Original subtitles

Hi, Felix.

Murderers!

How could they?! How could they?!

Somebody litter the hallway?

What happened?

Look at that!

It looks like a wrinkled playground

and wrinkled children.

Smooth it, smooth it.

Oh, it's your picture spread

in Manhattan Today magazine.

It looks pretty good. Yeah.

There's a nice picture of the playground,

nice picture of kids playing.

What are you so upset about?

Why am I upset?!

Look what they did. That... Look!

You remember my concept;

"The playground: an oasis for children of all ages"?

Yeah. Well, look what it says there!

"Neighborhood playgrounds:

wonderland for weirdoes."

Good alliteration.

That has nothing to do with my pictures.

Some writer comes along, changes everything.

And he gets all the credit!

What are you talking about all the credit?

It says, "Text by Arthur Dunlow. Photographs by Felix Unger."

Yeah, look at the size of the type.

It says, "Text by Arthur Dunlow"!

"Photographs by Felix Unger."

Talk in smaller type, will you?

This is the last time I'm ever going to do a magazine spread

and somebody else does the text.

From now on I'm going to do my own writing.

Do what you want, but writing is tough, Felix.

How can I miss with you to teach me?

Hi, teach.

"Hi, teach"?

On November 13, Felix Unger was asked to remove himself

from his place of residence.

That request came from his wife.

Deep down, he knew she was right.

But he also knew that someday he would return to her.

With nowhere else to go,

he appeared at the home of his friend, Oscar Madison.

Several years earlier,

Madison's wife had thrown him out,

requesting that he never return.

Can two divorced men share an apartment

without driving each other crazy?

♪ ♪

Don't pay any attention to me.

I'll be sitting right here.

You'll work.

You won't even know I'm here.

I'll be out of your way.

There we go.

Now...

Go to work!

I can learn by watching you.

I'm not here, I'm not.

First... before you start,

you mind telling me what you're writing about?

I'm writing about the featherweight champion

who keeps avoiding a fight with the prime contender, okay?

Uh-huh.

And you call that the "theme."

No, I call that what I'm writing about.

Ah. Thanks.

What does a featherweight weigh?

Between 118 and 126.

Light as a feather.

That's very good, Felix.

It's shorter to say featherweight.

Yeah. It's a little bit shorter to say.

Somewhat shorter. It's not a lot shorter.

It's a...

That's very interesting. Why did you begin...?

How would you like your eyeballs rubbed

with carbon paper?

I'm sorry.

I thought you were taking a break.

I'm not taking a break. I'm thinking

of stuff to write.

Ah! Thinks... of... stuff.

Ah, boy. You're really going now, aren't you?

Yeah, I got a thought.

Yeah, that's good.

That's very interesting.

You single-space, don't you? Yeah, always.

Why do you do that? Because I like it.

Wouldn't it be better if you double-spaced?

Why? I like this way.

Because if you double-spaced, it'd be a little bit easier

to read, you'd have more space in between to make corrections.

I don't have to correct. Myrna corrects.

Let me just put it...

No, it's been all right for 20 years.

Felix, don't do that.

Felix, no! Leave me alone!

If you don't leave me alone, I'll go crazy!

I can't write that way!

Now I'm telling you, if you don't leave me alone,

I'm going to flatten you.

I'm going to roll you up in the typewriter.

I'm going to type "I hate you" all over your body!

Single spaced!

Does that mean you're not gonna help me?

Excuse me.

Is this where Creative Writing meets?

Uh-huh. You just join up? Yes.

My name is Felix Unger.

Oh. Al Katleman.

How do you do? How do you do?

Oh, let me help you.

Is that something you're working on for class?

No, it's my book.

May I inquire what it's about?

Can you keep a secret?

Certainly.

It's the big one, Felix.

The book I've been waiting all my life to write.

It's going to blow the lid off the upholstery business.

I take it you're in the upholstery business, huh?

Right now I am,

but when this thing comes out, I'll be finished.

I name names.

Well, class, good evening.

Good evening.

For those of you who are here for the first time,

I am your instructor, Gerard Ferguson,

president and founder of the

Gerard Ferguson School of Creative Writing.

Oh, uh, question?

Yes. Felix Unger, professional photographer,

portraits a specialty.

Book jackets.

I don't want to take up the class's time

with a lot of silly questions, but there is one matter

of some personal concern I'd like, uh, cleared up;

to wit: I am not familiar with the objectives of this class.

I've never taken a writing class before, so I'm aware

that my questions may sound somewhat ignorant.

Uh, Mr. Unger, will you get

to the point? Yes.

Your ad guarantees assistance in making our first sales.

Now, I only want to learn enough about writing to...

Now, now, uh-uh, Mr. Unger, you are worrying about nothing.

You see, each student has a different reason

for wanting to write.

Oh, of course.

You see, the objectives may vary.

Sure. They do vary,

but the fundamentals are always the same.

Ah, right.

Now, if I may proceed.

Tonight we are going to discuss

the use of narrative prose. Good!

Thank you.

Thank you.

Now, uh, I believe,

I believe that the best way to teach narration

is, uh, to give each of you

several different subjects

and, uh, let you write,

oh, perhaps 200 words on each.

200 words.

Does that include the title?

No, Mr. Unger, it does not.

Sans title.

Now, I am going

to give you three different subjects.

First, narrate something that you see

on the way home tonight.

Sounds like fun.

Second, describe, oh, how you spent last summer.

Mm, yes, yes! My boat trip.

And third, write about

the most fascinating person you know.

Can that be autobiographical?

After class was over... I was walking home.

The streets were deserted.

I had the city all to myself.

I could commune with my thoughts.

As I passed that construction site

on 68th street, suddenly I was frozen!

I couldn't move!

Wet cement?

Oscar, I wrote this poem.

"Ode to a Skyscraper."

Born from the rubble that lies there,

Nurtured through snow and through rain,

By men whose only companions

Are derrick and shovel and crane.

Center for great institutions,

Place where conglomerates grow,

Yet home for the little cigar shop

With the candies all in a row.

"777" they will call you!

Towards heaven, heaven, heaven you will soar!

Only God can make a tree, I will grant you,

But only man can make a 40th floor.

What do you think?

I knew it!

You can't talk!

It leaves you speechless!

Oh, I knew it would!

Oscar, I made a copy for you.

I'll put it in an appropriate place.

Oh, Oscar, Oscar, Oscar!

Listen to this, "Ode to a Toothbrush"!

He writes a poem about every move he makes.

Last night on the way home from our date,

he wrote "Ode to a Doorman."

And then he gave it to the doorman

instead of a tip.

Listen, is he really going

to read these poems in class tonight?

He said he was, including the one about the skyscraper.

Oh, poor Felix!

Well, at least he's gonna know

how rotten his poems are.

Ooh, and he's gonna be so depressed.

That's why we have to cheer him up.

Oh! Here he comes.

You can see him from here?

Yeah, I can tell.

There's a man down there picking lint off a policeman's jacket.

Even when he's depressed, he's neat.

Oh, now, those cookies are for Felix.

Oh, okay.

Now remember, when he comes in that door,

please, I want you to be very, very kind.

I will, Miriam. I really will. Okay.

Now look, we have the, the hot chocolate and the cookies.

Can you think of anything else

that'll cheer him up?

Yes, I can, but we don't have time to shampoo the rug.

Oh!

I think I hear him.

Felix! Oh... Oh, Miriam!

Oscar and I think you're just wonderful!

Yeah, buddy, let me hang it up.

I'll hang up your coat.

My goodness gracious, I hardly know what to say!

Don't you say anything.

Just come right over here to the couch and sit down.

Aw!

Oh, will you look! Cookies and cocoa.

Yeah, I, I know how you like

to make a mustache.

How did you know?

Well, we knew.

Mm. Have a cookie.

How could we help but know?

Naturally, I thought my poems were good,

but I never expected to get an A-plus.

A-plus!

Give me that!

That is a perfect figure of speech!

Oh, fantastic!

Oscar! Oscar! Oscar, listen.

Do you think I should...?

That's an A-plus.

What's that noise?

I fixed the radio.

The music interrupted my train of thought.

Now I've got to get back on the track.

Train... track!

You see? I'm writing all the time.

I rhyme all the time. Rhyme all the time!

Ha, very good.

Anything, anything.

Table, label, Mabel, gable, sable.

Chair, fair, hair, dare, compare.

Rug, chug, lug, mug!

Orange...

Fruit! Boot! Loot! Suit!

Root!

Oh, it's, it's...!

Nutty!

Cruddy, fuddy, duddy, buddy!

That's great! Great!

Miriam, delirium.

Come into my solarium.

Is he still rhyming?

Still rhyming.

Last night I was afraid to pick up a glass.

He thinks he's such a great writer.

I know. I haven't heard him this excited

since we went to the opera and he sang along.

I know. There's no stopping him

since he got that A-plus on the poem.

We've got another poem.

Another poem? He gave this one to me last night.

And-and I was both touched

and offended at the same time.

Now-now, wait a minute, Miriam.

If that's intimate, maybe I shouldn't hear it.

Oh, yes, you should.

Are you ready?

"Your glowing eyes, your smiling face.

"Your every move so filled with grace.

"And when sad fate doth make us part, part, part,

you'll live forever within my heart, heart, heart."

Sweet.

It's sweet, but it sounds like I died, died, died.

Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!

Listen to him! Listen to him!

He's going bananas, this guy!

You know he bought an electric typewriter,

tape recorder that he takes every place.

I know. Yesterday we were on the subway.

Nowhere, out of the blue, suddenly, "Ooh! Ooh! Oh, boy!

"Oh, metal tube!

"Oh, mighty snake that weaves its way

beneath the teeming masses."

Everybody looked at us like we were nuts.

That's the first time

I've ever been embarrassed in front of a wino.

The sad part is that he's so enthusiastic.

Yeah, I know. I'd hate to be in your shoes

when you have to tell him how rotten his work is.

When I have to tell him?

You're the one that has to tell him.

What do you...? You're his girlfriend.

You're the one he's writing the poems for.

Besides, he wouldn't listen to me.

Well, who would he listen to? Probably his teacher.

Well, then, you have to go talk to his teacher.

That fraud? He's the one

who's telling him how great he is.

Besides, it would hurt Felix...

Look at that. Usually I want to hurt him.

Felix Unger, you are brilliant!

Resilient!

One in a "millient"!

I'll hurt him.

"I do get tired of the crazy hours,

"the special clothes, and the crowds.

"But while being married

"to a jockey has its disadvantages,

I really love the little guy."

Very good, Mrs. Flood.

Very, very good.

And good luck to your husband next Friday.

Now, class, I have saved Mr. Fegivney for the last.

Mr. Fegivney, may we hear part of your novel,

please?

Go ahead, Mr. Fegivney.

Uh, I don't know where to begin.

Well, uh,

why don't you just read us the last paragraph?

Fine.

"As the sun sank slowly over the hill,

"Martin turned to Jessica

"and pressed his strong,

"hot lips firmly against hers.

"Seized by an almost uncontrollable passion,

"she wanted to tear the clothes from her body.

"Martin paused for a second

"to savor her incredible voluptuousness,

"then buried himself slavishly

"in the hysterical ecstasy that was Jessica.

"The last sliver of red

"disappeared behind the hill,

and they were one."

Very moving.

Very moving, Mr. Fegivney.

It has a strong narrative flow.

I tell it the way it was.

All right.

Thank you again, Mr. Fegivney,

and class, that's all for tonight.

We will meet again next week.

Uh, Mr. Ferguson? Yes?

Uh, may I speak to you for a moment, please?

Is it about the course? Well, in a way.

My name is Oscar Madison.

I'm Felix Unger's roommate.

Oh, well, I'm sure we can fit one more in.

Yeah, well, see, no, I'm not here for the writing course.

I'm already a writer. I write for the New York Herald.

I would like you to look at a column I'm thinking of doing.

Uh, Mr. Madison, I'm, I'm sorry.

I would love to help you, but I'm afraid

you would have to join one of my classes.

Well, see, it's called "Gerard Ferguson,

Man with a Racket."

I'll meet you by the swings.

Yeah, I thought you'd be interested.

I see. Uh, yes, uh... Hmm. Very clever.

Very clever, Mr. Madison.

Uh, the way you've, uh,

developed your story into a sports column.

Mm-hmm.

"Underhanded.

"Uh, underhanded style, weak service."

Yes. You have a good, crisp way of writing.

Yeah, well, I don't want to talk about my way of writing.

I know that.

But may I point out to you, Mr. Madison,

that in the objective case,

it is "whomever he deceived,"

not "whoever"

Yeah, well, why don't you send me a bill

along with Felix Unger's refund?

Mr. Madison, I see no reason to send Mr. Unger a refund.

He likes this course and is doing very well with it.

Now, if you'll excuse me,

I have a... Now, uh...

She'll wait for you on the swing.

Now, look.

Your ad says your course

will make a professional writer out of anyone.

In Felix's case, a poet.

Now, no professional poet goes around saying,

"Lamp, camp, scamp, bam."

But that's an exercise.

Yeah, but the point is,

a professional gets paid for what be does.

Who's going to buy a poem about the 40th floor,

except maybe a sensitive window washer?

Mr. Madison, I think that Mr. Unger

is of an extremely professional caliber,

and he will get paid.

And as a matter of fact,

if I cannot absolutely get him a definite offer

by this time tomorrow for his work,

I will return every single penny to him.

Now, is that fair enough?

Okay, but if you don't, Mr. Ferguson...

Oh, you will never need to print that column,

Mr. Madison. But if you do,

when you spell "thief,"

will you just remember

that it is "i" before "e"

except after "c."

And I want you to remember

it's "bail" before "jail," so you'd better not "fail."

Hi, Felix.

Dinner ready?

It's ready.

You angry about something?

No. I'm not angry.

Well, I hope we settle it before you slam the soup.

Snakes in the grass don't get soup.

Teacher told you, huh?

Yes, he told me.

Felix, I did it for your own good.

He was deceiving you.

He was telling you your stuff was great,

and he knew it wasn't.

That's your opinion, huh?

It's not my opinion, it's my professional judgment.

I am a writer, you know.

I don't accept the judgment of a man

who puts ketchup on his salad.

I like ketchup.

It's like tomato wine.

I never thought my best friend

would color his judgments with jealousy.

Felix, I'm not jealous.

Wasn't I thrilled when your baby portraits won the Silver Nipple?

That was a totally different sphere, wasn't it?

That was no conflict there, no threat to you.

Oh, come on.

When you cool off, you'll realize

that Ferguson is a fraud and a phoney.

He said you would sell something.

If you sell anything, I'll eat my hat.

Ho, ha, hee.

Gee whizzums.

What's that?

That happens to be a check for $25

for my first poem, which Mr. Ferguson sold for me.

Bon appétit.

Well, Mr. Madison,

I didn't expect to see you again.

Don't play coy, Ferguson.

What do you mean?

The swings.

I saw that check.

That was not from a publishing company or a magazine.

Now, that was from a personal account

of someone named Ida Moskowitz.

You may have fooled Felix,

but I know that wasn't a professional sale.

You happen to be wrong, Mr. Madison.

Mrs. Moskowitz may not be a publishing house,

but she did buy one of Felix's love poems

with her own money.

One of his love poems?

Yes, for the tombstone

of her deceased wire-haired terrier.

You sold his poem for a dog's tombstone?

Yes.

For little Spot Moskowitz.

It's a beginning, Mr. Madison.

Look, come with me, will you?

Now, look.

We don't, we don't make any claims

to be able to turn any of our students

into Ernest Hemingway or anything like that.

We just say that after they take our course,

they will be good enough to get their work sold.

Now, Mr. Madison, will you just read this, please, right...

This one here? Right there.

"Loose Lips Sink Ships."

Yes.

Now, that was written by Fenton Gilroy,

one of my students during the war.

That slogan appeared in every defense plant

across this country. What, you're telling me that's writing?

Mr. Madison, you mustn't be such a snob.

Not all of us can work for the New York Herald.

Now, there are tremendous opportunities for writers

in many, many other fields.

For example, look at here.

Now, match... matchbooks.

Ah, ah, cocktail napkins, coasters.

All written by former students of ours.

And one of our graduates, Sanchez Vega,

has just climbed to the very top of his field.

What did he write, "Occupado"?

What are you saying that Felix is good at writing mottos

and slogans like "Do Not Litter"?

I wonder if he wrote that one.

No, I think that Felix Unger is much better than that.

I think that he could write bumper stickers.

Bumper stickers?

Don't laugh.

There's a lot of money in that.

Did you tell him that?

No, no.

I didn't get a chance to talk to him.

He was so excited when I told him that I'd sold the poem

that he just grabbed the check and ran out of here.

But, of course, I'll get into all of that with him tomorrow.

Good, because I think the novel he's writing

is a little too long for bumper stickers.

Felix, I had to work late.

Here I am, Oscar.

What are you doing?

Writing a poem about traffic?

No.

Just sitting.

Well, you look terrible. Where you been?

Spot's grave.

You know, huh?

I called up Mrs. Moskowitz to thank her,

and she invited me over to see the tombstone.

It's shaped like a fire hydrant.

All my deepest thoughts, my most private feelings

for a wire-haired terrier.

Here, eat, eat.

You fixed me food even though you felt so terrible?

Well, you worked late.

I knew you'd be hungry.

If it had been a French poodle, I wouldn't have minded,

but a wire-haired terrier.

You made my favorite. Why don't you take a bite?

No, no, I couldn't eat if you paid my tongue.

Is this what I'm good for, Oscar?

After all my lofty ambitions, terrier tombstones.

Well, it's not so bad.

Hmm.

And I thought I could write a novel.

Some novel I could write, A Tale of Two Terriers.

I'll get you a beer.

Oh, Felix, don't take it so bad.

All right, so you're not a great writer,

but you are a great photographer,

which is what you're supposed to be.

All right, your poems aren't so good.

But I'll bet you Carl Sandburg's photographs

couldn't win the Silver Nipple.

But the embarrassment, Oscar, the humiliation.

What humiliation?

Who's going to visit the grave of Spot Moskowitz?

Three little dogs with yarmulkes?

Cheer up, come on.

I guess the least thing I can do

is apologize to you for the things I said to you.

Oh, that's all right.

I don't know if this will make it up to you,

but I want you to have this.

"To a Chum."

"There are times when you may feel lonely,

"there are times when you may feel glum,

"but those times will not last

if you only have a buddy, a comrade, a chum."

Thanks, Felix.

Where, where you going?

I want to put this in an appropriate place, too.

You're some kind of guy, you know that, Oscar?

That's eight.

Oscar. What?

Listen, I've had the most terrific day today.

Yeah? I took the greatest pictures.

You were so right.

I should stick to photography.

That's my bag.

What have you got there? Nothing.

Is that your column? No, it was a little doodling.

Let me see what you got. It's nothing.

You ought to be ashamed of yourself.

"My heart will always cherish

"that cheerful, happy sound.

"And my love will never perish,

for my faithful basset hound."

25 bucks a shot.