All language subtitles for 6741907d6d63c-23112024-TurkceAltyazi.org

Damn!

Mademoiselle.

Merci.

I said you were right not to want to go in.

It isn't worth the trouble.

The pictures are awful and
the people are worse.

If it wasn't my duty, I would never
come to one of these things.

Your duty? Are you a critic?

No, I am the brother of the artist.

Do you want to meet him?

He is not worth meeting,
though, I assure you.

I'll take your word for it.

Are you really interested in paintings?

In a way.

Would you like to see a beautiful painting?

Not like these, these
neurotic monkey-scratches.

Yes, if it's not too far.

Ten minutes from here.

Come. I have transportation.

What do you think?

I hate it. What?

Why?

Because I am a painter myself.

And I know I'll never be able
to paint anything as good.

Excellent.

In that case, I will take you to dinner.

Do you always drink
Coca-Cola with your dinner?

No, not always.

Why? Does it displease you?

Well, it sort of reminds me of Chicago.

You do not wish to be reminded of Chicago?

Not at the moment.

Do you always drink wine with your dinner?

Well, since I came to France.

Alcohol is the curse of France.

Wine has reduced this country
to a second-rate power.

Oh. Don't let me embarrass you.

Drink if you wish.

Well, I don't want to be reduced
to a second-rate power.

Now you're making fun of me.

Only a little.

How long have you been in Paris?

Six months.

How much longer do you intend to stay?

Another six months.

Then the money runs out.

Too long.

Why?

I've been studying you all
through dinner and...

Couldn't we speak French?

Every time I say two words in French

to anybody in this country,

they break immediately into English.

I'll never learn the language this way.

If you wish.

I'm sorry. You go too fast.

I said, I have been studying
you all through dinner,

and I have some good advice to offer you.

What's that?

Leave Paris, leave France
as soon as possible.

Well, that isn't very
hospitable, I must say.

Let me warn you.

It is difficult enough to
be a French girl in Paris.

To be an American girl is impossible.

Paris is a city with a hard heart.

It is a factory for the production
of egotists and cynics.

If I had any power over you, I
would send you away tomorrow.

What about you? You're here.

A man is different.

Even so, when I'm finished with my
studies, I'm getting out as soon as I can.

Where are you going to go?

Mmm, in Africa, Asia, South America.

I am going to be an engineer.

I intend to build dams and bridges and roads

in the jungle, in the desert,

in the wildest mountains,

away from all this
chi-chi, all this gossip,

all this money-making and playing politics.

Have I convinced you?

Are you taking the first
plane tomorrow morning?

No.

That means I can take you
to dinner tomorrow night.

I'm afraid I can't ask you in.

Our landlady doesn't allow us to
bring men into the apartment.

How wise she is!

I now say goodnight. Oh.

Well, goodnight.

Till tomorrow.

But tell your brother I hope
his show's a great success.

You're wrong to encourage him.

May I ask you a question?

Yes. What?

How old are you?

Nineteen.

I trust you do not object to
going out with older men.

Why?

Because I'm 21.

Please don't get killed on the way home.

I shall drive like an old
lady with rheumatism.

I promise you.

Night.

Why did you do that?

Because it's Sunday.

Don't ever do anything like that again.

Why not?

Because it's too much the way Anglo-Saxons

believe French people behave in public.

Come on, let's get out of here.

Hey, you,

I don't like the look of
the back of your neck.

What's the matter with it?

It's frowning.

That's better.

Will people be able to see that

I was in love while the
picture was being painted?

If you keep on talking, all
they'll be able to see

is that I never got the mouth right.

How does my face look
when I say, "I love you"?

Or maybe it looks better in French.

Je t'aime.

Does that help?

No.

Were you ever in love?

No.

Of course, that's a lie.

But it's nice of you to say so.

Guy, why don't you ever introduce
me to any of your friends?

Because they are vastly boring.

At least your family.

Equally vastly boring.

Are you making me look
intelligent and uncompromising?

Is that how you want to look?

Yes.

I'll do my best.

Tell me something. What?

Are you surprised that in all the
three months I've known you,

I have never tried...

I have never tried to seduce you?

No.

I believe in love and fidelity.

I am past all that cheap
adolescent promiscuity.

I hope you are, too.

Of course.

Don't move.

When we are ready for each
other, we will know it.

Shh!

She's American. She understands every word.

Good. I want all America to know.

When we are ready for each
other, we will know it.

Guy, please! Shh!

I'm sorry if I am disturbing
you, Mademoiselle.

Not at all.

It's quite nice, if I may say so.

Thank you.

Mm-hmm.

Mademoiselle James.

I have the name right? Yes.

Let me introduce myself.

I am that worst of all living creatures,

a landlord.

I am also the Baron Édouard de Chazière.

For my sins, I own this building.

It has been in my family for 160 years.

My advisers tell me that it
is on the point of collapse

and that I should tear it down and erect

a large ugly apartment house in its place.

That'd be too bad.

After seeing it tonight,

I'm inclined to agree with you.

Miss James,

I hope you won't think
that a simple landlord

is being presumptuous in telling you

that he likes your paintings very much.

Not at all.

In a small way, I am
something of a collector.

I have a friend who runs a gallery

and sometimes advises me.

Monsieur Patrini, of the Maeght Gallery.

I know the gallery.

Would it be too much to ask if I could take

two or three of your canvasses to show him?

I guess not.

Thank you.

Don't move, Guy.

Forgive me for having taken up
so much of your precious time.

Goodnight, Mademoiselle.

I can't stand people like that.

Fancy! Fancy!

He took your three worst paintings.

I think he took the three best ones.

Renoir.

Matisse.

Picasso.

James.

You haven't said a word for 15 minutes.

Is anything the matter?

I have decided.

The time is ripe.

We have reached the inevitable moment.

What are you talking about?

I speak in an adult manner.

Tonight we become lovers.

I have borrowed the key of the
apartment of a friend of mine.

He has gone to visit his
family in Tours for the night.

It is just around the corner.

Please, don't say any more.

Why? Have I shocked you?

No.

But you must have known that
finally, one day, we would...

Well, yes.

But I don't know, it's so abrupt.

Abrupt?

But I have seen you nearly every
day for three months now.

What are you accustomed to?

I'm not accustomed to anything.

You know that.

Please, let's not talk about it anymore.

Not tonight.

But I have the apartment for tonight.

My friend may not go to
Tours for another year.

Don't look like that.

Maybe some other time.

I warn you,

next time it will have to be you
who will make the advances.

I will make the advances.

Guy. Finally!

I'm freezing to death out here.
Come on, let's go someplace warm.

Guy, I've got some good news for you.

The Baron bought two of my paintings.

Did he? Congratulations.

That's a pretty icy congratulation.

Is it? Mademoiselle, je vous félicite.

Do you prefer that?

No, I don't.

Look, Guy, I have to tell you something.

I can't go to the theater with you tonight.

What do you mean?

You've been saying you wanted
to see this play for a month.

I have the tickets. They cost 3200 Francs.

I know. I'm sorry, I just can't go.

Why not?

Well, the Baron left word with Mr.
Patrini in there.

He wants to talk to me about my paintings.

What's that got to do with our
going to the theater tonight?

He wants to talk to me at dinner.

Where? At his house.

It's out near Versailles.

And he wants to talk about your paintings?

Do you really believe that?

Yes, I do.

If you believe that,
you'll believe anything.

Even in Chicago, I wouldn't believe it.

You're being very nasty.

I'm looking the facts in the face.

The facts? I'll tell you
what the facts are.

You're jealous.

Don't "huh" me! Huh!

You don't want me to be a success.

You want to hide me in a corner,

so you don't have to worry
about any competition.

Competition! If the Baron wants you,

he can have you. With my blessing.

Oh, boy, if that isn't a Frenchman for you.

Everything's reduced immediately to sex.

Let me tell you something.

I didn't come to Paris for that.

There's plenty of that in Chicago.

I came here to be a painter.

If I make it, I'm going to have paintings
in every damn museum in the world.

And if going to one dinner one
night in Versailles helps,

than I'll go to that dinner in Versailles.

And if that means losing 3200
Francs in theater tickets,

send me the bill and you'll
get a check in the morning.

Here's what I think of your 3200 Francs.

Now, let me tell you what I think of you.

Typical American woman!

Success, success, that's all you care for.

Trample everything else underfoot, love,
promises, friendship, everything.

Well, this is France, not America.

Women don't run this country.

Women know how to be women
here, not imitation men.

I could slap you!

Let me warn you. In France, men slap back.

That's enough for me. No, it isn't!

I have some other things to say.

Let go off me!

The first time I went out with
you, I told you to leave Paris.

It was too tough for you.

I now take that back. You
are too tough for Paris.

Will you let me go? I'll
predict your future.

You'll turn out like all the others.

I see them every day,
flitting from man to man.

Going to all the parties, bait
for every skirt chaser in Paris.

Three divorces by the time you're 30.

And in between, nice cozy
weekends with married men

in every charming little hotel
between here and Monte Carlo.

Ah!

If you go out to Versailles
tonight, you'll never see me again.

Good.

I can't think of anything
that would please me more.

Bonsoir.

Charming!

I am delighted you could come.

I hope the invitation
wasn't too short a notice.

Well, if I'd known it was
going to be a party,

I certainly would have changed my clothes.

Nonsense. You're absolutely
perfect as you are.

And now, let me introduce
you to my other guests.

CHRISTINA.. Snobs! Snobs!

Not one of you has even
looked at me in 20 minutes.

Just because you're speaking French,

you think you're brilliant.

I know what you're saying.

It isn't so damned brilliant.

You.

You just said, "This season has been"

"disastrous for shooting, my dear."

"The rainy summer, you know?"

What's so gloriously witty about that?

You just said,

"And I told the general it was time to take

"a strong stand on Algeria." Hmm!

That's not going to win the Nobel Prize

for political wisdom this
year, I'll tell you that.

And you, my host,

I know what you're after.

And you're not going to get it.

I'm terribly sorry.

I have a very important
telephone call to make.

Henry will show you where the telephone is.

Please.

Hello, Guy.

I'm a bitch. Forgive me.

Never mind that. Where are you?

Out near Versailles. Le Manoirde Jouy.

I wanted to see you and tell you...

Don't move. I'll be there in 20 minutes.

I love you.

Did you say something?

No.

Where to?

Do you still have the key
to your friend's apartment?

The one who went to Tours.

Are you drunk?

Not anymore.

Have you got the key?

No. He came back from Tours last night.

What are we going to do?

We could go to a hotel, couldn't we?

What hotel?

I don't know. Any hotel that'll let us in.

Are you sure you know what you're doing?

Of course.

Didn't I tell you I'd make the advances?

I'm now making the advances.

American, you are magnificent.

I don't like the look of it.

Would you mind going a little farther?

Whatever you say. It's your town.

I have heard about this place
from a friend of mine.

It's very, uh, welcoming, he said.

It looks very nice.

If you will stay here and guard the machine,

I will go in and make the arrangements.

It's freezing in here.

Forgive me.

I forgot to take any money with me

and all I had in my pocket was 700 Francs.

I had to choose a modest hotel.

That's all right. I don't mind.

After all, it's only a place.

There is no sense in being
sentimental about places, is there?

No. That's one thing I'm never
sentimental about, places.

Holidays, well, that's different.

Christmas, the Fourth of July,

wedding anniversaries.

Do you have any money on you?

Some. 3,000 Francs.

May I borrow it?

Sure.

What for?

I'll be right back.

I thought...

Well, it cost 2,000 Francs.

You get a thousand back.

Thanks.

I thought for an occasion like this...

That was very thoughtful of you.

I will repay the 2,000 Francs no later than

Friday.

This damn cork!

My hands are so cold, I
don't seem to be able to...

Let me try.

If I couldn't do it, how do
you expect that you could?

Never hurts to try.

Oh!

Oh. Oh, I'm sorry.

Your clothes. It's nothing.

It's nothing.

To a gay and lyrical evening.

"Gay and lyrical." What does that mean?

Well, singing.

Lyrique, I suppose.

Ah, lyrique.

I see.

Not bad, huh?

At least it's warm.

Well...

I mean, we don't have to drink
the whole bottle right now.

No, of course not.

I suppose you ought to undress.

You first.

My dear, Christina, everybody knows
that in a situation like this,

the girl always undresses first.

Not this girl.

Whatever you're going to do,
you'd better do it fast.

Your lips are blue with cold.

Very well, I will give in to you, this once.

But you must promise not to look.

I have no desire to look.

Go to the window and keep your back turned.

All right, you can look now.

This bed is like an ice-box.

Turn your head to the wall.

The light is still on.

You forgot to turn it off.

I know.

Well, turn it off.

I'm not budging from this bed.

You were the last one up.

I don't care.

That is absolutely unfair.

Unfair or not, I'm staying right here.

But you're on the outside.
I'd have to climb over you.

Stay where you are.

I won't move.

Turn your head to the wall.

This time I did not shut my eyes.

You're exquisite.

I cannot bear it.

Oh.

What's the matter?

Your hand is like ice.

You're sorry now you came
here with me, aren't you?

I don't know.

Tell the truth.

It's awful.

I do no blame you for pulling away.

It is not the way it should be at all.

I'm too clumsy, too stupid!

I do not know anything.

It serves me right.

I've been lying to you for three months.

Lying? What do you mean?

I've been playing a role.

I have no experience.

I am not studying to be an engineer.

I am still in the Lycée.

That's the same as high school in America.

I am not 21 years old.

I am only 16.

Why did you do that?

Because you wouldn't have
looked at me otherwise.

Is that not true?

Yes, it's true.

If only it hadn't been so cold!

If only I'd had more than 700 Francs.

You would never have known.

Well, I know now.

No wonder you never introduced
me to any of your friends.

No wonder you only drink Coca-Cola.

How could I have been so inaccurate?

I suppose I ought to take you home.

I suppose so.

Lie down.

The years pass quickly in Paris.

There's so much to do, so much to see,

so many bright young men.

Next year is always the year
you're going to go home.

If you don't sell many of your paintings,

and if your family finally
stops sending you money,

it's not terribly serious.

You can always do a little modeling

to tide you over the lean periods.

And if, from time to time

you remember a cold night in
winter in a bleak hotel room,

and a boy who slept trustfully in your arms,

you can smile a little
to yourself and think,

"One of these days, I must call
him up and see how he's doing".

In the meantime, there's so much to do.

So many people to greet, so
many people to say goodbye to.

God, I wish I didn't have to go!

Airport emotion.

People are always crazy about
me when they're saying goodbye.

It's only for three weeks.

Yeah, yeah. Only for three weeks.

Send me a wire and I'll come and
meet you when you're coming back.

Chris, this is a... This
is a little hard to say.

I don't want you to meet
me when I come back.

Whatever you say, Billy boy.

There's this Greek girl I
met in Mykonos last summer.

I told you about her.

You don't have to explain anything.

No, I want to explain.

She's meeting me in London.

I don't know. Last summer,

I thought I was in love with her and I
said if she was ever up this way...

I understand.

She's a marvelous girl and
she's beautiful and...

Some Greeks have all the luck.

We haven't kidded each
other, have we, you and I?

I just don't want to start kidding you now.

The sentiment does you credit, Billy boy.

Friends?

Of course.

Always?

Always.

Departure to London.

Air France, flight number 794.

Nobody better.

Boarding, gate number 51.

CHRISTINA.. You're a citizen of Paris now.

And there's no other city in the
world you'd rather be a citizen of.

This year, you dance.

And next year is always the year to go home.

Guy. Christina.

It's been years.

I've meant to telephone you
dozens of times, but... Well?

May I present to you my fiance?

Miss Stephanie Morell.
Miss Christina James.

Enchantée, mademoiselle.

How do you do?

She's English. You don't
have to speak French.

Still the same.

I still can't get anyone in this
country to speak French to me.

When's the happy day?

Not for a long time.

When I get through with this.

Forgive me. I'm late.

I do hope you'll invite me to your wedding.

Goodbye.

I know you'll be very happy.

Thank you. Thank you very much.

Christina! How are you?

Oh. Christina!

Everybody else in the place seems to
have kissed you. I might as well, too.

Doesn't mean anything.

Just the French style of saying hello.

Hello,

in the French style.

Sorry to be late.

Well, there's a scale I have for girls.

There are girls who are worth waiting
10 minutes for, and no more.

There are half-hour girls.

And you...

Well, you I would say were
the five-year type girl.

Hang around, brother, I like talk like that.

I'm afraid I can't hang around much longer.

I have to work tonight.

Poor slave.

Never get mixed up with a newspaper man.

That's what I tell all the girls.

What do they tell you?

A wide variety of things.

I'm invited to a générale
tomorrow night, at the Odéon.

Want to come?

I'm going to be in Tripoli tomorrow night.

One nice thing about you,

you never hang around long enough
for a girl to get tired of you.

It's my chief attraction.

Think you ought to drink
when you have to work?

I'm writing a piece on how
France is heading to its doom.

Politically, culturally,
militarily, philosophically.

Doom comes easier on whiskey.

What are you up to in Tripoli?

I have to interview two or
three very important Arabs.

Will you be gone long? You never
know with very important Arabs.

Maybe a week or so.

Will you be lonely?

No.

Nothing like a nice, honest
answer to put a man in his place.

Now don't be touchy.

It's just that this is a good week
for you to go, if you have to go.

Why?

My father's coming in from Chicago.

I got a wire this morning.

And it'll be much less complicated

if you're safely stashed away in the desert.

Why, is he stuffy?

I don't know.

I haven't seen him in four years.

Think he'd disapprove of me?

I would if I were a father, wouldn't you?

Probably.

What are you going to do with him?

Try to impress him with how
all around marvelous I am.

Well, that shouldn't be so hard.

Fathers are different from fellows.

They're apt to be impressed
by different things.

Hey, hello, Chris.

I was hoping I'd see you here tonight.

I'd like you to meet my friend.

Clio Andropoulos, this is
Christina James. Hello.

How do you do? Bill's told me
so much about you. Has he?

This is Walter Beddoes, Miss Andropoulos.

Hello. Hello.

Mr. Norton. Hello.

How do you do?

Yeah, I was going to call you, Chris. I'm
giving a brawl at my place on Thursday.

Look, I hope you can make it.
Uh, you, too, Mister...

Beddoes. Beddoes.

I hope you can come.

I'm sorry. I shall be out of town.

Oh, well, that's a shame.

You can make it, though, Chris, can't you?

My father's coming in. I
have to chaperone him.

Oh, come on. Bring him along.

15 minutes with the kids, he'll never want
to go back to Chicago. The address is...

I know the address.

If my father's not too tired.

All right. Well, I'll be looking for you.
Seven o'clock till dawn, right?

Come on, Clio. There's a table opening up.

Well, goodbye. It's nice to have met you.

Bye.

Bye.

Pretty girl.

Mm-hmm.

Bright looking fellow.

Mm-hmm.

One of yours?

Once upon a time.

Want to hear about it?

No.

She reminds me of someone.

Who?

My ex-wife.

Must have been hard giving her up.

It wasn't easy.

People like me, wandering around all over

the world all the time,
shouldn't get married.

Never works.

Wives have a tendency to
take to drink, or other men,

if you leave them alone for two
or three months at a time.

Which did your wife do?

Both.

Were you happy to get rid of her?

No.

Could you have held her?

I think so, if I'd pleaded a little.

But you didn't plead?

No.

I don't believe in pleading
for anything. Do you?

No. I didn't think so.

You're a gentleman.

Is that a good thing to be?

The only thing.

French songs are sad, aren't they?

They're going away songs.

Are you saying that I ought to leave now?

Go ahead, newspaperman.

The doom of France awaits you.

Mustn't disappoint your readers.

What are you going to do?

I'm going to sit here
and listen to the piano

playing going away, going away.

I'm going to be nice to Greeks.

Night.

Happy Tripoli.

Have a couple of doomful
whiskies on a departed friend.

Okay?

All right, that's fine. Now just
stay just like that. That's fine.

Oh, come on, Jane, put up the gun.

That's right. All right.

Nicole, a little to the left.

Fine! Now hold it.

Bill.

Chris, hello!

Oh, welcome aboard, Mister James.
How do you like Paris?

Well, I've only been here three hours.

So far, it looks rather lively.

Oh, you'll love it. It's
like this every night.

Hey, help yourself to some grub,
if the barbarians have left any.

We just had dinner.

Well, have a drink. Where's your glasses?
No glasses! Hold on.

Those kids have been drinking
too much, anyway. Here.

Congratulations on your daughter, sir.

She's the smashingest girl in Paris.

And that's a consensus of
opinion, male and female alike.

Cheers. I pressed this stuff in
Avignon in 1923 with my own feet.

What's going on here?

It's a gag.

Someone took a count and found we had the
prettiest girls in Paris here tonight.

So we're going to do the fashion photograph

to end all fashion photographs.

Show everything in the same picture.

Then by the time the party's over tonight,

we're going to have the debutante
and the sub-debutante,

the happy housewife, the femme
fatal, the outdoor girl,

the indoor girl, the kept
girl, the unkept girl.

Hey, come on, Chris, you can be in this.

You can go up there and be the unkept girl.
I think that's still open.

What do I have to do?

Look sad, underprivileged,
self-righteous and glamorous.

I'll be with you in a minute.

All right. Well, don't leave, Mister James.

Do you want to get out of here?

Wild horses couldn't make me go.

Come on, Chris, come over!

Coming.

Go up here, right? Up you go.

Now, hold it, girls, come on, hold it.

I don't know.

Hey, look, put this on, Chris.

Try to show by the expression on
your face that you paid for it

with your own money and you're
proud of the fact, all right?

Good evening.

Oh. American.

I don't think I ever saw you before.

No, I don't believe you did.

I just arrived from Chicago three hours ago.

I could use you.

What was that?

You do not happen to be
a male model, do you?

A male model for what, Madame?

For fashion photographs. I'm at Vogue.
Madame Piguet.

Everybody calls me Bo-Bo.

You have an excellent face, you know?
Very good lines.

The trend nowadays is for more mature men,

with character in their faces.

The pay is not bad.

Well, I'm afraid I'm only going
to be in Paris two or three days.

Actually, I'm a history professor.

What is a history professor
doing in a place like this?

Well, my daughter thought I
might enjoy it, as indeed I am.

Your daughter? Who is she?

That one.

Christina? Mm-hmm.

Well, she's a darling girl.

Not much as a model, though.

Oh? I'm sorry to hear that.

She's pretty enough, God knows.

But she's too sensible for the job.

I was disappointed when she
didn't marry last year.

Oh, was she supposed to marry last year?

Why? Didn't she tell you?

Well, perhaps she told her mother.

Whom was she supposed to marry?

That one there.

The Count de Velezey.

He was crazy about Christina.

But the family put their foot down.

Oh, why?

American girl, poor,

earning her own living, a mannequin,

seen just a little too
often in too many places.

And without meaning to offend, no
family that anyone ever heard of.

This is still France, Monsieur,
no matter what it looks like.

Should we find a taxi to take us home?

If you're not tired, I'd
rather walk for a while.

I'm not tired.

I'm used to staying up
a lot later than this.

I suppose you are.

Are you scolding me?

Oh. Of course not.

The streets of Paris!

Ever since I was a young man,
I've dreamed of walking here,

arm in arm with a beautiful young woman.

It never occurred to me
that the first time I did it,

the beautiful young woman
would be my daughter.

I'm so glad to see you.

Are you?

That was quite a party.

Everyone there seemed terribly fond of you.

Oh, I'm a good enough sort.

There was a young lady who was kind enough

to point out a young man she said
you nearly married last year.

A count something.

Ah, Marc Antoine. Ah.

We played around with the
idea for a hot week or so.

For a few minutes, I thought
it'd be fun to be a countess

and have a château with 22 bedrooms.

In that place tonight, Christina,

how many of those men there
have been your lovers?

Do you want the truth, or do
you want to be comfortable?

If I'd wanted to be comfortable, I
wouldn't have flown 4,000 miles.

A couple.

Were you in love with them?

I thought so at the time.

But you don't think so now?

No.

Why not?

Because I'm in love now and
I know the difference.

Was he there too?

No, he's in Tripoli this week.

Are you going to marry him?

I don't know.

Why not?

The subject hasn't come up.

The subject hasn't come up?

Don't you think we should take
a taxi back to the hotel now?

No. I don't want to go to the hotel yet.

I want you to take me to that
studio you wrote us about

and show me your paintings.

I want to see what you've been
doing for the past four years.

At this hour of the night?

Mm-hmm. At this hour of the night.

Darling, for 23 years, the
last thing I've thought about

before I dropped off to sleep was you.

About your health, your education,

the love I bore you,

your beauty, your hopes for the future.

I'm used to thinking about you
at this hour of the night.

All right.

Okay. The show is open to the public.

You can look now.

No.

Why don't you go home, or back
to the party, if you want.

I don't want to go back to the party.

I'll wait here and show you the way home.

I'd like to look at them alone, Chris.

Here's the key.

Put out the light and lock up,
please, when you've finished.

See you at breakfast. Sleep well.

Goodnight, Daddy. Goodnight, darling.

Come in, Daddy.

I wasn't sure you were awake.

I'm awake.

Well?

They're not good enough, are they?

The paintings.

Is that what you think?

I'm afraid so.

Well, that's what you think.

Has to be said, doesn't it?

If that's what you feel.

They've gotten worse, instead of
better, after the first year.

I don't know why, exactly.

Maybe the gift you had was
just part of being young.

And as you grew up, it didn't grow with you.

There are many talents like
that, not only in painting.

The more training you've had, the
more technique you've acquired,

why, the more evident it's become
you weren't going to make it.

Maybe it's the life you lead.

That's it!

You go to one party and you see a few people

who seem strange to you and you find out

I'm not the simple, untouched
girl I was when I left home,

and you recoil in horror.

I'm not ashamed of anything I've done.

And if the paintings are no good,

it's not because I've gone
to parties or had lovers,

or almost gotten married.

I know what you're going to say next.

You're going to say that
I ought to leave Paris.

That I ought to come home
like a good little girl

and be a nice, demure, hypocritical

piece of merchandise on the marriage market,

pretending I don't know
which end of a man is up.

Are you finished?

Yes, I'm finished.

Have you got a bottle of whiskey
around here? I could use a drink.

Cognac.

Cognac will do.

The middle door.

How about you?

Yes, please.

Water?

Yes.

First of all, let me tell you
that nothing I have seen or heard

since I arrived here has made me
recoil in horror, as you put it.

Not you, not your friends,

not anything you may or may
not have done with them.

And I'm not going to pretend,
just because I'm your father,

that I'm shocked that in two or three years
you've gone to bed with two or three men.

Remember, I grew up in the
years between the wars.

And if young people now are
any freer than we were then,

they must be very free, indeed.

Here's your drink.

As for your friends,

I found them lively and amusing.

And I'm sure for the most
part they're industrious

and useful members of society.

But they're not for you.

They belong here.

They're doing something here and you're not.

The better they are, the
worse they are for you.

You're their victim, even if
each and every one of them

thinks he loves you from
the bottom of his heart.

Victim. What are they
after, my enormous fortune?

No. After your gaiety and
beauty and goodness of heart.

They recognize that you
don't really belong here.

That you're an emotional transient.

And they... They use you, frivolously,

for their spare hours.

I know what you're saying.

That I've wasted my years,
that I'm corrupted,

that I should have stayed home like everyone
else, and never even taken a chance.

No, no, no, Chris! I'm not saying
anything like that at all.

You haven't wasted your years here.
You're not corrupt.

I don't want you to be like everybody else.

I'm proud of you for having taken a chance.

These years have done you a world of good.

So?

But now it's time to come home.

A city like Paris is a form of education,

one of the best of educations.

But it's important to
know when to quit school,

to know when the school has
nothing more to give you,

when it's a kind of a retreat, an escape.

What if I want to escape?

Some people can.

People without any value.

I think you're valuable. Most valuable.

You can't escape.

Maybe not, but I'm going to give it a try.

A big fat try.

Chris, darling, look ahead.

What is your life going to be
like here 10 years from now?

Aren't you going to answer it?

Hello. Yes.

Yes.

Christina?

Walter?

What are you doing calling at this hour?

Well, I've been trying to get hold of
you all night. Where have you been?

Around, showing a visitor
the local dens of iniquity.

Man in Tripoli wants to know
if you're enjoying yourself.

Enormously.

"Enormously," he says.

How was Africa? How are all
the very important Arabs?

Well, that's what I was calling you about.

It went a lot faster than I'd hoped.

Now I want to tuck in somewhere
quiet and do the pieces.

I thought I'd go to Saint-Paul-de-Vence,
you know, that little hotel there,

and work in the sunshine for a week or so.

I'd love it if you could meet me there.

I'm going to be there tomorrow night.

Tomorrow night?

I'll be there. I'll take the
afternoon plane to Nice.

Goodnight, my love.

Do you know what you're doing?

I'm doing the only thing
that's possible for me to do.

Do you want me to see you off?

I don't think so.

Goodnight, darling.

Goodnight, Father.

Happy?

Of course.

It's impossible.

What's impossible?

Not to touch.

Touch?

Are you worried?

About what?

About the wind.

What's the matter with the wind?

There isn't any. We're becalmed.

Miles from land, without food or drink.

Not a bottle of champagne or
an ounce of caviar on board.

And no rescue in sight.

Out of reach of telephones or radar

or newspapers or friend or foe.

Wonderful!

The only thing left is prayer.

Shall we pray, sister? Mm-hmm.

Well, lead the prayer, sister.

Please let the wind never come up.

Please keep us forever un-rescued,

out of reach of radar

or newspapers or telephone

or friend or foe.

Let not the North wind
blow, nor the South wind.

Let the crew of this
vessel never reach land.

Let this calm afternoon never end.

Amen.

You know what I hate?

What? Typewriters.

You know the first lesson I was
taught when I became a newspaperman?

What's that?

Never try to write a story with somebody
called Christina James in the same room.

They're teaching a different
system these days.

They certainly are.

Merci.

I have to go to Cairo tomorrow.

After that, Tehran, Beirut, Istanbul,

Jerusalem and back to Cairo.

Burn a candle for me in
Jerusalem when you get there.

I could use a drink.

Maybe it was lucky that
telegram came when it did.

Lucky? Why?

I think one more day with
you, the way we had it,

and I'd never have been able to leave.

Would that have been bad?

Ever since the first day I started working,

I've gone every place I was sent,
every place I thought I should go,

without hesitation, without regret,
for as long as was necessary.

I never let anything stand in my way.

Not fear, or weariness, or possessions,

or love.

It's my life.

It's what I live by.

It's my value.

If I changed, I'd be a
different man, a worse man.

Finally, I'd dislike myself.

Finally, you'd dislike me.

Would I?

Maybe.

Another thing. What?

I won't pretend I live like a monk
when I go on trips like this.

I have been known to go out with various ladies
from time to time in various parts of the world.

You didn't have to tell me that.

Why not?

Because I knew it.

Because everybody knows it.

Because everybody's told me.

I see. Okay, subject closed.

I won't be gone too long.
Two months, maybe three.

Give me a ring when you come back.

First minute.

Be happy, baby. Have fun.
Go to all the parties.

That's me, baby. That's you.

Bill, you idiot. Come in, before
the management calls the police.

Greetings of the season from the
American community in Paris,

from the English community in Paris,
from the Italian community in Paris,

from the Parisian community in Paris.

Enough, I get the idea.

Hello.

Pals worry, you know, when a girl
suddenly drops out of circulation.

Do they? I'm sorry.

What's this not answering the telephone bit?

I didn't want to talk to anyone.

Why not?

Private reasons.

I've been thinking out my life.

A girl ought to think out her life
once every 23 years, don't you agree?

Couldn't a chum help?

Not this time.

Okay. The hermit season is officially over.

From now on, you're going to be
permitted to be alone in this room

for one reason only, and that's sleep.

What's all this?

I'm arranging your schedule
for the next two months.

Dinner at the Anglo-American Press
Club to meet the new Ambassador.

Tickets for the Bolshoi Ballet. Tickets
for the opening of the new lonesco play.

Tickets for the fight next Monday night.

There's a Hungarian middleweight
there who hits like a mule.

Invitation to dinner at the home
of the Baroness de Rothschild.

A contract for five days' modeling for Elle.

Invitation to lunch at the British Embassy.

A piano recital by Arthur Rubinstein.

Opening of the new Brigitte Bardot flick,

preview of the spring collection.

I see what you mean.

Self-pity is now unfashionable.

Melancholy is strictly verboten.

There are 10,000 things to do in Paris, and
you're gonna do every one of them. Understood?

Understood.

And the first thing you're gonna do is get the hell
out of this room and come and have dinner with me.

Tell me where you'll be and I'll
try to join... Nothing doing!

You're coming with me right now!

I have to change and put on a face.

Dress tomorrow, make up your face on
New Year's Day. Come on, out you go.

Out I go, Billy boy.

Come on! Out, out, out, out, out!

Oui.

Still the same.

You still answer the phone as
though expecting each call

to be an invitation to a party.

Who's this?

The voice of Egypt.

Walter!

When did you get in?

This minute.

I'm at the airport. Where are
we gonna meet for lunch?

Walter, I'm in despair. You have a date?

Yes. When are you going to learn to cable?

That's okay. We'll make it later.

How about a drink this afternoon?

Well, we could start with that.
Five o'clock?

Make it 5:30. Where are you going to be?

Up around L'Étoile.

Alexander's? Good.

Will you be on time, for once?

Be more polite the first
day a man comes into town.

What did you say, ma'am?

All the kids are speaking French this year.

Isn't it nice to have you back in town.

Welcome.

In the French style.

Well, now, here's the man again.

The spirit of Paris. American division.

What'll it be to drink? Garçon?

Tea, please.

Tea? Anything wrong?

No, I just want tea.

That's a hell of a drink to
welcome a traveler home with.

With lemon, please.

How was Egypt?

Was I in Egypt?

That's what it said in the papers.

Oh, yeah.

A new world struggling to be born.

Too late for feudalism,
too early for democracy.

Fancy talk for your column.

I mean, over a drink. How was Egypt?
Oh, sunny and sad.

After two weeks in Cairo, you
feel sorry for everybody.

How's Paris?

Too late for democracy,
too early for feudalism.

I mean, over a kiss, how's Paris?

The same, almost the same.

Your hair, what happened?

You noticed.

Where are the blondes of yesteryear?

I decided to go natural. People
say it makes me look younger.

Oh, they're absolutely right.

You now look exactly 11.

To those who return.

I never used to accept toasts in tea.

You're a finicky, liquor loving man.

Now, the evening.

I thought we might skip our dear friends and
go to that place in the markets for dinner,

because I'm dying for a steak.
And after that, I...

What's the matter? Can't
we have dinner tonight?

It's not that, exactly.

I have a date.

Cancel him.

I can't, really.

He's coming to pick me
up here any minute now.

Oh, that makes it different, doesn't it?

Well, can't we shake him?

No, we can't shake him.

Oh, the man doesn't live
who can't be shaken.

"Old friend," you say, "just arrived
from the horrors of the desert.

"Just escaped dysentery and religious
wars by the skin of his teeth.

"Needs soothing and tender attention
for his shattered nerves," etcetera.

Sorry, can't be done.

Why not?

Are you pleading?

Maybe I am.

I thought you never pleaded.

And neither did I, because
we're both gentlemen.

Didn't we agree on that?

Forget what we agreed on.

Why can't we shake him?

Because I don't want to.

The wind's in that direction.

Variably in that direction.

We could all have dinner
together, the three of us.

He's a very nice man. You'd like him.

I never like any man the
first night I'm in Paris.

Three months is a long time, isn't it,

in Paris?

It isn't a long time, in
Paris or anywhere else.

Hello, Christina.

I found the place all right.

Jack, this is Walter Beddoes.

John Haislip. Doctor Haislip.

How do you do?

Doctor? What kind of doctor?

He's a surgeon.

He's very famous in medical circles.

That's right, Chris. Impress the public.

He's also in research.

Really?

He's an explorer, like Columbus.

Only instead of a ship, he uses a knife.

What have you discovered recently, doctor?

That the human head is approximately round

and contains some very
rich and happy continents.

What'll it be to drink, Doctor?
Oh, a lemonade, please.

Jack doesn't drink.

He says it isn't fair for
people who make a living

out of cutting other people up.

But when I retire, I'm going to soak it up and
let my hands shake like leaves in the wind.

Did you have a good time in Egypt?

I swore a solemn oath I'd forget Egypt
for a month once I got back here.

I know how you feel.

The same way I feel about
the hospital sometimes.

Where is the hospital? San Francisco.

Been here long?

Five weeks.

The changes that can take
place in five weeks!

Good Lord.

One more week, and back to the hospital.

Did you do any sight-seeing?

Not as much as I'd like.

I had to visit a few hospitals here
and there and give some lectures.

I'd have loved to have gone down
south this time of the year,

place Christina keeps talking about.

Saint-Paul-de-Vence.

You've been there, haven't
you, Mister Beddoes?

Yeah.

Christina told me.

Oh, thank you.

Oh, we'll make it the next trip.

You're planning to come back again soon?

In three years.

I figure I can get away for six weeks
in the summer every three years.

People don't get so sick in the summertime.

Uh, excuse me. I have a couple
of telephone calls to make.

Downstairs and to the right.

The woman'll put the calls through for you.
She speaks English.

Christina doesn't trust my French.

I sincerely hope you'll be able to
join us for dinner, Mister Beddoes.

Well, I made a tentative promise I'd meet
some people, but I'll see what I can do.

Good.

That's why the hair's like that, isn't it?

That's why.

And the nail-polish.

And the tea.

What did you tell him about
Saint-Paul-de-Vence?

Everything.

Look up from the damn cup.

What do you mean by "everything"?

Everything.

Why?

Because I'm going to marry him next week.

And I'm going back to
San Francisco with him.

And you'll come back here
three years from now

for six weeks in the summertime, because
people don't get so sick in the summertime.

Exactly. And that's okay?

Yes.

You say that too defiantly.

Don't be clever with me.
I'm through with all that.

Garçon?

Bring me another whiskey, please.

And you, for the love of God, have a drink.

Another tea, please. Oui, Madame.

Will you answer some questions?

Yes.

Do I rate straight answers? Yes.

What's so great about him?

What can I be expected to say to that?

He's brilliant in his work.
He's saved a lot of lives.

He's pure and dedicated and a
good, gentle, responsible man.

And now what do you know? What else?

And he loves me.

He loves me.

I saw, immoderately.

Immoderately.

And I love him.

Once upon a time, you thought you loved me.

Once upon a time.

And with a difference.

If I stayed with you, in five years,
I'd either hate you or forget you.

Five years from now, I won't
be able to live without him.

That's five years from now.
Let's talk about now.

Would you like to get up from this
table and go off with me tonight?

Yes.

But you won't. No.

Why not?

Because I don't live for tonight anymore.

I don't believe you.

Let's talk about something else.

Where are you going on your next trip?

Kenya? Bonn? Tokyo?

Why not?

Because I'm tired of people like you.

I'm tired of all you spoiled,
hung-over, international darlings.

I'm tired of correspondents and photographers
and promising junior statesmen.

I'm tired of all the brilliant young men

who are constantly going
off to negotiate a treaty

or report a revolution or die in a war.

I'm tired of airports.

I'm tired of seeing people off.

I'm tired of not being allowed to cry
until the plane gets off the ground.

I'm tired of answering the telephone.

I'm tired of being so damn prompt.

I'm tired of sitting down to dinner
next to people I used to love

and being polite to their Greeks.

I'm tired of being handed around the group.

I'm tired of being more in love
with people than they are with me.

Does that answer your question?

More or less.

When you left for Egypt, I decided.

I leaned against the railing and watched
them refueling all those monstrous planes.

And I dried the tears and I decided...

The next time, it was going to be someone
who would be shattered when I took off.

And you found him?

And I found him.

And I'm not going to shatter him.

Christina, look at me.

Christina.

Write me in San Francisco.

I'd better go.

God, I'm getting senile.

I'm tempted to cry in restaurants.

I don't want to wait for the check.

Tell your friend I'm sorry,
I can't make dinner.

And that I apologize for
leaving him with the bill.

That's all right. He'd be happy to pay.

Bye.