All language subtitles for the.barefoot.contessa.1954.720p.web.x264-regret[PRiME]

I suppose
that when you've spent

most of your life
in one profession,

you develop what
could be called

an occupational
point of view.

So, maybe I can
be forgiven

for the first thing
I thought of that morning.

Because I found myself

thinking that the staging
and the setting,

even the lighting
of Maria's funeral,

were just what she
would have wanted.

My name is Harry Dawes.

I've been a writer
and a director of movies

for longer than
I like to remember.

I go way back,

back to when the movies had two
dimensions, and one dimension,

and sometimes
no dimension at all.

I wrote and directed all three of
the movies Maria Damata was in.

Her short, full career,
from start to finish.

I wrote it
and directed it,

on the screen, that is.

What was I doing there?

The Fates or the Furies or
whoever wrote and directed

her short, full life,
they took care of that.

Anyway, there I stood,

halfway around the world
from Hollywood and Vine,

in a little graveyard
near Rapallo, Italy,

watching them bury
the Contessa Torlato-Favrini

in grounds she never
heard of six months ago,

with a stone statue
to mark the spot.

Life, every now and then,

behaves as if it had seen
too many bad movies.

When everything
fits too well.

The beginning,
the middle and the end.

From fade-in to fade-out.

And where I faded in,

the Contessa was
not a contessa.

She wasn't even a movie star
named Maria Damata.

Where I faded in, her
name was Maria Vargas

and she danced in a
nightclub in Madrid, Spain.

And so, once upon a
time, three years ago,

we came to Madrid

to a not-very-fashionable nightclub
to see Maria Vargas dance.

Let me tell you
who we were.

The man with the sweaty face
and the frightened eyes

was and is
Oscar Muldoon.

He's a public
relations counselor,

which can be many things, some
of them punishable by law.

The blond was made
in Hollywood, USA.

Her name was Myrna,
and she traveled.

I was a writer and/or director
who hadn't been doing too well.

We were all in the
employ of Kirk Edwards.

Meet Kirk Edwards.

You're saying to yourself,
"So that's what he looks like.

"That's what a man looks like
whose grandfather made good,

"whose mother left him
with 200 million dollars.

"Poor little rich boy."

Don't feel sorry
for Kirk Edwards,

not unless you're
a hungry psychiatrist.

Kirk was producing
a motion picture,

his first.

He had as much in common
with anything creative

as I have with
nuclear physics.

Well, we'd been scouting for what
is called delicately "a new face."

By most standards,

flying all the way to Madrid
to look for a new face

would seem like going
to a lot of trouble.

But I've known movie producers
who would travel even further

for a good
smoked whitefish.

Hey, um...

Hey, Mac.

How come the band
is taking a break?

Please. No
meaning.

You're in Spain
now, buster.

Senorita what's this,
uh, Maria Vargas.

She does not
dance no more?

No more, senor.

You mean, she dance only
one time, then finito?

One time,
then finito.

Well, maybe she could dance one
more time, just for tonight, huh?

She never dance more.
One time and no more.

Well, why you not
make her dance more?

You the boss, huh?

It's Maria Vargas!

Nobody boss
Maria Vargas.

Funny, I always thought a
woman was a two-time thing.

Sing it, Oscar.

Oscar, have her
come to the table.

I'm very sorry,
senor,

but senorita Vargas
does not sit

at the tables
with the guests.

Now, I'm sure, you don't you consider Mr.
Kirk Edwards

just an ordinary
guest.

Well, I have said, it is not
possible with senorita Vargas.

Maybe just this once
for Mr. Kirk Edwards,

you could make an
exception to your rule.

Well, it's not
my rule.

Is rule of
senorita Vargas.

I'm sorry. Excuse me, ladies
and gentlemen. Excuse me.

Oscar, go
get her.

We'll be
right back.

You haven't had much to
say this trip, Harry.

I counted on
you for laughs,

some of your well-known,
bright remarks.

Maybe going on the wagon
makes a man dull.

Could be.

Oscar hasn't touched
his whiskey.

No, thanks.

How long
has it been?

Five months
next Tuesday.

Let that be a lesson
to you, Myrna.

It's never too late
to develop character.

I've got time.

The fact that you don't
drink at all, Kirk,

is the greatest argument
for drunkenness I know.

You want to know why I went on the
wagon when I went to work for you?

'Cause I didn't want you around
when my brain was befuddled.

First thing I know,
you might buy my soul.

You can't buy people's souls.
They belong to God.

What's "champagne"
in Spanish?

Wait till Oscar
gets back.

Not always, Kirk. Sometimes
it's quite a tussle.

You remember Faust?

I don't believe
I do.

Faust was something
like you, Kirk,

except that instead of having
all the money in the world,

he had all
the knowledge.

But the one thing he
never knew, like you,

was a moment of
real happiness,

so, he made a deal
with the devil.

He'd trade his soul
to the devil

in return for
that one moment

of real happiness.

How'd it turn out?

Well, God fought the devil
for the soul of Faust.

It was a close fight.

Most people think
God won.

I personally always thought
it wound up a draw.

I think it's
a silly story.

No man with all that
money and knowledge

could never have been
happy for a moment.

Sure, it's a
silly story.

Can you ever imagine Kirk
being in a spot like that?

Worse come to worst,
he'd just buy God.

A woman who drinks
is bad enough

and I will not stand for a woman
cursing and blaspheming God.

Now, get out of here.

Right now!
Get out!

This is Madrid
in Spain,

not Sunset Boulevard.

We flew from Rome in your
private plane, remember?

Then let her find
her own way back.

There must be other planes, trains, buses.
Give her some money.

Is she changing?

Then why didn't you
bring her with you?

She don't sit at the
tables with the customers.

Did you
talk to her?

Through the door. She
opened it that wide.

That fellow in
Rome was right.

Her English ain't bad.

Did you tell her
what it was all about?

She knew, and she
knew who you were.

She don't sit at the
tables with the customers.

One of the waiters tells me
she's got quite a reputation

for not mingling.

Do you suppose
that just this once

you might have
to go yourself?

This time I
want you to go.

Sorry,
my contract

and the bylaws of
my various guilds

call for me to render my services
for you as a writer and a director.

I'm not required to do
your public relations.

Look who's suddenly a candidate
for the Christopher Award!

Oscar. A washed up ex-drunk

who's fallen on his face in front of
half the extras in central casting.

Shut up, Oscar.

Now, this is as good
a time as any, Harry,

to get our relationship
straight once and for all.

You're working for
me. I'm paying you.

That means only one thing to
me, whether you're a director

or a janitor in
one of my plants.

I'm your boss.

I'm also perfectly willing and able to
cancel this entire production right now,

and pay you off
and write you off.

The government will be paying
for most of it anyway.

With Oscar's help,
I can let it be known

your script wasn't
worth shooting,

and that you were in no
condition to shoot it.

Maybe you went off
the wagon, who knows?

The majors aren't
wanting you, anyway.

If I can't afford you as
an independent, who can?

All that, just
to meet a new face.

All that

because I want you
to do what I say,

even if it's picking up my
hat when I tell you to.

Give me some money, Oscar,
enough to get back to Rome.

I'll ad lib the
rest of the way.

Why don't you
come, too, Harry?

You might as well
put whiskey in that.

And don't worry
about your soul.

You must have lost it
at some preview,

a long time ago.

Senorita Vargas?

Oh, gracias.

Senorita? Your bare
feet are showing.

Now, I don't speak Spanish.
You do speak English.

So the only way we can
make any progress is to...

I did not say
to come in.

You did not say
to stay out.

You did not actually
say nothing.

Anything.

Your English
is very good.

Where'd you learn it?

This man, he is
my cousin.

This man, he is
your cousin?

Did you come to see me
for the same reason

as the man with
sweat on his face?

Well, yes, but as you see, I
have no sweat on my face,

so Mr. Kirk Edwards thought I might
be able to persuade you to...

I do not mingle
with the customers.

Only your cousin?

The man with the sweat was
more pleasant than you.

Well, not really.

Do you know who
Mr. Kirk Edwards is?

I have heard of him.

He is the owner of Texas.

That is correct.

Recently, however, Mr. Edwards
decided to produce motion pictures.

So, for that purpose, he's
just bought California, too.

And now, he wants
to buy me?

Not exactly.

Mr. Kirk Edwards is looking
for somebody like you

to play in his
first production.

He wants to talk
to you about it.

Who are you?

Oh, I'm not important. I'm writing
the film and I'll direct it.

My name is
Harry Dawes.

Harry Dawes.

Harry Dawes.

Did you not once direct Jean
Harlow and Carole Lombard?

You must have gone to the movies
when you were a very little girl.

How did you
know my name?

Only one out of
10,000 moviegoers...

Oh, I can
name to you

Lubitsch
and Fleming

and Van Dyke
and La Cava.

You didn't think I was
dead, too, did you?

Maria.

My cousin, he plays
in the orchestra.

He had to go
back to work.

Through the window?

That's a funny way
for a cousin to leave.

In Hollywood, it is not
easy to become a star.

Ah, where
is it easy?

In Madrid. Here, at
least, I'm a little star.

Why should I take the
chance that I lose it?

Do you know what
a screen test is?

Yes. We can make it in Rome.

Nobody would know.

If it doesn't work out,
you'll have lost nothing.

Now, it certainly can't hurt
you to meet Kirk Edwards.

Nobody could accuse
you of mingling,

a business conference with one
of the richest men in the world.

Could you teach me
to act, Mr. Dawes?

If you can act,
I can help you.

If you can't, nobody
can teach you.

Why did not Mr. Kirk Edwards
come to ask me himself?

Oh, I'm sure he would
have been delighted,

but after all, since
I'm the director...

Do all directors come
to ask young women

to sit with
their producers?

Um, not all.

I think that a man who
can write something

and who can help
someone to act

is worth much more than a
man who only has money.

If and when you
become an actress,

don't ever say
that in public.

You never know
who's listening.

Senorita, this is
Oscar Muldoon,

whom I'm sure
you recognize.

Meet Kirk Edwards.

Don't get up,
Mr. Edwards.

I'm sorry we got here too
late to see you dance.

We certainly
are, senorita,

because we understand
you got a lot of talent.

And that's the one thing that can make Mr.
Kirk Edwards

fly all the way
here from Rome.

All the way from California,
you might say. Talent.

Now, where other men go for a
pretty face or a pair of legs,

talent is what Mr.
Kirk Edwards worships.

It's his religion,
you might almost say.

Something to eat,
senorita? Uh, waiter!

Do you speak
Spanish, senor?

Oh, just a
couple of words.

Not even that.

One of them
was Italian.

Speak only
English, please.

A whiskey for me,
like before.

Now, did Mr. Dawes have a chance to
tell you what Mr. Edwards has in mind?

Oh, and by the way, not
being in the business,

you wouldn't know, of course, who Mr.
Harry Dawes is in his own name.

He's only one of the top two
or three writers and directors

in the whole world,
that's all.

I only want to indicate
to you by this

how Mr. Kirk Edwards
does things.

Only the top, the class,
the finest money can buy,

all the way up
and down the line.

Mr. Kirk Edwards doesn't have to watch
the pennies, you know that, don't you?

I don't want to
throw Oscar off pitch,

but I told senorita Vargas
what this was all about.

I also told her we could
shoot the test in Rome.

Senorita. Miss Vargas.

We're going to have to
change the name, by the way.

Maria.

Naturally, Mr. Edwards will pay all your
expenses while you're being tested.

And if it works out,

you'll be under contract
to him, personally.

And you'll be paid in dollars.
Not pesetas, but dollars.

Maybe $100 a week
to start with.

How much is that
in pesetas?

Or maybe $200 a week.
We can work that out later.

But the point is, Mr. Edwards is
going to leave no stone unturned

to develop your talent
and make you happy.

Afraid you'll be lonely,
far away in Hollywood?

There's no reason
why, after a time,

we can't send
for your mother.

After all, a girl likes to have
her mother with her, right?

I would not like to
have my mother with me.

Why not?

Because I do not
like my mother.

I'm sure you don't mean that.
Every mother should be loved.

If they deserve it.

We can work all that
out later, too.

The point is, the
miracle has happened

and a great career is
yours for the asking.

No strings attached.
No jokers.

All Mr. Edwards wants is for
the world to enjoy your talent

and for you
to be happy.

And what does he
get out of it?

Just your gratitude.

What does he ever get out of the
wonderful things that he does?

Money? Power?
Fame? Nah.

He's got all those.

All that he can
look forward to

is the honest gratitude

of the little people
that he helps,

like you and me
and Mr. Dawes.

Sounds pretty good,
doesn't it?

I have to telephone somebody.

Please excuse me,
Mr. Dawes.

Ah, Muldoon,
you're a charmer.

The little birds
right out of the trees.

Senor Edwards, we are checked and
ready whenever you are, sir.

Oscar, go
hurry her up.

Tell her she can buy
whatever she needs in Rome.

Right.

Right now, Kirk, I wish my
mother had left me $200 million.

What would you
do with 'em?

I'd bet you the whole $200
million that this time,

Oscar's charmed the little
bird right back into the tree.

You'd come up
empty, Kirk.

One of the many troubles
with you, Harry, is,

you never know where your
movie scripts leave off

and life begins.

Ah, Muldoon,

you're a charmer.

You'd be so much more charming if
only you didn't sweat so much.

She's gone.

She never even went back to the room.
Nobody knows where.

I can't
understand it.

We're leaving
right now.

Without you,
Harry.

We take off
in one hour.

You find her and
bring her with you.

Don't bother showing
up without her.

Just cable your agent collect,

if you've still
got an agent.

This is
for the check.

Kirk was wrong
when he said

I didn't know where movie scripts
left off and life began.

The script has to make
sense and life doesn't.

Any self-respecting script

would have had me
swallow Oscar's whiskey

and go off on a bat.

But it wasn't a script.

Right now,
I wish it had been.

The script would have
made so much more sense

about all of us
than life did.

Maria Vargas?

I'm sorry.

I look for
Maria Vargas.

No. Wait a minute.
This is important.

Why you want to find my
sister so important?

Ah, Dr. Livingstone.

You got cigarettes?

Help yourself. Keep the pack.
I've got more.

Now, look, I'm an
American film director,

and I was talking to
your sister tonight

about going to America
to play in the movies.

And I want to talk to her
again and I can't find her.

It's good you no
understand my mother.

It's liar.

Can't you fight
this out later?

I haven't got
much time.

Look, brother, I don't know
what your troubles are,

but I've got
to find Maria.

It isn't as if
I had all night.

Every minute counts.

My mother forbids Maria
to go to America.

And what does
Maria say?

I think perhaps we can talk
better outside, Mr. Dawes.

My brother took
all your cigarettes?

I have another pack.

What did you
tell your mother?

Just now?
Uh-huh.

I told her if she
said one more word,

I would go to America, even
if I did not want to go.

Are you in trouble
with Mr. Kirk Edwards?

In a way.

Because I ran away?

I do not like
Mr. Kirk Edwards.

You're standing at the end
of a long, long line.

Somehow to me, he is
not a healthy man.

Somehow, he is sick,

and I cannot bear to watch
sick people be sick.

That is why, so suddenly,
I had to go away.

Mr. Dawes,

do you think really
that I could be a star?

There's one phrase I've always
avoided like the plague

because it never
worked out.

With you, I think it would.
You couldn't miss.

I think that
I'm pretty enough,

but I would not want
to be that kind of star.

Pretty enough?

Any woman that can use the
moon for a key light...

Key light?
What is that?

Oh, that's your
own special light

when the stage
is all lit up,

the light that
shines only on you.

Like the moon.
Like the moon.

You have to learn how to find this
light out of all the other lights,

how never to lose it.

How to make it do things for
your eyes, your lips, your hair.

But this is
not acting.

No, this is not acting, and this is
not all you have to learn, either.

But if I could
act a little,

would you help me to become
a really good actress?

Would you help
me, Mr. Dawes?

What makes a man want to write
about people or direct people

is because,

usually, he has a sort of
a sixth sense about them,

or thinks he has.

Like a witch.

Now, my five
ordinary senses,

what with alcohol and other forms
of abuse, are nothing special,

but I have a sixth sense

that any witch in the world would
give her left broomstick to have.

And with sense
number six,

you feel something about me.
Therefore,

owing to circumstances which,
believe me, are beyond my control,

I hereby advise you

not to come to Rome
to make the test.

Not to come to America,
at least not for a while.

At least not... At least not to Mr.
Kirk Edwards.

Is that
what you fear?

That's part of it.

Let's say that's the only
part I can put into words.

Or, perhaps, you
want me for yourself,

and you're afraid
that Mr. Kirk Edwards' money

would make him more
attractive than you.

What makes women think that having money
makes a man feel more attractive?

I never met
a rich man yet

who didn't think he was being
loved in spite of his money.

And you?

Me? Mmm.

I'm afraid I've
had three wives.

Oh, I've been around with actresses,
female writers, singers, painters,

even a female agent,

but I don't
think I've met

more than two or three
women in my life.

Six months or so ago, I fell
in love with one of them.

Is she an actress?

No, I told you.
She's a woman.

Does she have
to work?

Script girl.
Her name is Jerry.

She has the
name of a man.

There is no
further resemblance.

What is
a script girl?

You'll find out.

Apparently, your sense number
six has changed its mind.

No. I've just come
to the realization

that it's none
of my business.

You now want
me to go.

It's up to you.

I have no fear of
Mr. Kirk Edwards.

America is a very rich
and powerful country,

but you have no
monopoly on evil men.

I have known them since I
was a very little girl.

Not like Kirk.

Perhaps they did not have
millions of dollars,

but to a girl
with nothing,

a man with hundreds is just as
rich as a man with millions.

I do not say this
with pride, Mr. Dawes,

nor do I want it to sound like
one of the foolish things

that we laugh at
in the movies.

But no man has ever paid for me, and
I do not think any man ever will.

Then why not
with pride?

Because it has not
been out of goodness,

not even because I've
tried to be good.

I have nothing to say about it, Mr.
Dawes,

about whom I love.

It is a kind
of sickness,

and as I've said, I cannot
bear to be with sick people.

But when the sick one is
yourself, you cannot run away.

When I was a little girl,
like so many others,

there was no money
to buy shoes for me,

and when the bombs came
in the Civil War,

I used to bury myself in the
dirt of the ruins to be safe.

I would lie there,
safe in the dirt,

and wiggle my toes
and listen to the noise

and dream of someday being
a fine lady in fine shoes.

I hate shoes,
Mr. Dawes.

I wear them to dance
and to show myself,

but I feel
afraid in shoes,

and I feel safe with
my feet in the dirt.

My words in English
are so simple,

and yet what I want to say
is not simple at all.

Even in my
own language,

my brain and my words could
not say it, I'm afraid.

There's more to talking
than just words.

And you have one more
sense than other people.

For instance, you understood
about my cousin right away.

And when I was older,

and the bombs
still came,

just to bury myself in the dirt
was not enough to be safe.

I needed someone
to be with me,

someone to love, to love
me, to make me safe.

I needed it.

I still need it
when I'm afraid,

like a baby who needs
a light on in the dark.

I need to be loved when I'm
hiding in the dirt and afraid.

But the bombs
are gone.

You surprise me,
Mr. Dawes.

Is fear gone?

What are you afraid of?

The same as
everybody else.

The same as you.

Of being exposed
and unprotected.

Like Mr. Kirk Edwards
without his money,

like you, as you used to
be without your drink,

or now, without your
script girl who loves you.

Like me,
in my shoes

and on display for men
and women to examine,

for different
reasons.

Many men must be
in love with you.

In the dirt,
it's hard to tell.

Haven't you
been in love?

From the dirt, it's easy
to look into the clouds.

Has Mr. Kirk Edwards already
flown away in his private plane

all covered with
diamonds and stars,

or, by now, has it
changed into a calabaza?

Oh, that must be
Spanish for pumpkin.

You still have time
if you're coming.

Yes.

Well, you'd better
get your things.

I have them.

Then, you'll want
to say goodbye.

I have no desire to look
at my mother once more.

And I would only
confuse Papa.

Pedro will take
care of it.

I am ready,
Mr. Dawes.

You forgot
your shoes.

No, I did not
forget them.

What happened next,

if you go to the movies,

or if you've ever sat under a dryer
or waited in a waiting room,

is history.

Movie history.

The facts and figures and
fantasy of Maria's success.

There are some, though, you wouldn't
have found in the textbooks.

You've seen it and read it
a thousand times.

It's one of the most tiresome
cliches of storytelling.

It really happens once or
twice in a generation,

but that first test
of Maria Vargas

lit up all the lights
in show business.

I had taken it
upon myself to invite

the highest international movie
brass I could find in Rome,

Mr. Black of America,

Monsieur Blue of France,
and Mr. Brown of England.

The difference between European and
American movie magnates is astonishing.

There is absolutely none.

Kirk, my dear fellow, I know just
exactly what you have in mind,

and I couldn't agree with you more.
Now, the British...

I got the perfect
location in Spain.

You're not the type
to fool around with.

Nobody ever tells you...

This kid's contract... Now, just a
minute, gentlemen. Just a minute.

In the first place, this young
lady is under exclusive contract

to Mr. Kirk Edwards,
of course,

and he cannot discuss her future
availability at this time.

In the second place, this was a
private showing of a private test

which is the property
of Mr. Kirk Edwards,

and I consider your presence here
highly irregular and unethical.

Are you out of your mind, Muldoon?
You invited me.

Who? Me?

You must remember
asking me, old man.

You even suggested I come in
after the lights were out

in case I disturb
Mr. Edwards.

Boss, I swear to
you on my life...

What about
it, Harry?

I'm afraid, I'm the guilty one.
I invited you gentlemen.

I used Oscar's name
because, frankly,

I was afraid you wouldn't
be into my name.

What is your
name, Monsieur?

He's Harry Dawes.

I imagined you to be a
much older man, Mr. Dawes.

I was, up to the
minute I saw this test.

I'm flying to Paris
tonight, Harry.

Drop in this afternoon.
I'm at the Excelsior.

Sorry, Max. Not business.
Just old friends.

How old?
Since the test?

Why'd you have us
come here, Harry?

Well, I suppose I should have
checked with Oscar Muldoon.

It's not really
a director's function,

but in Mr. Edwards'
organization,

we all do all
sorts of things.

I wanted to make sure that the leaders
of our industry knew at first hand

about the contribution Mr.
Edwards was going to make to it.

Mmm. Well, it was
a grand pleasure.

May I offer a ride
to any one of you?

I'll take you up on
that, if I may, Rene.

See you in London.

Anytime this afternoon,
Harry, if you get the chance.

Sorry, Max. I'm
at the Excelsior.

Well, it's a great art we're
doing business in, gentlemen.

Everybody be happy.

Her makeup is too
dark and too much.

Hair and wardrobe got
to be much more simple.

No tricks.

The less between her and
the camera, the better.

The voice is good,
well placed.

I don't want a voice coach
within a mile of her.

How much closer
will you be?

What's that?

How much closer
have you been?

To Maria?

Coming from anybody else,
that would be a compliment.

What were those
men doing here?

I haven't answered your
first question yet.

I know the answer.
No, you don't.

And you'll never admit that you don't.
You wouldn't dare,

because you'd have to admit there's
something possible between men and women

besides the few simple physiological
relationships you know about.

Okay. That answer will satisfy
the Screenwriters Guild.

Now tell us why you planted
those characters in here.

Maybe your master knows the
answer to that one too,

or maybe he doesn't
want to know.

I want to know.
It's pretty long.

We got the room booked
for the whole morning.

It won't take
that long.

Kirk, Maria has made a chump out of you.
She's laughed at you.

Now, you're not going to do
better, you're going to do worse.

Now, this pleases me
and frightens me,

because I know you.

You're capable of destroying a
woman who's laughed at you.

You've destroyed
women who loved you,

so why not Maria?

And you're capable of
burning that test,

as great as it is,

and letting it be known that
she had nothing worth testing.

Well, right now, the name
and fame of Maria Vargas

is on its way to
New York, Hollywood,

London and Paris.

Does that answer
your question?

You can't get
away with this!

You're being
disloyal, Oscar.

You're stealing dialogue
from television,

and you lied
to those gentlemen.

Perhaps you can be forgiven
because it's your job to lie,

but you lied when you said Maria was
under contract to Kirk Edwards.

Isn't she?

Well, I... Now, those were
your exact instructions, Kirk,

so don't punish
Oscar for it.

No contract till after
the test, remember?

You were going to use
her for one more pitch.

Well, right now,
it's after the test,

and Maria Vargas will not
sign a contract with you.

She's under contract
to you, is that it?

Kirk, if ever a
characterization

followed a straight
line, yours does.

No, she's not
under contract to me,

because I'm not
in that business.

But what I tell Maria
to do, she will do.

With her shoes
on, that is.

What's her shoes
got to do with it?

Nothing.

Of course, you can call off
the production right now,

write it off, write
me off, and Maria.

The government will pay
for most of it anyway.

And I'll go see Max Black at
the Excelsior this afternoon.

All right, let's go back to
Hollywood and make this movie.

After that, Maria's
on her own.

You can keep on
looking for new faces.

The world's full of them.

But you'll never
find another Maria.

You will find what you're
looking for, I'm sure.

Harry...

Nothing.

If ever a funeral
laid an egg, that one did.

Standing around the grave,
maybe two dozen nobodies.

A great finish.

You just don't bury
a famous movie star

like she was
an unidentified body.

Well, it figured.
It was like that

from the minute
I laid eyes on her.

Nothing worked
according to the book.

Not my book, anyway.

From the minute she waved back
at the Statue of Liberty,

everybody wanted to know
everything about Maria,

and they wound up
knowing nothing,

because there was
nothing to know.

Believe me, what they
said in Madrid was true.

This bundle of passion,

this hot flame that burned
from the screen,

was a real untouchable.

The columns and the wolves
were after me night and day.

How could I tell them
who she was with, or when,

when I didn't even
know who she knew?

I can tell you this:

it is entirely possible that
Maria Damata went to her grave

without ever once
being inside of The Stork,

El Morocco, Ciro's,
or The Mocambo.

You've got to admit,
this is not normal.

But what was normal about this whole
business from start to finish?

Here's a doll who, on the opening
night of her first picture,

with no known interest
in men, much less romance,

whose private life
is strictly private,

but who, the people have
decided, is already a star.

This is the night
I first began to think

maybe the public
has a mind of its own.

Who else but Maria Damata would show
up at her world premiere alone,

together with a couple that everybody
knew were in love with each other?

It was real love
with Harry and Jerry.

You could tell
it was for real,

because they never even gave out
interviews about getting married.

Maria Damata.

Whatever it is,
you name it.

Whether you're born with it or catch
it from a public drinking cup,

Maria had it.

The people with the money
in their hot little hands

put her up there,

and she could do no wrong.

But I can remember very well
the day it did look

like the roof fell in
on all of us.

It was in London.

Back in the States, the picture
was a smash from coast to coast.

I and Kirk Edwards had flown over
to talk to S. Montague Brown,

who wanted it for
his theaters in England.

I could tell right away something was
wrong. Kirk didn't even look at me.

And S. Montague Brown
was eating and drinking

as if the Labour Party had
just been elected unanimously.

Am I allowed to know what
the depression is about?

Maria.

What about Maria?
Maria's mother is dead.

Everybody's mother's
got to die sometime.

Don't let it get you
down like this.

As a matter of fact, we can
milk this unfortunate departure

for some good
exploitation in Spain,

maybe even
worldwide.

A big church funeral using
boxed crusaders, remember.

Oscar,
shut up!

Mr. Muldoon, it seems
that Maria's mother

was murdered
by Maria's father.

Murdered?

Her father murdered
her mother? When?

Last night.

How did you
hear about this?

The Madrid office telephoned
a few minutes ago.

The papers! Has it got
to the papers yet?

Not yet.

As you know, over here, crime is
not exploited to sell newspapers.

I know. And without it,
you could print

the three biggest selling newspapers
in England on postage stamps.

I'm not interested
in selling newspapers

or in debating
good and bad taste.

The newspapers have
not yet picked it up.

And they won't, as long
as Maria stays out of it.

Boss, you're 100% right. We
got to keep her out of it.

We keep her in California.
Does she know about it yet?

I've put in a call to Harry Dawes.
He can find out.

You want Harry
to break it to her?

Of course not. Certainly not
until after the trial is over

and it's too late
to be news.

And we're finished
playing the key cities.

Boss, you think
of everything.

Ah, what a business,
show business.

For years you sweat and
dream and dig and look,

and finally you come
up with the jackpot.

You've made it. Bingo. You've got
a right to open your collar,

take off your shoes and relax in Las
Vegas for the rest of your life.

So what happens? Her father
chokes her mother to death.

It'll make you cry.

Montague, if there's one thing I
know about, it's Mr. John Q. Public.

He wants clean people on the screen for
himself and his children to look at.

Don't let the eggheads tell you
he wants high-class acting

and fine stories
and fancy dialogue.

Oscar, the phone!

He wants to forget his troubles for
a while and look at clean people.

He wants to escape.

He doesn't want to look at drunks,
hopheads, sex maniacs, divorcees,

communists, murderers... And
no children of murderers.

He's got enough
of that at home.

Hello? Hello!

Yeah, Mr. Edwards is right here.
Put him on.

It's Harry.
It's for you.

You talk to him.
Hello?

Hello?
I hear nothing!

Hello, Harry?
No. This is Oscar.

Yeah, how are
you, Harry?

Fine, fine. Say, how
is it out there?

You don't say! What do you know?
Nice day in California.

Are you paying for this
call yourself, Oscar?

Uh, Harry, the reason we called.
What's new and all that,

but also, have you happened
to see Maria lately?

Oh, you just left her?
Oh, good, good.

Say, how is she?

Fine, fine. Say, Harry, something
kind of important has come up...

I say, something kind of
important has come up.

Yeah,

that maybe you
should know about,

but that maybe you should keep Maria
from knowing about right now.

Yeah.

Yeah, it's got to do
with Maria in a way.

Her old man knocked
off her old lady.

Her father murdered
her mother.

What?

I can't hear you
suddenly!

What?

What do you mean, you know?
Does Maria know?

How? The papers?

Her brother sent a cable?

Now, Harry, I hope
Maria understands

that if the papers
get a hold of this,

it can not only ruin the
picture, but her also.

She does? Harry says Maria
understands perfectly.

And you too, Harry. This is no
time for you to be artistic.

Remember, this is money
out of your pocket, too,

so take no chances
in this situation.

You do?

Harry says he
understands also.

I must say, Harry, you're being
very cooperative about this.

And please extend our
heartfelt sympathy to Maria

at this time
of her grief.

What?

What?
We can what?

We can extend our sympathy
to Maria in person?

Harry, what are you talking about?
Didn't you tell me you just left her?

You left her
at the airport?

She's flying straight to
Madrid to be with her father?

Who do we know in New York for a
quick snatch job in between planes?

Dawes, have you gone
out of your mind?

How could you let her
do a thing like this?

What?

What kind of
an answer is that

against a $10 million
world gross?

You don't say.

Well, I'm just as normal
as you are, buster.

Remember that
in the years ahead

when you're directing cigarette
butts on television!

She loves her father.

Neither the picture nor her
career mean as much to her

as being with her father
in his time of need.

Starring Francis X. Bushman
and Clara Kimball Young,

Friday, Saturday,
and Sunday at the Bijou.

There will be a cornet
solo on Saturday night.

Well, you remember
what happened.

The trial drew more people than
Madame X and played better.

Maria hired the best
lawyers in Spain.

She never slept.

You'd think it was her own
life she was fighting for.

Harry and Jerry flew over.

They couldn't help much,
but they were there.

Nobody asked me, and I wasn't
anybody's friend especially,

but I stuck around.

You couldn't help feeling
sorry for the old man.

You could tell
just by looking at him

that half the time he
didn't know where he was.

And you wouldn't give
a bent kopeck for his chances,

the way he kept admitting over and
over that he killed the old lady.

Things started to pick up
for the home team

when Maria's brother, a ganef if
ever I saw one, took the stand.

He testified that his mother had
beaten up the old man many times,

and how, on the night
of the murder,

she not only smashed
his radio but hit him.

But, if I had to write down what no
actress should ever make public,

I would copy Maria's testimony
in her father's defense.

She left out nothing.

She told about the squalor and filth into
which she and her brother were born,

and how they grew up
like animals.

She told about a mother
who was full of hate,

and how she got back
the hate she gave.

Maria handed Mom a rough
time on that witness stand.

I couldn't help wondering how this
would go in box-office heaven,

where Mom is
the commanding saint,

but that courtroom
was with her all the way.

Some of them cried,
even the judges.

They must be
appointed in Spain

because I don't know of
anybody ever getting elected

whose mother
was not an angel.

And as it turned out,

the audiences
of the whole world

could have been sitting
in that courtroom.

From Scarsdale to Singapore,
they loved her.

Her father beat the rap,
of course. Self-defense.

And Maria walked out of
that courthouse a bigger star

than when she broke all the
rules by walking into it.

So how are you going
to figure it?

Suppose you're me,

and what the public wants and
thinks is your business.

You're standing
in the middle of them,

asking yourself, "Where
did I lose these people?"

You're beginning
to realize

maybe the public knows more about
public relations than you do.

Maybe the public heart is something
you can't put on a chart

or penetrate
with just money.

You begin to think
that maybe, after all,

Kirk Edwards couldn't really
walk across the English Channel

anytime he wanted to.

In many ways, Maria affected
Oscar more than any of us.

Her father's trial,

the fact that being human and
honest about something unpleasant

could make her
more popular than ever,

it shook Oscar.

His gods began to crumble.

He became aware, even, of some clay
around the feet of Kirk Edwards.

But two years went by before the
great god Edwards toppled over.

Two good and happy years,
for me at any rate.

The night he fell to Earth,

I suppose it was the most
losing night of Kirk's life.

Just about a year ago
in Beverly Hills, California.

It was quite a night.

Turned out to be
quite a party.

Kirk Edwards was the host,

and over my objections,
Maria let him use her house.

He'd asked personally,
and Maria said yes.

Kirk paid for the party, that
is, his company paid for it.

Kirk didn't give many
parties, but when he did,

they were always for men
like senor Alberto Bravano.

Bravano did no less
for Kirk

when Kirk visited
South America.

Noblesse oblige,
sort of.

But it soon became obvious

that the senor was only mildly
interested in the available talent.

He'd found what
he wanted: Maria.

Jerry and I
were playing backgammon.

That dated us, all right, but
it gave us something to do.

We weren't paying much attention to the
game. We were worried about Maria.

She seemed too restless,
too tense, too withdrawn,

and Kirk,

when he wasn't
looking at Maria,

he was watching Bravano
look at Maria.

He didn't like it.

Alberto Bravano was and is one of the
three richest men in South America,

which makes him one of
the richest in the world.

Like Kirk, his wealth
was inherited.

But unlike Kirk, his one
and only interest in money

lay in spending it
for his own gratification.

To Oscar, Alberto Bravano
was heaven-sent:

a man with more money
than Kirk, even,

and even more in need of a
counsel for public relations.

It's a form of insurance
you might say.

Only instead of
protecting your life,

it protects your good
name and your reputation.

Too late.

My name and reputation
already are hopelessly bad.

Mr. Muldoon, in my whole life I
have made one major decision.

When I was 15 years old,
I had two choices.

Everybody wanted me to be a good
little boy and do good for others.

I chose to be a bad little
boy, do good for myself.

So far so good, senor.

But, the world is getting
smaller all the time.

And if somebody drops a lot
of money in a gambling casino

in Deauville, France,
for instance,

the noise can be heard
for quite a distance.

Interesting.

And how far, would you say, can
this, uh, falling money be heard?

With nobody around
to quiet it down,

the sound could travel
all the way to, uh,

certain mining camps

deep in the jungles
of South America.

Certain camps where the men
aren't paid enough or fed enough

or protected
against disease enough.

Interesting.

And how would
such fantastic lies

come to the ears of a man
such as you, Mr. Muldoon?

Well, like I say,
it's a tiny world.

If, for instance,

somebody rents a whole hotel
at Cap d'Agde, France,

for the entire season,

just to make sure he can have it
for the last two weeks in August,

and if somebody else
doesn't keep it quiet,

people might read about it in cafes
in certain South American cities.

Is it not fortunate,
for instance,

that I own the newspapers
in my country?

Anybody with a printing press and
a seller and something to say

owns a newspaper.

There are laws against
inflammatory propaganda

that certain governments
enforce very rigidly.

Is any man rich enough
to own a government?

I will not answer
vaguely, Mr. Muldoon.

Yes.

It's funny thing about governments,
senor, even privately owned.

If, for instance, the owner
isn't around very much,

if, let's say, he's cruising
around the Mediterranean

on a yacht that costs
more to keep up

than the combined salaries
of his entire government,

and if nobody's around to
protect his interests...

What do you think? Will Maria
Damata come with me to the Riviera?

She ought to jump at the chance,
senor, but she's a strange girl.

To have Maria Damata
as my personal guest

would be the best of possible public
relations for me, Mr. Muldoon.

Besides, is not Maria Damata the
chief asset of Kirk Edwards?

In what way
do you mean?

One considers her
his prize possession.

Only if one does not
know what the score is.

You throw double
sixes again,

and I'll have you
burned for a witch.

Sore loser. He owes me
$187,000 and won't pay up.

You won't take
my check.

I'll say.

Double six.

Ouch.
Hmm...

The last time this
witch went to a party,

she made the princess prick
her finger with a spindle

and fall asleep
for 100 years.

Is that some kind
of Chinese checkers?

Chinese checkers?

No. This is,
uh, pinochle.

I'm drunk.

It's just stuffy in
here, that's all.

Oh, no.
I'm drunk.

Can I ask you
something?

Of course.

Nice house you got.

Thank you.
Nice party.

Nice questions
you ask.

Yeah.

What is with you?

What goes with you?

I don't understand
those questions.

Maria Damata, great big
star, great big sex number.

Who is it?

If not Kirk,
who is it? Harry?

Shut up.

Is it gonna be
Bravano or who?

On the screen you get 'em all.
What about off?

What about in a room?
This room?

Name a man.

Or maybe you're
afraid of men.

All right,
Shirley, blow.

Don't forget
to call a cab.

Who's she kiddin'? She hasn't
even got what I've got.

What she's got,
you couldn't spell,

and what you've got,
you used to have.

Now, beat it.

I don't even believe
you're playing pinochle.

Come on, Maria. Let's us go
sit upstairs for a while.

I'd like to talk to
Harry for a moment.

Would you mind?

Of course
I wouldn't.

Where will you be?

Right here, practicing
double sixes.

Now, remember all the
money I owe you.

No sweet-talk with these
mop-headed juveniles,

or you won't
collect a nickel.

You know just the right
thing to say to a girl

at the right
time, don't you?

Oh, I keep forgetting
you don't smoke.

A glamour girl who
does not even smoke.

I should really be in the circus
with the... strange people.

Freaks.

Freaks.

Harry, I think
that I should go home.

Well, this is
your home.

This is an ugly house in
bad taste, which I rent,

containing a bed to
sleep on, which I rent,

chairs and a stove, to keep
me warm, which I rent.

Well, then buy a place of
your own, or maybe build one.

I cannot buy,

and working men
cannot build a home.

You worked hard. Three pictures,
one right after another.

Maybe a rest and a change
of scene will do you good.

Finding me,
bringing me here,

our three films together, has
it been good for you, Harry?

I never had it
so good.

Because I think I should go
back to Madrid and stay there.

I should stay
where I belong.

Where is that?

In the dirt
of the streets.

You think you
could stay there?

Probably not.

Probably now, I would
not belong there

any more
than where I am.

Where are you,
Maria?

Half in the dirt
and half out.

Then it hasn't
been good for you.

Oh, in many ways, it's
been beyond my dreams,

like a fairy tale
of this century,

and I have been
La Cenicienta.

Spanish for
Cinderella?

I have gowns and jewels
of silver and gold.

I have a coach not pulled by four
horses, but with the power of 200.

Thousands of lonely men write
each month that they dream of me.

Mothers give my name
to their babies,

and young girls rub their
faces with the soap

which I'm paid to say that
I use but which I do not.

And I have so
many other things.

Everything in the world
which can be rented.

As I remember the story, you left
out one very important character.

I have left out
the prince.

Did it ever occur
to you, Harry,

that the prince looked
everywhere for Cinderella

just so that he could put
the shoe back on her foot?

Now that you
mention it...

I thought you'd sent him away.
He came back.

You mean you asked
him to come back.

Yes! I asked him to come back.
Your life is your own.

I've never told you how to
live it and never interfered.

But this one
is no good!

No worse, no better, than the others.
You cannot rent a prince.

I've seen him! He's
mean, and he's dirty.

And which of the men
inside this house is not?

Who? Name him
for me, Harry.

You cast your
films so well.

Which of the men inside would you
have play the prince for me?

All the men in the world
are not in this house.

And what you need
is not in that house.

All your talk about
a frightened child

finding love and security in the dirt.
All children love dirt!

But they grow up.
The fairy tale again.

Cinderella came
out of the ashes

and was spotless when
the prince came along.

Maria.

Most women in this world
pray and cry in their sleep

for just one small part
of what you've got,

so that they can find what all
women need, what you need, Maria:

a man you can look
at in the daytime.

A man you can love like a
woman, have children by,

grow old with, share joys and
sorrows, success and failure.

You've got to
make up your mind.

Half in the dirt and half out.
Go one way or the other.

And if you go back,

what a pitiful
waste it'll be.

And if I go the other
way, I go to what?

To a big, white yacht
with Alberto Bravano?

Just because it is big
and white and a yacht,

is it not
still dirt?

Do not think that I do not agree
with everything you say, Harry,

but I... I cannot
help myself.

One thing you can't knock about
southern California, the air at night.

I sure pity the people that
have to breathe in the daytime.

You got something
on your mind?

Not a thing, Oscar.
How about you?

I was just wondering.

You're sitting there like you had
a sneak preview playing inside.

I've been wondering, too. You
can't even see Kirk from here.

Suppose he has a cigarette in
his mouth and needs a light?

Maybe he'd better start
carrying his own matches.

Oh? Am I the
first to know?

Know what?

You're going to love
International Cafe Society.

No more plain Morocco Stork
Club Cafe Society for you.

No bums in black ties.

It's bums in white
ties from now on.

I thought you were
on the wagon.

Oscar, this is Harry!

Hey, what about Bravano?
You got him hooked?

Everything
but the clincher.

I got him sold,
Harry. I know it.

I got that gaucho seeing himself up there
with the Rockefellers and the Fords.

It's the deal
of my lifetime,

if I can just find
that clincher.

Harry, Harry, Harry, see
the battle of the giants.

What? Kirk and Bravano
are having it out.

What, a fight?
Goliath versus Goliath.

You mean they're
throwing punches?

Don't be silly. Neither one of
them has had his hands closed

since the day
he was born.

My tongue is loosened
by champagne.

I speak as I do everything,
for all the world to know.

Everything I do. And I admit
to all your accusations.

I do in the open,

while you, Mr. Kirk Edwards do
them secretly. You deny this?

You're a liar.
You're a liar!

You repeat yourself.

Take a drink, my friend, and say
what you have in your heart.

But you never drink.
You never say.

It's because you're afraid of
what you have in your heart.

You're a liar.

Granted, but so are you, Mr.
Kirk Edwards.

You are everything that I
am, plus one more sin.

Hypocrisy, my friend.

You pretend not to be what you
are, not to do what you do.

This is
most evil of all.

You've never done an honest
day's work in your life!

I have never done a
day's work in my life,

honest or dishonest,

but neither have you.

To make $100 into
$110, this is work.

To make $100 million
into $110 million,

this is inevitable.

At least I keep my money
in my own country.

I spend it here
and I pay my taxes.

I keep my money
in your country, too,

and for the same
reason as you.

It is safest here.
And as for taxes,

how many millions have you in
tax-exempt bonds and oil wells,

whose power of production your
government so generously protects,

while it denies similar
benefits to the human brain?

What about your flea-bitten country?
What taxes do you pay?

It is a well-known fact that
everywhere in the world,

except for the British Empire and
the United States of America,

the income tax can be easily
avoided by anyone with income.

I pay none.

Then what right do you have to come here
and attack the American way of life?

Oh, please,
Mr. Kirk Edwards.

I attack nothing
and nobody

but you, personally.

I've never yet
met an American

to whom the American
way of life

was not his own
particular way of life.

But it is only
yours I attack.

My life is none
of your business.

I live it my way
and I like it.

Then why does it not
make you happy?

Do you not agree to have an
enormous amount of money

is a wonderful thing?

Why don't you shut up and go
back where you came from?

Oh, this is unworthy,
even from you.

Next, you will tell me the best
friend of a boy is his mother.

Mine was.
Obviously.

And that of a man,
his horse.

It is not clear to me when the transition
from mother to horse takes place.

Get out of here,
Bravano.

I will go
when I please.

I'll have you
thrown out!

I will offer no
resistance, in that case.

I am a physical coward.

So are you, but I
admit it openly.

I am selfish man, not a good
man, but I admit it openly.

I enjoy to live.
You do not.

I waste my money
with pleasure,

but yours is
just a waste.

I will not go back
where I came from,

because I do not
like it there.

You are incapable
of liking it anywhere,

so you stay
where you are.

Goodbye,
Mr. Kirk Edwards.

Are you coming
with me?

I beg your pardon?

I leave tomorrow
morning for Cannes.

I have invited you to
join my yachting party,

and you have said
you would let me know.

I ask you now, openly,

because it would
delight me

if you would come with me, this
minute, out of this house.

You must be
confused, senor.

This is my house.
I live here.

Then tomorrow morning... Maria!

Tell him you're not going,
tomorrow morning or ever.

Always, Kirk, you choose exactly the
wrong moment to play dictator with me.

I forbid you
to go with him!

And I want to hear
you tell him so.

Too bad. I had
decided not to go.

Now I think I must.

I will come for you
tomorrow morning!

Oscar!

Clear everybody out!
The party's over!

This is your clincher,
Muldoon. Don't blow it.

Just this once, Kirk,

why don't you empty
your own ashtrays?

You heard what I said.

You said the
party's over.

Tell everybody
to go home.

The party's over, and I wanna
thank you for a lovely evening.

How drunk are
you, Muldoon?

I've warned you about
getting too drunk.

For four years,
and now it's over.

For four years, I've
invited the guests

and bought the favors and
provided the entertainment

and cleaned up
the dirt

and paid off the waiters
and paid off the cops

and paid off the papers
and paid off the guests.

And now it's, "Good night, ladies.
The party's over.

"I've had a lovely evening,
but I must be going."

You're fired,
as of right now.

Don't call me.
I'll call you.

Bravo, Mr. Muldoon.

Mr. Muldoon, it would
delight me almost as much

if you were to come with me
this minute out of this house.

Senor, I think you've
got yourself a deal.

She'll never make
another picture.

How are you
going to stop her?

Withdraw your financing
and release?

It's late, but I'm sure MGM,
Fox, Paramount and the others

will be happy to have me
wake them up with the news.

I'll fight it for years.
To the Supreme Court.

I'll keep her off the screen.
I'll destroy her.

No. She's
too big now.

Oscar.

I'll destroy Oscar.

He knows too much,
and where to tell it.

Why not destroy
senor Bravano?

All those hundreds
of millions of dollars

crashing against
each other

like a couple of big elks
with your horns locked,

battling till you've both
starved to death in the snow.

You.

Not even me.
Not anymore.

Myrna.

I'll drive you home.

Don't I remember
you from somewhere?

Maybe we'll fly
to Las Vegas.

I'll get my coat.
I'll meet you in the car.

Harry.

Remember how you used to say
life wrote lousy scripts?

Even in one of yours, I would
have thrown this glass at him.

I'm going home
with him instead.

You want to know the... What
do you call it? Motivation?

Easy.

I'm a frightened tramp.

Where's your coat?

In the car.
Where'd you park it?

Driveway. We'll go
around the back.

Harry.

Look.

They're Maria's.

She was wearing
them tonight.

Cinderella's slippers.

Who lives in
the little house?

The prince?

Cinderella's cousin.

I don't
understand that.

I'll tell you about
it in the car.

I didn't tell her,
of course, not even Jerry.

Some things you just
don't tell anybody.

If it would have helped, I'd
have yelled it in the streets.

But nothing
could have helped.

The moving finger had
already writ and moved on,

and nothing I could do would
have canceled half a line,

nor would my tears
wash out a word of it.

If this paisan
asks once more

am I sure the cameraman got his
picture coming to this funeral...

It's the only reason
he's here.

Oh, well, it's my own fault.

I talked him into coming.

It's basic public relations.

Automatically, if people see
the biggest rat in the world

walk with his hat off
behind the casket,

he becomes a lovable codger.

Bravano practically
climbed into the coffin

to be sure they
took his picture.

At that, I assure you,

he got as close to Maria dead
as he did to her alive.

He and Kirk,
they both got nowhere.

Only difference was,
Kirk wouldn't quit

till he tried everything
in the book.

On the other hand,
Bravano quit like a dog

practically the first time
Maria said no.

It seems to me
he was secretly relieved.

The important thing to Bravano

was for people to think
Maria was his girl,

as long as he got
credit for it.

If Bravano had to choose between
really having Maria in secret

and not having her, but with the
whole world thinking he did,

he'd want it
just the way it was.

This I cannot figure.

This doesn't mean
it can't be figured.

You could fill
a big fat book

just with what I haven't been able
to figure since I was 12 years old.

Maria, for instance,
I could never figure.

But then, who could?
There she was,

the world's number one
symbol of desirability,

on display all over the
world's number one showroom,

with the world's number one
customers wanting to buy,

and nobody wrapped her up
and took her home.

Nobody.

I'll swear that
into my own grave.

Nobody.

And while I'm on the broad
subject of what I can't figure,

I give you that phenomenon
of this day and age

called the
"International Set."

Once a year,
on the French Riviera,

one of the most beautiful
sea shores on God's Earth,

the International Set gathers,

the way an annual fungus
gathers on a beautiful tree.

It's quite a set.

It's as if ordinary human
beings, living ordinary lives,

had suddenly vanished
from the Earth,

and the world was suddenly full of
butterflies shaped like people.

They are all happy
all the time.

Some of them are happy
because they are beautiful,

and some of them
have to be happy

because they're
nothing but rich.

Some of the International Set are
happy because they are dogs.

Don't laugh.

There's a beauty parlor
in Cannes just for dogs.

But the happiest of all
the international butterflies

are those who live as if
they never left the cocoon.

They form in little groups,

usually around some piece
of ex-royalty.

Bravano, of course, had the best
cocoon that money could buy.

To begin with, he had, as his
guest for the entire season,

the pretender
to the throne.

The name of the throne
doesn't matter.

But in the world
of pretense,

a pretender is
the best thing you can be.

So, to the International Set,
he was a king.

His wife was English.
She was a commoner.

And they don't come
any commoner.

But together,
they ruled the Riviera,

by permission
of the copyright holder,

Lulu McGee.

Lulu McGee runs
the International Set.

She never asks for money,

but somehow she always happens
to help grateful rich people.

Hector Eubanks was the
fireball of our little cocoon.

Oil hit Hector
one fine day,

and he just never
came out from under it.

There was also
Mrs. Hector Eubanks.

She was a joint
income-tax return.

And in the middle of all
this fantastic unreality

was Maria.

More unreal, in a way,
than any of it.

She moved among
all these crazy people

through the casinos and beaches and
brawls from Marseilles to Monaco,

as if she were loaded
with Novocaine.

She showed no pain,
no pleasure, no interest.

No nothing.

You figure.

I can't.

Any more than I could on that night
I saw Maria for the last time.

It was at one of the
casinos, kind of late.

We'd finished dinner
hours ago.

Bravano and Hector Eubanks
were inside, gambling.

I assumed Maria
was with Bravano.

The rest of us had
run out of conversation.

After all, our little group hadn't
seen each other since cocktails.

And we hadn't eaten
together since lunch.

Lulu was trying to work up
interest in a word game.

This is not easy with people
who know just enough words

to tell room service
what they want.

It's really very simple,
Your Highness.

You write the long word
on top of the page,

and under it, you write
all of the short words

you can make
out of the long one.

For the long word,
let's use "vicissitudes."

Is that actually
a word?

V-I-C-I-S-S-I-T-U-D-E-S.

"Changes,
fluctuations,"

like the
vicissitudes of life.

How clever of you,
my dear.

Did you say something,
Your Majesty?

I shall require
more champagne.

Oscar.

More of the same for the king.
Yes, sir.

What news from
the gaming table?

Very good. Alberto's
having a fantastic bank.

It's about time. Last night, that Greek
took him for a whole South American jungle.

You know something?

Off the screen, I don't think
I've ever seen you laugh before.

I feel very
good tonight.

Every night's like
every other night.

No, not tonight.
What's different?

I don't know. Something in
the way my heart beats,

as if something very good were
going to come out of tonight.

Something's coming, all
right, but it's not good.

He's mad. I've seen
him like this before.

He's half-crazy when
he gets like this.

How do I find the words
to tell you what you are?

To begin with,
a thief.

You took money from me when I was
playing, when I was winning.

It changed my luck.

You've cost me millions
and millions of francs.

You put a curse on me,
not only for tonight,

but from the unhappy moment when
I first knew of your existence.

As you will put a curse always on
everyone and everything near to you.

Maybe you can talk this over
later in private, maybe.

Let him, Oscar. Next,
you are not a woman.

I do not know
what you are.

You are not a woman.

You will not let yourself
be loved. You cannot love.

Once, you had the look for
me of an exquisite lady.

Now I do not
see that look.

Now I only see that you
have the body of an animal.

A dead animal!

I have paid
for your company,

and you will come
and go as I tell you!

Monsieur?
Permit me.

Is the gigolo
known to anyone?

He's known to me.

His name is
Vincenzo Torlato-Favrini.

He's not a gigolo.

He's less a gigolo than anyone
in our immediate company.

Surely less than anyone you will
ever have the good fortune to meet,

senor Bravano. He certainly
acts high and mighty

for just a count!

My dear Lulu, there are
counts and counts,

just as there
are kings and kings.

Among the counts,
Torlato-Favrini is a king,

just as, among the kings,

I am a clown,

and puzzled only by his presence
in a place such as this,

among such
people as us.

My champagne is not
properly cooled.

Alberto, do you happen to know
the Marquise de Baudonniere?

A really
distinguished family...

And that was the last I
ever saw of Maria Vargas,

whom the world knew
as Maria Damata

but who died as the
Contessa Torlato-Favrini.

"Che sara sara."
What will be will be.

An ancient and unimaginative
Italian proverb.

It has been
the motto of my house

for more than 450 years,

and it is only
fitting, perhaps,

that as the house of
Torlato-Favrini comes to its end,

our motto will never
have been more to the point.

What will be will be.

An easy generality.

A universal cure.

I am what I am, do what I do,
and cannot help myself.

Therefore, I am free
of my guilt.

Nonsense, of course.

Yet I can suggest
no other answer,

if there must be an answer,

to how and why it began
between Maria and me.

I was driving.

As I had for countless times
before that time,

I was driving somewhere,

anywhere,

just to be away from
the unbearable restlessness

of night after night
without sleep,

and the empty dawns
that followed them.

But why, of all the somewheres
and anywheres in the world,

should I, at that time, have crossed
the border from Italy to France?

Of all directions,

why should I have chosen one leading
to that parade ground of vulgarity

which lies between
Nice and Cannes?

She looked at me for no longer
than the beat of a heart,

and I knew I would remember
her as long as I lived.

That was my meeting
with Maria.

It occurs to me just now that oddly,
we have never talked about it.

But no more odd, surely,
than my driving away that day,

away from her,

knowing that, inevitably,
we would meet again.

And it was late that night, in,
of all places, a gambling casino,

when I saw Maria again.

To begin with,
a thief.

You took money from me when I was
playing, when I was winning.

You changed my luck. You've cost me
millions and millions of francs.

You put a curse on me,
not only for tonight,

but from the unhappy moment I
first knew of your existence,

as you will put a curse always on
everyone and everything near to you.

Maybe you can talk this over
later in private, maybe.

Let him, Oscar.

Next, you are
not a woman.

I do not know what you are,
but you are not a woman.

You will not let yourself be
loved, and you cannot love.

Once you had the look for
me of an exquisite lady.

Now I do not
see that look.

I see only that you have
the body of an animal.

A dead animal!

I have paid
for your company.

And you will come and
go as I tell you!

Monsieur? Permit me.

I cannot remember much of
that shabby little scene,

except for some cheap
heroics on my part.

But I do remember that Maria seemed
unsurprised at my being there.

But she left with me
without question,

as if she had been
waiting for me.

Thank you.
I do not smoke.

What is your name?

Maria Vargas.

Are you Spanish?

But I live in America.
I work there.

What is your work?

Are you a professional
entertainer?

In a way. Perhaps not
in the way that you think.

You have no way of knowing
the way that I think.

Where are we going?

First, to your hotel,
so that you can pack.

And then?
To Rapallo.

Do you know where it is?
In Italy.

Why to Rapallo?

I live there.

And did you drive here
today from Rapallo?

Mmm-hmm. Why?

To bring you
back with me.

Oh, I think not.

My name is
Vincenzo Torlato-Favrini.

And what are you doing here,
besides having come for me?

There is no other reason.

Tell me, do you
see many movies?

Oh, very few.

A good foreign film now and
then, American or English.

Then perhaps you read
many cheap novels.

I understand.

You would be justified in asking also
whether I am addicted to narcotics.

I have told you
the complete truth.

You have never seen
me before today?

Never.

But you have
known about me.

No.

Then you left Rapallo to
find and to bring back

someone you had never
seen or heard about?

No. I left my home simply
because I had to leave.

It has happened
many times before.

There is perhaps
an explanation for it.

But I will not attempt
one here and now.

When did you know that
you had come for me?

When you knew, too.

For the first time, when we looked
at each other in the gypsy camp,

and again at the window
at the casino,

and again just now, when I
held out my hand to you,

you knew, as well as I.

It won't take me
long to pack.

Torlatos, Favrinis,
and Torlato-Favrinis.

When my sister
and I are extinct,

perhaps they will name
automobiles after us.

The Torlatos and the Favrinis
will be speedy little cars.

And the Torlato-Favrini,
a limousine, of course.

This was
Beatrice Favrini.

How strange to be painted with
a little boy and a sword.

The little boy
was her son.

The sword was
her husband's.

It was brought to her
when he was killed

in a stupid war
between Italian cities.

Eleanora...

My own husband was
killed in this last war.

I have neither his
child nor his sword.

He was blown
up at sea.

I do not have
even his cadaver.

Eleanora!

But perhaps you should
tell the story, Vincenzo,

of a happy ancestor.

Francesco the Fat,
for instance.

Francesco can wait.

I have the honor to present
Benvenuto Torlato.

You have a resemblance to him.
Thank you.

I am proud
of the coincidence.

I admire
this gentleman.

He was one of Cesare Borgia's
most trusted assassins.

He was himself stabbed to death
and thrown into the Arno.

Then what do you
admire about him?

His foresight.

He adopted the motto of our
house: "Che sara sara."

He knew what it would
be like with us.

Eleanora.

It has occurred to you, of course,
that I intend to marry Maria.

It has occurred to me.

Do you approve?

Have you told her?
Not yet.

She's been waiting
to be told.

I believe the proper word in
connection with marriage is "ask."

You keep
saying "told."

I know Maria very little, but I've known
for weeks that she's in love with you.

Do you approve?

It is almost frightening how
much in love with you she is.

Then you don't approve.

Why do you
ask me at all?

Because you want me to tell
you what you already know?

That to marry Maria would be
the most senselessly cruel

and destructive thing
you will ever have done?

As for destruction, we have already
been destroyed, you and I.

We have come to
the end of our line.

Literally, to the
end of the line.

It is time for the Torlato-Favrinis
to get off the world.

The fact remains that we are neither
unique nor important to the world,

and it will go on
without us.

How will we be
remembered, I wonder.

Why should we be
remembered at all?

Nobility,

the kind of nobility
that continues

just because it
continues to exist

is becoming
extinct.

But why?

Because the world has
become a changed place,

and, like the dinosaurs, we
can no longer function in it.

Perhaps that's why I'm
incapable of having a child.

Perhaps that's why you... We cannot
have come this far and this long

to leave nothing behind but some
undistinguished, unidentifiable portraits

to be hung on the back
walls of curiosity shops

to gather the dust
of the future.

Come here, Eleanora.

The last
Contessa.

The world will someday
see paintings of her.

And of her and me.

And then
it will think,

"What a pity, they have gone
and left nothing behind."

We will be
remembered.

Because the last Contessa
was a movie star?

Vincenzo, you cannot
marry a woman

as if you were
putting on a play,

because she's the type
you have in mind,

because she's perfectly
cast as a portrait

of the last Contessa
Torlato-Favrini.

Maria is a living woman too
much in love with you.

Have you thought
for a moment about her?

Have you thought for a moment
about anybody else but yourself,

and your obsession with 14
letters of the alphabet

arranged in a
hyphenated name?

Thought about
anybody else? Yes.

Yes, Eleanora,
I have.

About everybody else,
it seems to me.

I have thought about every individual
living man, woman and child in the world,

it seems to me.

I've had the time
for it, you know,

since the 25th of October,
1942, to be exact.

It's a lot of time,

especially when it stands
still with loneliness.

Especially when there are
no days and nights in it,

but just days that turn black
when the sun goes down.

It's a lot of time,

especially when there is
nothing to think about

but all the living men, women
and children in the world

and nothing to do
but to think about them.

And no way to forget
that I am none of them.

Perhaps I have become,
as you put it,

obsessed by our name
and our past,

and the absence of our future,
and by our paintings.

As if in some magical way,
our long line of paintings

will accomplish
what we cannot.

I hadn't wanted this.

It has happened to me
without my wanting,

almost without
my knowing.

You are quite right, and
I do not have the right,

but I do love Maria.

"The bride on whom
the rain doth fall."

I read the official announcement
in the ship's newspaper

on my way over
about six months ago

that Maria Damata was going to
marry Count Torlato-Favrini.

The gossip columns had been
full of rumors for weeks,

mostly the kind of angry insinuations they
write when nobody's really got the story.

They even got on me, figuring I
knew more than I was telling.

They were right.

I'd had many letters
from Maria.

What I knew was that the prince had
finally caught up with Cinderella,

and that nothing remained but the slipper
business, and a happy life ever after.

Maria was trousseau shopping in Rome
when I got here, so I went to work.

Maria!

Eddie!
Yes, boss.

You and Jack keep
looking for that alley.

I'll see you
back at the hotel.

Well!
Well.

How's Jerry? Jerry's fine.
Sends her love.

You look fine.
I feel fine.

Well...

Well.

I'm behaving
like 13 years old.

Don't kid yourself. You
look 14 if you look a day.

Where do you
want to begin?

There was no beginning.

As if all my life I had
lived in a dark place,

and all at once
the lights went on.

That's the way it
happens in fairy tales.

Are you still
bewitched?

And bewildered?
No.

Never in my life have I
been more sure of myself,

and of everything else.

Tell me about him.

How can I?
What will I tell you?

That he is handsome and tall, and
good and kind, and proud and so on?

This is how the hero
is described

in the cheap magazines
one reads at the hairdresser.

Then what is he
that the hero is not?

This is what I...

I do not know
how to tell you.

For instance?

I say I cannot tell you something
and you say, "Tell it."

Harry, the director. I say I cannot
play a scene, and you say, "Play it."

And you do.

So, for instance?

It would sound silly even to
try, but perhaps not to you.

Harry, you won't laugh,

but it is really
like in the story

of La Cenicienta
and the prince.

What is?
Everything,

even when we're
alone together.

How do you mean that?

And now you will laugh.

He kisses my hand.

Well, that figures.
Standard opening.

And now, you are being
deliberately stupid.

No, I'm...

Oh! So he kisses
your hand, period.

Is that all
right with you?

Oh, of course.

Yes, as it should
be with a Contessa.

In a fairy tale.

How long has it been
since you've known him?

Almost six weeks.

Six weeks of being
near you, day and night.

Sometimes he holds me with his two
hands like this and just looks at me.

Are you sure
he can see you?

He sees more than any man I've
ever known, except perhaps you.

I'm not seeing much of
anything at the moment.

I've told you that he is
what other men are not.

That seems obvious.

It also seems obvious

that maybe we're carrying this
fairytale nonsense a little too far,

right smack into reality.

I don't want this
to be a shock to you,

but a count is a man
and a contessa is a woman.

You had better
see for yourself.

Oh, no, no, no. I want
to hear more about this.

No. I have a sitting
and I'm late.

Looking back,

I probably wasn't as worried
then as I now think I was,

but I do know that I was filled
with a sudden uneasiness.

Good afternoon.

Well, Harry?
Say something.

Ooh! Wait till they hear about
this in Southern California.

In six months, Beverly Hills will
have more statues than orange trees.

Where does it go?
Right where it is.

Although, due
to a whim of Maria,

it will be more at
home in our garden.

As you can see, she has insisted
upon posing with bare feet.

Have I failed to understand
something amusing?

Ah, it's
a private joke

just a stupid one that can't
be explained and make sense.

Il Signor Tivi would appreciate
having Maria to himself

without distractions,
I think.

I know exactly
how he feels.

The single most difficult
thing in the world

is getting an actor
to stand still.

Won't you change your mind and
stay for dinner, Mr. Dawes?

We'd be pleased if you would.
No. Unhappily, I can't.

We're off location-hunting first thing in
the morning and a lot of work tonight.

I'm overdue right now,
as a matter of fact.

Maria seems so happy
to have you here.

I do hope you won't be
returning to America too soon.

It'll be
quite a while.

We will see you before
then, I am sure,

but I know that Maria would
want you to be at our wedding.

Oh, haven't you heard?

I'm giving
the bride away.

And I did
give her away,

in an ancient chapel, witnessed
by a handful of strangers,

I gave the hand
of Maria Vargas

into that of Vincenzo,
Count Torlato-Favrini.

The servants had their
own party after the wedding.

Nobody can tell me it was like
that when the Borgias got married.

More going on outside
the palazzo than inside.

Anyway, there were
two receptions,

and knowing the bride
as I did,

I could tell she felt she'd
come to the wrong reception.

The accordion player
is the gardener's son.

The guitarist,
the gardener.

I do not know who
plays the violin.

Paganini. He's
the pastry cook.

They must have more guests out
there than we have in here.

Oh, and that's
as it should be.

Aristocracy only
started to collapse

when there got to be more
aristocrats than servants.

And they're having more fun.
That, they are.

On my wedding
night, Harry,

I thought that you would be happier
for me than you seem to be.

Are you happy?

Well, then
I'm happy.

It's just so different
from what I pictured.

I had something
corny in mind,

like, oh, dancing
at your wedding.

Real bashful
boy stuff.

Then, come dance
with me out there.

We belong
out there anyway.

Maybe I do,
but not you.

Not anymore,
Contessa.

Vincenzo, would you object to
dancing with me out there?

I would not object to
anything you wanted to do.

However, I don't think you'd
want to spoil their fun.

But they're celebrating
our wedding.

Don't they expect us?

I imagine they are
afraid we might turn up.

It's difficult to believe,
living in this day and age.

What makes you think we're
living in this day and age?

Well, the time
has come.

Bedtime for children under
12 and movie directors.

I'll see you
to the door.

In case I haven't been
heard above the hubbub,

once more, I congratulate you.
Thank you.

And me.
And you.

I've got to say something.
I hope you won't mind.

I won't know until
after you've said it.

My relationship
with Maria,

it's been a strange
one from the start.

I've never known
what it was, really.

Friend, director,
confessor,

part-time amateur
psychiatrist.

And as of the moment,
father of the bride?

As of the moment,
more like a godfather.

A fairy godfather, with
a sense of reality.

No one could wish
for anything more.

She's lived her whole life
as a fairy tale, you know.

No. I did not know.

And she's never been in love
before, take my word for it.

She's vulnerable, wide-open
to be hurt badly.

Emotionally,
she's a child.

She's wrapped all her adolescent
dreams up in one dream prince,

and you're it.

That's quite
a responsibility.

I don't want her
hurt badly.

I don't want her
hurt at all.

Do you think I do?

I don't mind what you
have said, Mr. Dawes,

but I wonder why did you
find it necessary to say?

Oh, I don't know.

My sense number six
again, maybe.

Number six?

Another private joke.

Good night.
Good night.

I have seen you like this
once or twice before,

when your characters do not
work out as you have planned,

or when they have taken
a step by themselves

and you're not sure what
the next step will be.

Let's not talk about my
script here and now.

I'm not. You know that
I'm talking about me.

It's not going
to be easy.

Has it been
up till now?

Good luck, Contessa.
Don't you call me that.

I've forgotten the
Spanish for Cinderella.

Not that, either.

Some relationship
we have.

Three pictures together,
and not even a nickname.

What is not
going to be easy?

I wish I knew.

I wish I knew.

I saw her just once
more after that wedding night.

Twice, really.

But the second time
she was dead.

The first time was
exactly a week ago.

It rained all that day
and all that night.

It hasn't stopped since,
come to think of it.

I was holed up at my hotel doing
some last-minute rewriting.

Just because
you're a contessa...

Are you happy
to see me?

...doesn't give you the right
to walk out of my life

and then walk
right back in,

any rainy night
you feel like it.

I was just looking.

There isn't
much to see.

I like to decide
for myself.

For a contessa who doesn't
drink, that's cognac.

I know.

How was your trip?

You mean
my honeymoon?

Whatever it was
you were going on

the morning
after your wedding.

I don't want my honeymoon to
be called a trip. It was fine.

You've been away
all this time?

How much time
has it been?

I've never known a bride who couldn't
tell you, almost to the minute,

for the first
year or so.

Thirteen weeks,
three days,

seven hours
and twelve minutes.

No, I have not been
away all that time.

We have been home
for ten weeks.

It was nice of you to drop in.
Just passing by, I imagine.

Why, you don't have
to hide. It's just me.

I have to. I can't
look at you.

Now, you didn't drive here in a
rainstorm not to look at me.

I'm on your side,
remember?

Harry...

At any rate, this is
what I have known.

I have known what it
is like to be in love,

to be married in a church
to a man that I love,

and on my wedding night, to wait for
him with my heart full of love.

I have loved you
all of my life.

This is why I have never been able
to love anyone else before you.

You have been unreal
to me for so long,

it is hard to believe
that all of this

is not something I dreamed
a long time ago.

Is it true
that you love me?

I do love you.

Maria, there are things
that must be said sometimes

for which there
are no words,

or at least
no way to say them

so that they are not
ugly and full of pain.

You find it hard
to believe

that this is not just a dream
you dreamed a long time ago.

It might very well
be just that.

Almost everything
that has to do with us

has been dreamlike
up to now.

How we met
and why we met,

our understanding, without
question and without surprise,

that we were never
to be apart again.

How much more like a dream

can a dream be?

But inevitably,

there comes a time
for waking up,

even for us.

A time for facing
the pain and ugliness

that can be kept
out of dreams,

but not
out of reality.

It is important

that you believe everything
I say to you now.

I love you with
all of my heart.

Do you believe me?

You are everything
I would want as my wife.

I would want no one else.
I'm proud of you.

I want to make you as happy
as I can as long as I live.

As for the rest
of what I have to say,

you will find it neatly typed at
some length, on this piece of paper.

Would it not be better
if you told me?

No.

It looks like an army
document of some kind.

It is in Italian,
and I do not understand.

That is also Italian.

Apparently, I'm not
to be let off anything.

Yes, it is
an army document,

a medical report,

dated October 25, 1942

from a base hospital
in Benghazi.

It describes in detail

the degree to which my body was
blown apart by an explosion,

and with
understandable pride,

the skill with which they put
some of it together again.

Do you understand now

why it is so
important to me

for you to believe that I love
you with all of my heart?

The report will tell you

that almost the only
undestroyed part of me

is my heart.

I love you
with all of it.

So that was it.

What?

Nothing.

Tell me, how long
could you stand it?

What do you mean?

How long
could you stand it?

As long as I could.

And who's the
lucky peasant?

The gardener, or his son? The chauffeur?
The stable boy?

Who's the Contessa's
cousin this week?

Harry, I couldn't help myself!
Neither could he!

That's the unholy
pity of it.

The one man in all of your fantasy
and the one woman in all of his.

You could have made
each other happy.

And once more, life
louses up the script.

But I will
make him happy.

Look, will he let you
go back to work?

I can wind this one
up in six weeks.

In the meantime, You can
take him to California.

You weren't
listening to me.

I'm going to
make him happy.

How?

How are you going
to make him happy?

By more of the same
until you get caught?

I don't want to get
angry with you, Harry.

Then why did you come here?
Why even tell me about it?

Because I needed
to tell you!

Harry,

what do you think would
make Vincenzo happy?

You.

As the perfect,
beyond reproach,

last contessa.

That would only
make him less unhappy.

What he would wish for more
than anything else in the world

is that neither he nor his
sister nor I be the last.

"Has a wish."

It will come true.

What are you
talking about?

I have made it
come true.

You what?

What has happened to your
sense number six, Harry?

Who knows?
Only you and I.

What about the father?

It is not his concern.

The baby will be mine
and my husband's.

Do you really
believe that?

It will make
Vincenzo happy.

Maria, don't you know
the man you're married to?

You're talking mawkish nonsense
you remembered from cheap films.

Your husband is not something by James M.
Barrie or Hans Christian Andersen.

He's a tortured,
bitterly neurotic man

who's finishing life
on his own terms.

No, Harry. This time it is
you who does not understand.

I know Vincenzo
better than you do.

Amen to that.

How much simpler it would
be, for so many of us,

if Kirk Edwards had not found it
necessary to look for a new face.

Can I help you
in any way?

Who's going to tell him about it?
I am, of course.

When?

Tomorrow.

It will be
difficult for me.

Suppose...

Just suppose he doesn't
see it your way.

What will you do?

What every other
woman would do.

I will have my baby.

What about...
Whoever he is?

That is all over.

I am going to tell
him now, tonight.

That will not be
difficult at all.

She is dead,
Mr. Dawes,

and so is he.

I have known for some time
that there was someone.

It may be a questionable
compliment,

but I did not
suspect you,

even though Maria
visited you tonight.

What did she tell you?

What did she
say to you?

She just wanted to
talk about old times.

For a skillful
writer, Mr. Dawes,

you are an incredibly
clumsy liar.

Did Maria have a chance to say
anything to you before...

No.

What could she have
had to say to me?

Not a thing.

There is no need for you to stay, Mr.
Dawes.

I sent for
the police.

It may be embarrassing for you.

I'll hang around.

Do you know
any Spanish?

Very little.

The Spanish word

for Cinderella?

I've been told
a dozen times.

It's just a word
I keep forgetting.

Blue skies, boss. We'll
have some sun tomorrow.

Yeah, we'll get a good
day's work done tomorrow.