [ cymbals ]

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 cafe 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.

[ Gabrielle's voice ]
not at all. Philippe happens
to be very handsome.

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

[ Richard ]
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, uh,
bon jour, baby.
[ Woman ] Bon jour, Maurice.

Hey.
oh, darling,
I'm so excited.

I didn't sleep a wink all night.

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

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

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

Uh, thanks.

Uh...

Look, baby.
Yes, Maurice?

Uh, this Bastille day gig,

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

But, Maurice,
I don't understand.

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

See, what happened, last night,

while I was, uh,
making the scene
at le drug store,

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

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

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

And, 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, uh, rains.

Anyway, he offers me the lead.

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

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

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

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

No, thanks.
I prefer to walk.

Crazy.

Uh, toot a l'hoor.

[ Mumbling ]

[ Richard ]
with the almost
lunatic narcissism...

Peculiar to his curious calling,

Maurice rather preciously
mounts his motor scooter.

Our heroine
is left grief-stricken.

Not realizing
how much better off
she really is.

But they were going to spend
the whole day together.

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

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

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

Now then,
having thus successfully...

Disposed of her date
for Bastille day, we move on
to important matters: Conflict.

- Conflict?
- the other man.

The third corner
of the obligatory triangle.

Did Roger what's-his-name,
the No Scrabb 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.

Now I suppose
we'll have to describe him.

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

I can write him better that way.

Now let's see.
What else?

I see him as rather tall,
rather suntanned.

Rather handsome,
athletic-looking.

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

[ Typing ]

[ Richard ]
poor sad creature.
[ Typing continues ]

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 a Fred Astaire,

he dances her off
into the crowd.

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

As hard as you possibly can.

What?
there is, unfortunately,
no time to explain.

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

There's something about
your big magic eyes.

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

Just think of me as...

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
which I just handed you,
there's a piece of microfilm.

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

If it should fall
into the wrong hands,

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

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

[ Gunshots ]

[ Gunshots ]

[ Richard ]
stop! Stop!

Spies in trench coats?

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

[ Richard ]
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--

[ typing ]
and they dance, and they dance
and they dance.

And they dance and they dance.

Mr... Benson?

- The mysterious stranger.
Who is he? What--
-[ Doorbell buzzes ]

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

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

That lurks behind his eyes?

And why, while
we're asking questions,

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

Merci.
merci.

It-- it's a telegram.

Well, aren't you
going to open it?

[ Sighs ]
no, miss Simpson,
I'm not going to open it.

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

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

The reason I know
what it says is...

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

I have received 134 telegrams
from Mr. Alexander meyerheim,

all saying
exactly the same thing.

When's the script
going to be finished?

When's the script
going to be finished?

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

Day and night:
Wires, messages,
telephone calls.

"How'd it go today?
did you work well?
[ Laughs ]

When's the script
going to be finished?"
talk about men in trench coats.

He spies on me constantly.

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

- Mr. Benson!
- I'm sorry,
but some of these days...

I just feel like
what's-his-name
in les miserables.

- 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
on the desk.

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

"And tells you that he's got
138 pages in front of him
on the desk and doesn't...

Is nothing
but a liar and a thief."

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

[ Shaver whirring ]

[ Shaver stops ]

I know who
the mysterious stranger is.

He's a liar and a thief.

Sure. A latter day
Francois Villon...

Who lives by his wits
and what he can steal.

A Jewel thief, maybe.

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

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

I've got it. It means
we have to start all over again,
but that's not too serious.

We've only got eight pages.

Now let's see.
We're all right through
Alexander meyerheim production,

girl who stole the Eiffel Tower,
original story and screenplay
by Richard Benson.

We can still use
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.
[ Typing ]

Amidst the throng
of merrymakers,

the camera picks up
a rather tall,

rather suntanned American.

[ Richard ]
we'd better change his wardrobe.
Put him a liar-and-a-thief suit.

You know,
various shades of black.

Now moving
with the lithe grace
of a jungle cat,

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

His almost
superhuman intelligence
takes in the situation at once.

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

it's a pretty face.

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

Where two denizens
of the underworld await him.

Just call them first gangster
and second gangster.

Well, Rick--

have you thought it over?

[ Rick ] let's say I'm
considering the proposition.

It is a plan
of great simplicity
and beauty,

and yet highly original.

Very daring.
[ Woman ]
Voila, monsieur Rick.

Now we need you
for two things only:

To open the safe
and deliver the note.

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

which we will, of course,

split three ways.

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

But, Rick,
you have already agreed.

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

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

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

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

Until 4:00 then.

And, Rick,
resist at all costs...

Your continuous
and overwhelming impulse
to perform the double cross.

We will not this time
be so understanding...

As we were last year in tangier.

[ Richard ]
now, having established
a climate of suspense,

intrigue and high 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, uh, uh, gillet
of the international
police force.

[ Richard ]
it is apparent that
he knows something...

The audience does not know.

And now, miss Simpson,
that 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 just dying
to find out myself--

we can pause
for a few pages of chitchat.

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

The question is,

where should this charming
little scene be played?

At lunch!
that's it!

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

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

With someone
who picked her up
in a public square.

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

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

and they dance, and they dance,

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

And then a suggestion
from the mysterious stranger.

"If you will try
raising your upper lip,

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

That being
somewhat of a disaster,

now he really
has to turn on the charm.

"Do you know the meaning
of the world 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 just making it up?
no.
Serendipity is 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 to her
in a much more fascinating way
than I did...

And, at the right moment,
proposes that they have
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
to spend a weekend with him...

In a motel
in Asbury Park, New Jersey.

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

She'd go?
well--

serendipity.
all right,
maybe she would,

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

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

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

Sere--
all right, then.

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

Settled?
settled. And now we ought
to write it, oughtn't we?

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

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

But how do we get them
from the square through all
that charm and serendipity...

And everything
you do so brilliantly?

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

Which takes care of exactly
this kind of situation:
The dissolve.

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

That when a scene fades away--
like an old soldier--
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.

[ Richard ]
a hansom cab bearing
our handsome couple...

[ Typing ]
clippity clops its way past
waterfalls and trees...

Toward a magnificent restaurant.

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

Against a background
of holiday serendipity
in gay paree.

** [ upbeat jazz ]

[ Richard ]
we will spare the audience
the ordeal of listening...

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

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

The dissolve.

Who are you?
what do you do?

Who am I and what do I do?

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

Driven racing cars.
White hunter for a while.

Piano player in a rather
curious establishment
in Buenos Aires.

This and that,
everything and nothing.

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

Oh, I know so well
what you mean,

about the curse
of having been born too rich.

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

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

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

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

I was allowed
to feed the giraffes.

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

You mean you?
but of course we did.

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

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

Voila.
madame. Monsieur.

To Rick.
To Gaby.

[ Man ]
if I may recommend.

[ Rick ]
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...
[ Typing ]

Sauteed lightly
in champagne and butter.

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

Fifty-nine will do.
And after that--

we'll have
a Chateaubriand for two.
Ohh.

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

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

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

And a bottle of
chateau Lafitte Rothschild '47.
Mmm!

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

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

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

Mmm!
[ Kiss, sighs ]

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

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?

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

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

Would consider joining
the very talented
Mr. Richard Benson...

For a small, very dry aperitif.

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

All right. I think
that would be very nice.

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

But he's beginning
to grow on me.

[ Chirping ]
[ Gabrielle ]
Mmm!

[ Richard ]
you were saying you
find Rick growing on you.

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

Important. The reaction
of the female audience.

All right, lunch is over.

The Martinis,
the two different kinds
of wine and the Brandy...

Have had their effect.

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

The pages, miss Simpson,

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

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

the opening:
A series of interestingly
photographed establishing shots.

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

if a middle-age,
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.
Well, thank you, miss Simpson.

Now you can feel
the unconscious attraction
between the two.

The-- the tremulous
beginnings of love.

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

Running on your side?

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

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

Mr. Benson?
mm?

Have you any idea at all
what happens next?

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

Well--

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

he is a liar and a thief!

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

I do know what happens next.

What happens next
is the second switch!

The audience gasps
as they realize
they have been fooled.

He has been plying her
with Martinis, white wine,
red wine, Brandy...

For only one reason:
To make her drunk.

Which, incidentally, she's not.

Not in the least.
No matter what he thinks.

Now, as he forces
one last Brandy...

To her unwilling lips-- oh!

[ Gabrielle ]
poor ingenuous girl.

She 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.
** [ ominous music ]

[ Gabrielle ]
and she becomes aware
of the danger that she is in.

[ Gabrielle ]
the mysterious stranger.

Who is he?
what is he really like?

And why does he keep
nibbling on her neck?

[ Screeching ]
[ Screams ]

Don't be frightened, my dear.

It's only a bat.

The creatures of the night
are my friends.

[ Screams ]

[ Screams ]

[ Whimpers, gasps ]

Now I know why you keep
nibbling on my neck.

You're some kind of a werewolf.

No, no, my dear.

I'm a vampire.

- [ Screams ]
- [ screeching ]

[ Screams ]

[ Screams ]

[ Whimpers ]

The inner reaches
of these caverns...

Make an ideal setting
for my laboratory.

[ Whimpering ]

[ Screeching ]

[ Whimpering continues ]

[ Gabrielle ]
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 herself free
from his evil grasp,

and the chase is on!

Ooh!

[ Whip cracking ]

[ Neighs ]

[ Speaking French ]

[ Gabrielle gasps ]
he's caught her.
No, Gaby. No!

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

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

That's it! Planes!

[ Machine gun fire ]

[ Machine gun fire ]

[ Machine gun fire ]

[ Machine gun fire ]

[ Loud crash ]

Her face registers terror.

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

[ Sobbing ]
oh, there, there,
miss Simpson.

It's perfectly all right.

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

and you've had
a good deal to drink.

Anyway, he had it coming to him.

Plying her
with all that booze,
making her drunk.

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

Of course not.
Not only did she kill him,

but when I think
of that poor horse...

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

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

That was what?

Whatever it was
he was gonna do to her.

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

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

Actually, I think
he's very attractive.

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

You do? What about you?

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

maybe if I did get
a few hours' sleep--

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

you've got to promise
to wake me.

Sure.
promise?

I promise.

All right then.

Good night, Mr. Benson.

Good night, miss Simpson.

[ Sighs ]
good night.

Good night.

[ Bird chirping ]

[ Clears throat ]

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

In Cannes.

Well, it's 1:30.

You can probably find him
at the casino.

Uh... uh, Benson.

Mr. Richard Benson calling.

Person to person.

I'll hold on.

Dear Alex--

dear Alex...

It is my unpleasant duty
to inform you...

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.

And as I see it,
there will be no--
[ Squawking ]

Eh?

Como?

Well, try him at
the chemin de fer game--
the big table.

Excuse me. I forgot
to cover Richelieu.

Good night.

- [ Door opens ]
- oh, Mr. Benson,

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

I'll be right here
when you need me.

Good night.

[ Tapping telephone ]

Operator...
cancel that call.

[ Typing ]

** [ orchestral ]

[ Man ]
* that face

* that face

* that wonderful face

* it shines

* it glows

* all over the place

* and how I love to watch it

* change expressions

* each look becomes the prize *

* of my possessions

* I love that face

* that face

* oh, it just isn't fair

* you must

* forgive

* the way I stare

* for never will
these eyes behold *

* a sight that could replace *

* that face

* that face

* that face

[ singers ]
* that face, that face

* wherever I go

* it's here

* it's there

* bewitching me so

* it's got my crazy heart

* in such a tangle

* it drives me simply wild

* from many angles

* I love

* those

* eyes

* those lips

* that beautiful smile

* she laughs

* and spring goes
right out of style *

* for never will these eyes

* behold a sight
that could replace *

* that face

* that face, that face *

**

**

** [ stops ]

Unfortunately, miss Simpson...

We are not writing a musical!

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

All by yourself?

While some of us were sleeping
snug in our beds,

other, more productive citizens
were toiling in the vineyards
of beautiful letters.

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

weren't present to observe...

With your own big magic eyes...

A seasoned professional
in action.

I was, in those few short hours,

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

I was Manolete in Seville...

Going in over the horns
for the kill!

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, uh--

how do you spell "ingenuous"?

I-n-g-e-n-u-o-u-s.

I was afraid of that.

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

I discovered some errors
in the earlier pages...

Which had to be corrected,

dealing, basically,
with the character
of Rick.

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

Underestimated
the brilliance
of the man.

No simple safecracker he,

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

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

For over a year by Rick himself.

The two other characters
are just employees.

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

Rick and Gaby had by now
demolished a glorious lunch,

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

Page 14.
Now then,

sit down and brace yourself.

Here comes the switch
on the switch.

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

Will gasp as you realize
you've been fooled.

Things are not
as they seem.
Not at all!

In fact,
the whole situation
is completely reversed.

Mr. Benson.

Miss Simpson, 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
when I've had a more
marvelous lunch.

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

** [ French music playing ]

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

The rest of
the afternoon?
exactly.

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

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

A brief stop at my office
to pick something up,

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

At the restaurant
in the Eiffel Tower.

Pardon, but you are monsieur Rick?
Oui.

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

Merci, Jacques.

Pardon me for a moment.

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

What's the matter?
have you gone mad?

Bringing a girl along
on a job like this?

In our arrangement,
my dear Francois,

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

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

The ability
to improvise 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 gillet.

What is he doing in Paris?

Do you think
he suspects something?

Of course not.
And even if he does, as always,
I'm one step ahead of him.

Why do you think
I picked up the girl?
because she has big magic eyes.

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

To throw our inspector friend
off the scent.

Never in his wildest
imagination...

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

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

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

She's a perfect cover.

Meet you at the car
in one minute.

Shall we?

My dear gillet.
Our paths cross again.

My dear Rick.
What an extraordinary
coincidence.

This is messier gillet.
He is, in a curious way,
a business associate of mine.

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

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

This, my friend,
is a moment to savor.

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

my brilliant, highly paid
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-- [ chuckles ]
Sir, it was flawless.

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

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

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

but merely
a supporting player--

and a very minor one at that.

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

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

would simply be
"second policeman."

As I was saying,

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

[ Sighs ]
but can she be trusted?

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

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

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

The plan.

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

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

There's no policeman alive
who can stay on his trail
if he wishes to elude him.

Yes. No.
No.
[ Chuckles ]

I shall sit here,
have a glorious lunch--

everything to be cooked,
of course, in this remarkable
nonfattening safflower oil--

marvelous.
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.

[ Car horns honking ]

To the studio, Francois,
if you please.
Studio?

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

And pick something up there.

Have you ever been inside
a motion picture studio?

No. Are you in
the movie business?

In a way.

The studio
is particularly marvelous
on a holiday like this.

Silent. Empty.

The vast sound stages
completely deserted.

Like the night before Christmas,

not a creature is stirring.

Wait here.
I won't be long.

Mmm. Nice-ish.

Isn't it.

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

A writer? Producer?
director?

Nothing as creative as all that.
My interest in motion pictures
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, of course.

What I like-- uh...

Westerns.

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

Things like that.

[ Creaking ]

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

You know, 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, uh, next to pictures
about robberies,

I think I like
horror pictures best.

I always have.

You won't believe this.
When I was a girl,
I was 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,
at least not after
he had his teeth fixed.

But that you are interested
in pictures.

That makes two things
we have in common.

Movies... and giraffes.

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

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

- [ Gasps ]
- let me see that!

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

The lipstick.
It's been written with.

The napkin!

The napkin you gave gillet,
what was on it?

What was on it?

You--

[ screams ]

[ Gasps ]

Oh!

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

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

I don't know.

That's as far as I got.

Mr. Benson.
Yes?

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

what would that make it,
a switch on a switch on a switch
on a switch on a switch...

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

I thought I knew about movies,
but working for Roger roussin
was never like this.

Wonder if he knows
about switches...

And switches on switches...

And switches on switches
on switches.

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

Suddenly,
not only would they
not be playing scrabble,

they would also
not be playing
Parcheesi.

I must say, the mind reels.

Anyway, you know
what I think?
yes.

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

You think
she's an American
intelligence agent.

Well, miss Simpson,
you happen to be wrong.

Our Gaby happens to be
that most reliable,
steadfast,

and you-cannot-possibly
mess-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 second-most.

The most is Frankenstein.

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

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

It can go either way.

That's what gives it
such flexibility.

Miss Simpson,
did you ever realize...

That Frankenstein
and my fair lady...

Are the same story?

One ends happily...

And the other one doesn't.

Think about that for a while.

[ Inhales deeply ]

You smell wonderful.

That's the bath oil.

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

Only a few drops, of course.

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

[ Clears throat ]
now, uh, where were we?

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

Or rather, where you were.

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

I don't see how Frankenstein
and my fair lady are the same.

Oh, yes, I do.

Professor Higgins created Liza,
and Dr. Frankenstein created
the monster.

Oh, yes. Of course.

But don't tell anybody.

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

Uh-huh. Yeah, well,
uh... he's chased her through
the jungle and all that stuff.

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

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

you're out of your head.

And into the bedroom.

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

and, uh...

My dear big magic-eyed,

bath-oil-scented miss Simpson,

is where we are.

Slowly...
Rick continues toward her.
[ Typing ]

Go ahead. Pull the trigger.

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

Cigarette?
thanks.

Light?

Well, Rick...

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

And so
my big magic-eyed Gaby...

Who came to Paris to...

Live...

Turns out to be
a spy for the police,

an informer,

a common stool pigeon.

No, Rick. Don't say it!

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

He's relentless!

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

He'll never forgive himself
for what happened 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 police record
as long as your arm.

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

Squirming on the end
of the hook he has prepared.

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

Step by painful step
for the last year,

my life, well, it's over.

Back I go behind the bars.
Maedchen in uniformonce more.

No longer Gabrielle nor Gaby,

but simply a number.

If, however, I succeed--

- and if you succeed?
- freedom!

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

Anything.

Anything?
anything.

It's not so hard.
I, too, in my own way,
am a highly paid professional.

Well, 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.

[ Richard ] their two bodies,
now moving as one,
[ Typing ]

Roll like
turbulent breakers crashing
on an undiscovered shore.

And now...
Now...
[ Typing continues ]

We slowly...
And lingeringly...

Dissolve.

Gracious.

Exactly, miss Simpson.
Well said.

You might even add
"heavens to Betsy."

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

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

Get away with it?
get away with what?

Well, it's just
that scene with them
in the bed like that--

it's, uh, rather suggestive.

Don't you think
the censors will object?

How can they possibly object?

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

miss Simpson, as I said before,

a dissolve
is a most useful device.

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

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

Now, if I were you,
miss Simpson,

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

And start seeing more
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.

[ Dice rattle ]

As much as I've enjoyed
our little game,

it's almost 8:30.

Time for the climax
of our glorious day.

We must be off.

Off? Where to?

You know perfectly well where.

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

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

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

Gillet 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.

[ Water splashing ]

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

and I'm getting on swimmingly.

Howdy...

Stranger.

You must be the new schoolmarm.

I hate to rush you, ma'am,

but it's gettin' late.

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

into this costume
and out to the car?

Absolutely no time at all.

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

For me to take the most
dangerous step of all.

Yes, Rick?

I must trust you
and tell you the details.

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

How can you ask, Rick?

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

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

[ Exhales deeply ]

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

The party at the Eiffel Tower
is being given by the producer
of the picture.

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

It's a long drive
to the Eiffel Tower,

and traffic is heavy.

[ Typewriter clacks ]

Mr. Benson.

Rick.

Gaby, maybe, but I'm not--

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

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

Oh, dear.

I guess maybe we are
that kind of a girl.

[ Richard exhales deeply ]
exterior.

Eiffel Tower. Night.

Rick and Gaby have been driving
and driving and driving.

[ Gabrielle ]
through all that
marvelous traffic.

Mmm.
[ kissing noises ]

The tower is ablaze--
Richard...

How can I type
if you're going to--

all right. All right.

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

[ typing ]
miss Simpson, how can I dictate
if you're going to-- mmm.

Trust me, darling.

I do. We go.

[ Richard ] 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 summertime,
and the vita is dolce,

breakfast is at Tiffany's
and everybody is high.

** [ Latin jazz ]
[ Laughter and commotion ]

[ Bystanders laughing ]

[ Richard ]
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.

** [ music continues ]

If you will look
to the left just a hang
as casually as possible,

you will see
that idiot gillet...

Dressed appropriately enough
as an executioner.

Ready, darling?
ready, darling.

Excuse me for a moment, darling.

You're late.
Untrue, gillet.

Everything is going
precisely according
to plan.

And the plan.
Do you have it?
of course.

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

A professional.

[ Conversation inaudible ]

Well?
if you will
be good enough
to read this,

I believe
the entire situation will
become clear immediately.

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

The ransom note?
exactly.

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

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

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

the girl who stole
the Eiffel Tower.

You 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 to me,
at once,

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

My dear boy,

I haven't the faintest idea
who you are,

but you are beautiful.

[ Chuckling ]
absolutely beautiful.

[ Laughs ]
not only that,
you've saved my life.

The girl who stole
the Eiffel Tower
is, frankly, a disaster.

The title, by the way,
is symbolic.

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

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

Anyway, the script is so ghastly
that it could never 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,
it was my plan 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!

[ Chuckles ]
unbelievable!

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

hook, line and sinker,

not only will I give you
the key...

To my safe deposit box
in Casablanca,

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

Fifty/fifty.

[ Laughs ]
oh, my darling.

My darling boy, if ever you
should consider going into
the motion picture business,

do not hesitate to call me.

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

We understand each other
perfectly.

You're so beautiful.

It's a rugged,
but curiously sensitive face.

It's so beautiful!
[ Laughing ]

His plane is waiting for him
at le Bourget Airport.

His chauffeur is even now
warming up the engines.

Good girl.

Tomorrow your entire
police record...

Will disappear
oh-so-mysteriously
from my files,

and you will be free.

Thank you, my dear gillet.

** [ go-go ]

And now, gillet, if you will be
good enough to quite casually
dance me across the floor...

And over to
the gentlemen's lounge--

you fool!
you little fool.

He using you like he did
that poor unfortunate girl
last year in tangier.

Keep dancing, gillet.

I should have known.
I should have known that man
is irresistible to women.

He is, my dear gillet.
Keep dancing!

You fool.
You little fool.

**

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

I don't really hate
inspector gillet.

I just feel sorry for him.

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

And relegating me
to some minor character.

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

Got me saying lines like
"brilliant, inspector.
Brilliant,"

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

[ Rick ]
Maurice.
Inspector,

I am Philippe.

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

Where is my car?

Uh, I have the car
right here, sir.

You read that line
beautifully, Maurice.

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

I am Philippe.

My dear boy,
you are a minor character,

and your name
is of no importance.

Now, you were saying
something about the car.

I have the car
right here, sir.
Ayyy.

[ Tires squealing ]
faster, Maurice!
faster!

Faster, Philippe.
Faster.

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

even in the nontaxing role
of second policeman.

Bourget airport!
quickly!

[ Siren ]

But if you are
the inspector,
then who--

you are only third policeman
and shouldn't have any lines
at all, so shut up and drive.

Do you know
what this is?
the key!

The key to our future and
$1 million in small, unmarked
bills worth of happiness...

For the two of us.

[ Siren continues ]

Inspector gillet
of interpol here
calling all voitures.

Faster! Faster!

Uh, the gate, sir.
It is closed.

Then go through it, you fool!

[ Siren continues ]

You wait here, Maurice.
I'll take him alone.
Inspector, can I speak to you?

You're Rick!

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

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

Nobody cares anything about you.

You're a mere
literary convenience,

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

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

[ Siren ]

Stop, Rick!

Stop or I'll shoot!

Philippe!

- Philippe!
- [ gunshots ]

Mauri-- Philippe.

[ Sirens approaching ]

[ Sirens continue ]

[ Sobs ]
darling.

It's all right.

Perhaps it's better this way.

- [ Sirens stop ]
- no, no, no, my darling.

We'll make it to Casablanca.

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

With its own-- unh--
private zoo.

And will there be giraffes?

Of course... giraffes.

[ Whimpers ]
oh, dear.

[ Whimpers ]

This is what it means
to be a cop.

You're first policeman now.

[ Richard ]
thus, having proved once again
that crime does not pay,

unless you happen to be me.

[ Typing ]

[ Richard ]
fade out.

The end.

Well, there it is.

All hundred
and thirty-odd pages of it.

Finished with...

Hours to spare.

It's wonderful, Richard,

only does it
have to end that way?

I mean,
Philippe could miss
when he shoots.

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

And give him back the key and...

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

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

And then the inspector
might let them go away
together.

It could be the last
big switch on a switch.

Couldn't it?

[ Sighs ]
it won't work.

You see, he is a liar
and a thief.

And he's been one for too long.

He can't retire now.

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

a hack.

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

What gives her
that curious idea?

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

She's seen him when
he was shaking with terror,
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?

Uh-uh.

It's too late.

He's 43 years old.

He will be this October.

Been married twice,

both times disastrously.

And there have been
too many years of...

Too much dough,

too much bad writing...

And too much whiskey.

He's got nothing left
inside to give.

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

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

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

It's lousy.

In any case, the problem is...

[ Exhales deeply ]
you're not in love
with the script.

You're in love with me.

And why shouldn't you be?

Suddenly waltzing
into your life...

Comes this charming
and relatively handsome
stranger.

Me.

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

Specifically designed
to knock 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...

[ Clatter ]

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.

No, that's not true.

There is something I care about.

Money. And good whiskey.

I am, as you've
probably noticed,

rather fond of that.

[ Chuckles ]

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.

[ Exhales deeply ]

Long may you wave.

And may you go on...

[ Sighs ]

Fooling the people.

[ Exhales deeply ]

** [ "la marseillaise" ]

** [ continues ]

[ Bird chirping ]

[ Chirping continues ]

Miss Simpson? Mm.

Miss Simpson.

Gabrielle?

[ Chirping continues ]

[ Spraying mist ]

[ Bird chirping ]

[ Bird chirping ]

** [ Latin jazz ]

**

**

**

**

pardon, Maurice.
Maurice?

No, no. Philippe.

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

[ Speaking French ]

Ahh.
why, Mr. Benson.

What are you doing here?

Come on, 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're talking about.
Oh, yes, you do.

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

I've written that scene
a thousand times myself.

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

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

Point three. I love you.

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

just tell me
and I can get somebody else.

Oh, no.
I'm perfectly capable.

Very well then.

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

Of contrived
and utterly preposterous,
totally unmotivated--

ooh! 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--
[ Blurts French ]

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

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

Uh, some physical action.
[ Speaking French ]

Uh, to accentuate
the masculine image.

There is something
in American movies.

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

Oh, yes.
[ Speaking French ]

Whoo!

I think maybe
we should, like, split!

[ Commotion ]

** [ stops ]

Aah! [ Giggles ]

** [ marching band ]

[ Whistles blowing ]

[ Whistles continue ]

[ Popping ]

** [ waltz ]

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,
won't it? He won't get shot
running for the plane?

On the contrary, miss Simpson.

** [ soaring ]
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's going
to happen next.
You do?

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

For that ultimate
and inevitable moment.

The final, earth-moving,

studio-rent-paying,
theater-filling,

popcorn-selling--

popcorn-selling--