All language subtitles for How To Marry A Millionaire - S01E17 - The Maid

College graduation.

Thousands of young men and women sharing
among them all the knowledge of the ages.

How to write
anti-disestablishmentarianism in Babylonian cuneiform.

How to catapult a pup into orbit.

How to stop dandruff.

There's one thing they
don't teach them in college.

And what is that?

How to marry a millionaire.

Well, Mike, it's 8 o'clock.
Shouldn't Loco be home by now?

Well, let's see.

She leaves her studio at
6, walks to the subway 615.

There she discovers she forgot
her book, walks back to the studio.

That's 630.

Can't find the book
because she left it at home.

Walks back to the subway that 7.15.

She takes the wrong train,

so right now she should be about
two stations from Flatbush. Uh-oh.

You just can't depend upon that kid.

This is where we live.

Girls, I'd like you to meet William
Paxton, the well-known playwright.

These are my roommates,
Mike and Greta. Hello.

How do you do?

Won't you come in?

Yes, please do. Thank you.

Well-known playwright? Maybe,
but I'm afraid not at the bank.

Sit down, William.

Would you care for something to eat?

Oh, thank you, but
words are my staff of life.

Yes, words sustain me. Words nourish me.

Well, how about washing
them down with a little fruit?

Oh, well, I suppose social custom
requires that the amenities be observed.

I think that means pass the fruit. Oh.

So you write plays, Mr. Paxton.
Should we have seen any of them?

You should have seen them all, to really
enjoy a new experience in the theater.

Unfortunately, none of
them have ever been produced.

Well, what sort of plays do you
write? Comedies, tragedies, mysteries?

That drivel?

My plays are for the intellect.

The intellect that searches
deep within itself and asks why.

Why what?

Exactly. Why what?
Those are the key words.

Say, you girls have perception.

Just listen to this scene from
my new play, Time is a River.

Dynamo speaks.

Dynamo?

It's an allegorical play.

Dynamo is the spirit of electricity.

Dynamo.

It is gone.

Gone it is. It is gone.

Gone it is.

That's the way dynamo speaks?

Alternating current.

Carburetor speaks, the
spirit of the machine.

Gone, gone, gone.

Sounds real gone.

Charlie?

Who's Charlie?

Charlie is man.

Grasping, greedy, ever
clinging to that which is his,

and ever desperate to possess even more.

Sounds just like our landlord.

Charlie speaks.

Yes, the bluebird is
gone, and I saw it go.

A streak of blue against the
gray slate of the morning sky.

Oh, that's beautiful, William.

Let's hear some more.

Well, that's where I'm stuck. I
just can't seem to finish this scene.

I'm sure you'll get it, William.

A fine writer like you
should have no... Oh, darn.

They must be fixing
those hot water pipes again.

Well, I'll go tell him to stop.

No, no, wait. Don't you hear it?
Don't you understand what it means?

No hot water tonight.

No! That beat, that rhythm, that's it.

Life pounding at man's
brain. Our tortured existence.

Over here, William.

Oh, thanks.

An uncomfortable way to work?

What is comfort?

Comfort is inertia. Inertia is laziness.
Laziness is waste. Waste is discomfort.

Hence, comfort is discomfort.

You follow me?

Sort of.

But if I ever find my way back,
I'll never make the trip again.

Gosh, he's typing like mad.
He's done ten pages already.

Loco, do you really
understand this play? Well,

there's this dynamo and
the blue bird that flew away

with Charlie's
carburetor. No, neither do I.

Machines talking like people.

Well, if they talk like machines,
you'd never understand them. Besides,

he said it was an allegorical play. Oh.

What does that mean?

Well, it means you have
to guess what it means.

Maybe that's it.

But on the other hand, who
are we to judge William's work?

We know nothing about the drama. Why,

there may be a gold mine in
a fellow like William. Yeah.

With these highbrow
things, you never can tell.

Remember that painting at the Museum
of Art? Everybody was raving about it,

and then they found out
it was hung upside down.

Hey, maybe they ought to do
William's play backwards.

Look, even the critics disagree. Who
knows? Certainly not the producers.

Why, I heard that Eugene O'Neill's
first play was turned down about 20 times.

Well, William hasn't had quite that
many refusals, but he's working on it.

Oh, hello, William. Come on in.

It's finished. I'm finished.

How wonderful. Girls,
William finished the play.

Just listen to this finish.

Yes, the bluebird is gone.

A streak of blue against the
gray slate of the morning sky.

Yet behold, here is the bluebird.

Gosh.

It's very impressive.

Yes, now let me see if I
can figure out what it means.

Oh, simple. The bluebird is hope. Hope
forever renewing itself. Hope eternal.

You know, it is kind of beautiful.
If you keep explaining it. Well,

it certainly is different.

What's the next step?

Money. At best, only a
material satisfaction.

Sure.

But where do we dig up a
few yards of that material?

I wish we could help
you out, William, but...

Say, why don't we set up an
audition for backers? From what I hear,

that's how all the
producers raise money. Sure,

we can invite all our rich
friends and have coffee. Hold it, Loco.

We don't even have rich
enemies. Wait a minute.

Loco, forget our friends.

Why can't you ask your boss
down at the modeling agency?

Then he can pass the word along to some
of those wealthy clothing manufacturers.

And I could ask my boss. A big
television producer should know all the sponsors.

And then I'll see what I can do
down at the brokerage office. Oh,

I think it's a wonderful
idea. William, how about you?

Do you know any important people?

Just Baron Andati.

A baron? What can we
count on him for? His tuxedo.

He's the head waiter at
the 3rd Avenue Hofbrun.

Oh, come in. Good evening. Is this
where they're having the audition?

Oh, yes, yes. Won't
you sit down? Thank you.

It looks like we're going
to have a full house. Yes,

I only hope they understand what
William is trying to say. It's pretty simple.

He's trying to say, put up money.

Gosh, isn't it
wonderful? All these people here.

Do you think they'll like
the play? I sure hope so.

Well, if there's any doubt, I think we
can make them think they think it's good.

Gosh, Mike, you talk
just like William Wright.

I mean, it wouldn't
hurt to scatter ourselves

through the crowd and applaud like crazy.

Wouldn't that look kind of
obvious? They know who we are.

Well, who else can we
get? Hey, wait a minute.

I just got a brainstorm. If I'm not
back in five minutes, you wait for me.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.

Thank you very much.

Please, save your applause for the show.

Now, before we get started,

we'd like to call your attention to
the pledge sheets given you at the door.

These are for your
convenience in designating

how much you'd like to invest in the play.

We feel it's an outstanding work, and
we hope you'll want to be part of it.

And now for the play.

Ladies and gentlemen, the
author, William Paxton.

Thank you.

Act one, scene one.

The time, another time.

The characters, a
combination of people and things.

You might call them thing people.

The place, out there.

Out there.

And now, as the shadows deepen around the
rusty, disabled machines, Charlie enters,

gazes at them thoughtfully and
repeats, Yes, the bluebird is gone.

A streak of blue against the
gray slate of the morning sky.

Yet behold, here is the bluebird.

And the curtain slowly descends.

Well, we did the best we could. I
know. Thanks for coming, Jesse.

You too, Sophie.

Mr. Quimby.

Here are the pledge sheets.

I guess we can save them
till the next audition.

My hopes, my dreams.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.

What's this? $25,000? $10,000? We did it.

We're in. I'll just go and change my
clothes, and then we'll go out and celebrate.

Gosh, and we thought that
he... Wait a minute, locals.

Look at these pledge sheets.

Jesse Flug, our elevator operator.
Sophie Hornbussel, the chambermaid.

And John Quimby, the handyman.

That wasn't that sweet. Moco,
they haven't got any money. I know,

but it's the thought that counts.
What about this one? $10,000, J.P.

Abercrombie. Which one was he? I
don't know. I didn't invite him.

Neither did I.

Well, what's the
difference? Who invited him?

I always say if a person appreciates
something and really believes in it... Loco,

what are you talking about?

I'm J.P. Abercrombie.

But Mr. Templeton, you can't condemn a
play on just one incomplete hearing.

Where's your sense of fairness?

Oh.

What'd he say? Yeah,
about his sense of fairness.

He said it couldn't
compete with his sense of smell.

Well, I'm gonna try just one more person.
It's pretty discouraging. It certainly is.

Hello, Mr. Thorndyke?

This is Mike McCall.
About the play last night.

But Mr. Thorndyke, you
only stayed for one act.

I see.

He figured the same fella
wrote the other two acts.

Looks like it's unanimous.

I just knew it wouldn't work.

We should have told
William the truth about those

pledges last night. Oh,
but how could we, Mike?

He was so happy. He took us
all out to celebrate. Yeah,

and the entrance he made into the
automat, like Diamond Jim Brady.

What are we going to do? Unless you can
think of someone else to call. Greta,

what about your boss? He never
did show up at the audition.

Oh, he doesn't have
that kind of money anyway.

Wait a minute.

Maybe I can get him to do
the play on television.

Gosh, that would be wonderful.

Well, let's hope he likes
it, and I'll know soon enough.

When he doesn't like something,
he starts tearing up a little bit.

Now, Greta, I know the play is different.

It's too different.

You mean too artistic for your taste.

Now, Greta, you know I'm as
artistic as the next fellow.

Well, then perhaps you
didn't understand the play.

Of course I understood it.

Then it must be too high class for you.

Too high class?

Didn't I put on the
Sioux City Ballet last year?

So you don't think I can do anything arty?

Well.

I'll talk to Mr.
Shelverson, the executive producer.

Unless the play is too artistic
for your taste. Now, Tompkins,

you know I'm as artistic as
the next fellow. All right,

maybe you didn't understand the
play. Of course I understand.

Well, it must be just too
high class for you, then.

Too high class?

Didn't I put on the Sioux City Ballet
last year? To think of it, that was your baby.

Just in case you still think I'm a
lowbrow, well... I'll talk to the sponsor.

Did I sponsor the Sioux
City Ballet last year?

Sponsor?

It was all your idea.

Well, I like fine art as well as the
next fellow, so... I'll talk to my wife.

They're going to put it on
television. I knew it was a good play.

Those people we invited
were just a bunch of lowbrows.

That's why the play went over their heads.

Oh, hi, William. Come on in. Oh,
William, have we got good news for you.

Come right in here and sit down.

Right here?

Yes. Now, William, my boss wants
to put your play on television.

Television? But what about our investors?

Well, William, those pledges were
signed by a broken-down elevator operator,

a handyman, a chambermaid, and a Girl
Scout with a hole in her head. I see.

Well, at least I've
reached the common people.

Think how many more you
could reach through TV.

I write for the legitimate theater.

But this is legitimate TV.

William, if you watched it more often,
I'm sure you'd change your mind about it.

I mean, they do some really good
things. Shakespeare. William Shakespeare?

Romeo and Juliet, King Lear,
Hamlet. They weren't by Sam Shakespeare.

Well, perhaps you're right.

But remember, not one scene
can be changed. Not one speech,

not one comma can be left out.

Tompkins, you can't. William insists
that nothing be cut out of the play.

Greta, how can we do a two-hour play in
half an hour without cutting something out?

Half an hour? I thought it
was going to be a spectacular,

or I never would have let
William sign the contract.

Well, I'm afraid it's only half an hour.

Mr. Tompkins, do you realize William
poured his life's blood into these pages?

Take them down to the blood
bank. Maybe they can use them.

I'll let you do it.

Now, Greta.

I'm afraid it's out of your
hands. Now, I have bought the play.

The sponsors okayed it. I've
ordered scenery to be built.

But what will I tell William?

He'll know something's wrong
when he comes to rehearsal.

Tell him anything.

Tell him we're not doing it for months.

Well, he never reads the papers.

Maybe he won't know when it's on.

It's next Thursday, isn't it?

Mm-hmm.

Okay.

Yes, Mr. Tompkins?

Phil, can we get ahold of a steam shovel?

Of course. No problem at all.

Don't be too sure.

This one has to whistle Annie Laurie.

In one minute, we will be back for
the second act of Time is a River.

But first, we want you to look at a
few telltale diagrams from our sponsor.

Boy, it's a good thing William isn't here.

I can just see our television
set flying through the window,

with us passing it on its
way down to the street.

And William not far behind us.
By heavens, he's home working.

He is, isn't he?

Well, I called him before the show. He
started work on a new play. Oh, yeah,

he was telling me about it yesterday.
It's about an elephant that loses its memory.

And now, act two of the
most unusual Time is a River.

That must be Jesse with the evening paper.

They are coming from the
hills, the thinkers and the doers.

Just put the paper there, Jesse.

The thinkers who think without doing,
and the doers who do without thinking.

Sounds like...

Hello, William. That was
my play. Hello, William.

Why did you turn it off? That was my play.

Oh, no, it was the... I'm
sure I recognize those lines.

I'm turning it on again.

You're a guest. You relax. I'll turn it
in again, and you'll see you're wrong.

And now we are ready to make meatballs.

Doesn't sound like your place.

She switched stations.

Oh, I'm sorry. Greta,
you get it. Me? Okay.

You turned the wrong knob.

I'll do it. No.

You make William comfortable.

I don't want to be made comfortable.

Oh, now, now, William,
there's really no need for

you to carry on this
way. No reason at all.

There's something wrong with the
set. Now I can't get anything.

It worked fine a minute ago.

Well, that was before
something went wrong with it.

This is all very odd.

Oh, well, now, William, don't be silly.

Why wouldn't we want
you to see your own play?

Yes, why?

Maybe I am just imagining things.

Oh, I'm that way all the time.

Oh, William, be a
darling and answer the door.

It's probably Jesse with
the evening paper. Hi.

Hey, why aren't you watching your play?

What are you talking about? It
only sounds like William's play.

It's how to make a salad.

Now cut it out, girls.

They are doing my play.

Oh, it's no use, William.
The set's on the blink.

Oh, I can fix that for you in a minute.

All right, William, you just
relax. Jesse, good old Jesse,

will have it working in a jiffy.

You mean you don't want?

Honestly, you're as bad as I
am. Okay, don't worry. I dig.

Uh-oh. This is much more
serious than I thought.

What's wrong with it?
What's wrong with it?

It won't work. That's what's
wrong with it. I'll see my play.

I'll make it work.

Now, about your play.

It's about the French Revolution,
ain't it? The French Revolution?

The Russian
Revolution. Now, just a minute.

Oh, the American Revolution?

Certainly not. My play is about life.

Oh, well, then I must
have had it mixed up.

Jesse gets everything
mixed up, don't you, Jesse?

Yeah, everything. Sorry, real sorry.

I just wanted to tell
you, I was watching you

play on television, and... Oh, come on.

No wonder.

It's not plugged in.

I guess my foot must have
gotten caught in the wire.

Your foot.

Well, we always get to hit our fingers.

And that was Time is a
River by William Paxton.

Now be sure to join us
next week when we...

Why didn't you tell me it
was going to be on tonight?

Well, we didn't know, William. We
thought it was going to be on...

Hello? Oh, hello, Mr. Tompkins.

Yes, we saw it.

What?

Oh, that's wonderful! What?

Oh, I don't think he'd
be interested in that.

No.

Well, thank you very much for
calling anyway, Mr. Tompkins.

Bye.

There was a Hollywood
producer at the show,

and when my boss said Williams'
play was too high class for Hollywood,

he got mad and offered $20,000 for
the screen rights. Congratulations!

Oh, uh, Greta, what was that you
didn't think I'd be interested in?

Oh, they wanted you to go all the way
to Hollywood to write the screenplay.

Of course, I'm going.

My artistic reputation, my
integrity demands that I protect my play.

It must be done exactly the
way it was done on television.

Loco, it's been wonderful.

I'll see you all when I get back.

William, I... Hollywood?

Greta, why didn't you want
William to go to Hollywood?

Well, this same producer bought a
property from our studio last year,

and you might have seen
the picture. What picture?

I was a teenage Sioux City ballerina. Oh!

Gosh, William's been gone for three
weeks now and not a word from him.

Poor guy. Hollywood must have
broken him completely. Well,

$20,000 can buy an awful lot of splints.

I still think he could
have written to Loco.

She's been watching for the mailman every
day, and you know how... What is it, Loco?

A picture of William. Look.

William Paxton, author of the forthcoming
musical farce, A Hot Time on the River,

seen here with his
fiancée, Debbie Farnsworth,

aboard his new speedboat, The Integrity.