Original subtitles

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.