All language subtitles for Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy 1

[door opens]

- [coughing]

[phone ringing]

- Right.

We shall start.

[intense instrumental music]

J"J"

[car horn honking]

- Has he called yet?

- No.
Six minutes to go yet, Control.

[phone ringing]

[beeping]

[coin clanks]

- Will you speak up, please?

- City removers here.

I believe you wanted
an estimate.

- You're always welcome.

- You did exactly
what I told you?

You talked to nobody?

Remember, Jim, trust no one.

No one.

You work to me alone.

I'm sorry there's no vodka.

- I didn't expect any.

[glass clinking,
liquid trickling]

- I've got a job for you.

Familiar territory,
Czechoslovakia.

- Perhaps a bit too familiar.

- Which identity
do you want to use?

I'd suggest Vladimir Hajek.

- Still the Czech journalist?
- Yes.

- Still based in Paris?
- Yes.

- Has anyone else used him?
- No.

You agree?

[siren approaching]

- Well, I think it serves, yes?

[siren blaring]

- I've had an offer
of service, Jim...

on the military site.

His cover name is Testify.

You're a military-minded chap.

Two of you should
hit it off pretty well.

He's fond of horses too,

something else
you've got in common.

- We can chat polo,
I suppose, yeah?

- His real name is Stevcek.

At the moment,
he's an artillery general,

but in the past

he's worked in close liaison
with Russian intelligence-

very close.

And now he wants
to talk to us.

I have personally interviewed
an intermediary in Austria.

Stevcek now wants to testify

to a ranking officer of mine
who can speak Czech.

. Why'?

- There was a girlfriend,
a student,

20 years difference
between them.

Such things happen.

She was shot
during the uprising of '68.

Stevcek never
forgave the Russians for it.

He's been after their blood
ever since.

Lain low, stayed friendly.

All the time,
he's been waiting his chance.

Now he's ready.

- How sure are you?

- Stevcek.

Rocketry.

Ballistics.

Fourth man
in Czech army intelligence,

secretary of the national
internal security committee,

Anglo-American desk in Prague.

He's big, Jim.

And he's got treasure for us.

He's worked for
Moscow Centers England section,

and he's going
to give us the name

of the agent Moscow have planted
inside our setup.

We have a mole, Jim.

- In London?

- Very near the top.

- In the Circus?

- One of the top five.

Their code name for him
is Gerald.

We have a rotten apple, Jim,

and the maggots
are eating up the Circus.

- These people?
One of these?

- Why not'?

Are the British
incapable of deception?

We've turned enough members
of other outfits-

Russians, Poles, Czechs,
even the odd American.

Why shouldn't there be
a mole in the Circus?

Now, look at them.

- Oh, Control,
I know who they are.

- Listen, Jim, we've got
to have code names for them.

Do you remember
the nursery rhyme

Tinker, Tailor,
Soldier, Sailor'?

Finish it.

- "Rich man, poor man,
beggar man, thief."

- Percy Alleline,

director of operations-
Tinker.

Tinker.

Bill Haydon,
head of personnel-Tailor.

Roy Bland,
head of Iron Curtain networks-

Soldier.

We leave out Sailor.

Too much like Tailor,
could be misheard.

- Rich man?

- Don't like it.

Sounds like police work,

fraud, Swiss bank stuff.

Toby Esterhase,

top lamplighter,

our exquisite head sleuth.

Poor man?
Yes.

Poor man.

And George Smiley,
my devoted deputy-

Beggar man.

Have you got it?

- I'll remember.

- All I want from you, Jim,
is one-

one word,
just the one code name,

if you have to scrawl it
on the front door

of the embassy in Prague or...

phone our resident hood

and shout it in his ear
before you go underground.

If there's some kind
of a fumble

and that should be necessary,

just give me that one word.

But remember, Jim,
if you're caught, deny me.

I don't know you're there.

- Where do I meet Stevcek'?

How?

When?

- On Friday, March 20th,

Stevcek will be inspecting
the weapon research station

at Tisnov, near Brno,

about 100 miles north
of the Austrian border.

From there, he'll be
visiting a hunting lodge

for the weekend, alone.

It's a place
high up in the forest,

not far from Racice.

He'll provide you
with an escort from Brno,

and he expects you
on the evening

of Saturday, March 21st.

- Hmm, what does-

What does he get from us?

- Usual assurances.

If and when he wants to come,
we'll look after him.

One word will do it, Jim.

I'm almost there.

[intense, dramatic music]

II

[phone ringing]

[footsteps approaching]

[engine revs]

[engines turning over]

- [Speaking Czech]

[engine starts]

[car horns blaring]

[car horn blaring]

[joyful music in background]

II

[voices overlapping]

[cash register dings]

- [Speaking Czech]

[men shouting in Czech]

[shouting fades]

[gun clicking]

- [coughing]

[Women conversing in Czech]

[car horn blaring]

[thunder rumbling]

[engine shuts off]

[muffled grunting]

[man speaking Czech
over loudspeaker]

[engine revving]

[machine gun firing]

[machine guns firing]

[machine guns firing]

[bullets zinging]

[man shouting in Czech]

[dramatic music]

II

[dogs growling]

[dogs growling]

[gunfire]

[machine guns firing]

[bullets zinging]

[gunfire continues]

[men speaking Czech]

[man speaking Czech]

[voices echoing]

- [screaming]

[camera shutter clicks]

- Barabas was a bookseller.

- Mr. Smiley, please,
you're making an investment.

- I hope you'll remember that
the day I sell it back to you.

- Always a pleasure
to do business with you, sir.

You always have a joke for me.

- I think, after all,

we could trust this
to the post office.

- Yes, sir.
I'll send it on, Mr. Smiley.

- I'll slip out that way,
if you don't mind.

- Not at all, sir.

- George!

Hello there!

My dear boy.

If it isn't
the maestro himself.

Don't say you've forgotten me.

- Hello, Roddy.
Nice to see you.

- How marvellous
to run into you.

They told me you were
locked up with the monks

in St. Gallen or somewhere,

poring over manuscripts.

Self-exile, they said.

Of course,
I knew that wasn't true,

because I know you, George.

You'd never leave England.

You're just not capable
of such an act of abandonment,

no matter how shabbily
the Circus treated you.

So...

what have you been doing
all these months?

I want to know everything,
every little bit.

How's the delectable wife?

How is the lovely Lady Ann?

Not in town at the moment,
l hear

Pound to a penny
you're shopping for her.

Little prezzies
all the time, they tell me-

going-away gifts,
coming-home gifts.

Are you back on the beat,
George?

Or did you never
really chuck it in?

Is that it, George?

Has it all been cover?

Cover, George?

- Roddy, I've retired.

- All right, George,
if you say so.

- You look well, Roddy,
but I mustn't delay you.

- Oh, no, George, really,
my dear old friend,

you can't get away like that.

Roddy Martindale
simply wouldn't let you.

Months and months
since we last had a chin-wag.

Now, let me buy you
a little aperitif

and then let me
take you to dinner.

Allow me that privilege.

Honour me, George.

I can tell by the look of you

that no one else
has claimed you tonight.

- Oh, it's kind of you, but-

- It's my role in life, George.

We all need to be good
at something.

We mustn't forget Jebedee.

Wasn't he your old tutor?

- Yes, once upon a time.

- How do you rate Sparke,

the one who came from the School
of Oriental Languages?

Place him in the batting order,
George.

Not quite there.

Had trouble with his nerve,
so they say.

- What a pity.

- All dead and gone now,
of course,

properly appreciated
by only a select few,

like you and me.

- You flatter me.

- Now, George...

let's talk about your old boss,

Control,

the only head of the Circus

who ever kept his name
a secret.

Shall we talk about Control?

- If you insist.

- Of course, it wasn't a secret
to you, was it, George?

He never had any secrets
from you,

his tried and trusted
right hand, did he?

- I don't know.

That's the point about secrets.

- Close as thieves,
Control and Smiley were,

right to the end,
so they say.

- They are very complimentary.

- Now, don't flirt, George.

I'm an old trooper.

You and Control
were just like that.

That's why you were thrown out.

It's why Bill Haydon's
got your job.

It's why Percy Alleline
got into Control's chair

when it ought to be you.

Why Bill Haydon's
his cup bearer

and you're out altogether.

- If you say so, Roddy.

- I do.

I say more than that.

Far more.

I say this.

Control never died at all.

He's been seen...

in South Africa.

Oh, we can't blame a man

for wanting a bit of peace
in the evening of his life.

' [sighs]

- Willy Andrewartha
walked straight into him

in Jo'burg airport
in the waiting room.

Not a ghost.

Flesh.

- That's the most idiotic story
I've ever heard.

Control died of a heart attack

after a long illness,

through most of which
he continued to work.

Besides, he hated South Africa.

He hated everywhere
except Surrey, the Circus,

and Lords Cricket Ground.

- Yes, of course.

Willy Andrewartha was always
the most god-awful liar.

I said the same myself:

'Willy, you should be
ashamed of yourself."

I, um, suppose

what put the last nail
into Control's coffin

was the Czecho scandal,

the poor devil
that got shot in the back,

the one who was so thick
with Bill Haydon,

with his picture
in the newspapers

under some fictitious name.

But we know his real name,
don't we?

Jim Prideaux.

Somehow, I don't think
I can ever quite believe

in Percy Alleline as chief.

Can you?

Might be just my...

natural cynicism,

but power sits poorly on those
we've grown up with, doesn't it?

And there are so few

who can carry it off
for me nowadays,

and poor Percy's
such an obvious fellow,

especially after Control,

who was a positive serpent.

How can anyone
take Alleline seriously?

What heavy good fellowship.

One has only got to think
of him in the old days,

lolling in the bar
of the Travellers',

sucking away
on that log of a pipe, and...

buying drinks
for all the moguls.

Well, really.

One does like one's perfidy
to be suckled,

don't you agree?

Oh, that's his knack, George,

living off the wits
of his subordinates, am I right?

- Really, Roddy,
I can't help you.

I never knew Percy
as a force, you see, only as a-

- Striver?

Right.

With his eyes
on Control's purple,

day and night, yes?

Well, now he's actually
wearing it,

and the mob loves him.

So who's doing the business
for him, eh, George?

Who is it?

- I cannot help you.

- Who's the clever boots?

No, not Percy.
That's for sure.

And don't tell me the Americans
have started trusting us again,

because they'd never
fall for Percy.

- Roddy, please stop this.

- Wonderfully well, he's doing.

We hear it from all sides.

Little committees popping up
with funny names,

red carpet for Percy
wherever he goes,

tripping the light fantastic
along the Whitehall corridors.

- You are out of my depth,
truly.

- So who's earning him
his reputation?

[waiter speaks indistinctly]

- No, thank you.
l

I think we've finished now.

- It's my party, George.

I'll get the bill
when I'm ready.

So who's pulling the strings
for Percy Puppet?

How about dashing Bill Haydon,

your old rival?

In every sense, I'm told.

Of course, he never
was orthodox, was he?

Genius never is.

All right, then.

It's Roy Bland,

the shop-soiled white hope,

the first redbrick don
to make the Circus,

and if it's neither of them,

and Control is really dead,

then there's only
one possibility left.

It's someone who's pretending
to be in retirement-

you, George.

Admit it.

- You featherhead, Martindale!

You pompous, bogus,
gossiping old featherhead!

Roy Bland is not redbrick.

He was at Saint Antony's
College, Oxford.

- Oh, don't be silly, dear.

Of course Saint Antony
is redbrick.

It doesn't make
the slightest difference

there's a bit of sandstone
in the same street,

just because
he was your protégé.

I suppose he's
Bill Haydon's boy now.

Bill was father to them all,
wasn't he?

Or something like that.

- It's not mine, thank you.

- I hope you're not
going to tip him.

It's a guinea at Christmas.

Anyway- --

it's my party-

Draws them like bees
to a honeypot,

doesn't he, our Bill?

- Good night, Roddy.

- Do you fancy a nightcap?

Start afresh with a bubbly?

Why not, George?
I think I will.

Of course, Bill's got
the glamour, hasn't he?

Not like some of us.

Star quality, I call it.

One of the very few.

I'm told that women
literally bow down before him,

if that's what women do.

- Good night.

- Love to Ann.

Everybody's love to Ann.

- "Bits of sandstone."

"Shop-soiled white hope."

"Everybody's love to Ann."

Oh, damn.

Oh, damn!

[dramatic staccato strings]

J"J"

[vehicle approaching slowly]

[slight creaking]

Peter?

[siren blaring]

- I'd leave that coat on
if I were you, George.

We've got a long way to go.

- Well, you're not me, Peter.

And before I go
anywhere at all,

I shall change
out of my sopping shoes...

and also, I think,
make a pot of coffee.

- You sound a little testy,
George, old boy.

Lacon is waiting for you.

- Me, Peter?

- George, I've been sent
to deliver you.

- I've been reviewing
my situation

in the last half hour of hell,

and I've come
to a very grave decision.

After a lifetime
of living by my wits

and on my memory,

I shall give myself up full-time
to the profession of forgetting.

I'm going to put an end
to some emotional attachments

which have long
outlived their purpose,

namely the Circus,
this house,

my whole past.

I shall sell up
and buy a cottage,

in the Cotswold, I think.

Steeple Aston
sounds about right.

Do I need overnight things?

- I'm not taking any.

- And there I shall
establish myself

as a mild eccentric-

discursive, withdrawn,

but possessing
one or two lovable habits,

such as muttering to myself

as I bumble
along innocent pavements.

I shall become an oak
of my own generation.

You make the coffee.

You know where everything is.

You can even pick
my front door locks.

Clever, Peter Guillam.

[distant sirens]

[ominous music]

II

I saw you parking this toy

in Curzon Street
this afternoon.

I ran away immediately.

Good guess on your part.

- What made you think
I was looking for you?

- I hoped you weren't.

However,
you found me eventually.

- You had to come home sometime.

[engine revving]

- It's far too young
for you, Peter.

- It's quick.

- I'm surprised you didn't
get thrown out

with the rest of us.

You had all the qualifications
for dismissal,

good at your work,
loyal, discreet.

- What happened tonight, George?

How's Ann?

- Roddy Martindale
happened tonight.

Why do I permit it?

I tell myself
it's for politeness' sake.

It's not.

It's weakness

and the fact that I have
nothing better to do.

My wife's fine, thank you.

[car horn blaring past]

- They've put me in charge
of scalp-hunters.

- You are
Jim Prideaux's successor?

You?

Looking after the heavy mob?

- Why not'?

Tucked away
at downtown Brixton

behind the broken glass
and the barbed wire,

dispatching the thugs
occasionally,

kept a good arm's length
from the Circus ringmasters.

- How is Jim, do you know?

- In quarantine.

- I don't mean to pry.

I merely ask.

Can he get around?

Can he walk and so on?

Bad backs can be
terribly tricky, I believe.

- The word is,
he manages pretty well.

He's back in England,
address unknown.

Travel-is that still

the scalp-hunters'
official name?

Hit-and-run, cash-and-carry?

Sorry

Our Control always preached

that good intelligence work
is gradual

and rests on
a kind of gentleness.

- It's not my department.

- No.

Well, the scalp-hunters
were always the exception

Control allowed
to his own rule

on Bill Haydon's persuasion.

A reflection of
Bill's temperament, of course.

The solo initiative,

very dashing,
very audacious.

[engine shuts off]

I'm sorry, Peter.
What?

- Lateralism.

I said, are you familiar
with the word?

- I most certainly am not.

- It's the "in" doctrine now.

We used to go up and down.
Now we go along.

- What's that supposed to mean?

- In your day, the Circus
ran itself by regions,

Africa satellites,
Russia, China,

Southeast Asia, West Indies,
you name it.

Each region was commanded
by its own juju man.

Control sat in heaven
and held the strings, remember?

- It strikes a distant chord.

- Well, today
everything operational

is under one hat.

It's called London Station.

Regions are out.
Lateralism is in.

- Who's station commander?

- Bill Haydon.

His number two is Roy Bland.

Toby Esterhase runs between them
like a poodle.

They're a service
within the service.

Share their own secrets
and don't mix with the proles.

- There are three of them
and Alleline?

- That's right.

The object of it all
is to make us more secure.

- A very good idea.

Why did Lacon
send you for me, Peter?

- Do you mean,
why did he send me for you,

or why did he send me for you?

- Quite right, Peter.

I should have known better
than to ask.

- You remember your last day
at the Circus,

just one day
before Control departed

and the new regime took over?

You stuck your head
round my office door and said,

"Peter, I've been sacked."

We went straight out,
and you got drunk.

Why pick me, George?

I was pretty low-grade,

running some very sketchy
networks of merchant seamen

out of London Dockland,

whatever Poles, Russians, Chinks
I could cobble together.

Why me, George?

- You want a reason?

- You fastened
on the same word that night

when I asked
why you'd been kicked out.

I'll tell you
exactly what you said.

- I hope this isn't
going to be embarrassing.

- You said, "Reason as logic
or reason as motive...

or reason as a way of life?"

You said, "They don't have
to give me reasons.

"I can write
my own damn reasons,

"and that is not the same
as the half-baked tolerance

that comes
from no longer caring."

I thought that was
pretty impressive stuff

from a man as drunk as you were.

- At least I had the good sense
not to let you drive me home.

[engine turns over]

- Lacon sent me for you, George.

Looks like
Count Dracula's blood bank.

- Lacon once described it to me
as his Hampshire Camelot,

built by a teetotal millionaire,

which he seems to think
explains everything.

I'm so out of touch, Peter.

Does Lacon have
any particular title nowadays?

- Nothing new,

just Sir Oliver
of the cabinet office,

permanent watchdog
of all intelligence affairs.

You know how he loves being
one of nature's prefects.

[doorbell ringing]

- George, hello.

Thanks for coming.

Come on in, will you?

Guillam.

Hope we didn't get too...

[voice fading]

You've been enjoying retirement,
George?

You haven't missed the warmth
of human contact?

I rather would, I think.

One's work,
one's old buddies.

- Oh, I think I manage
very well, thank you.

Yes.

Yes, I'm sure I do.

And you?
All goes well with you?

- Oh, no great changes.
No, no.

All very smooth.

Charlotte got her scholarship
to Roedean, which was nice.

- Oh, very good.

- Hmm.

And how about your wife?

In the pink, and so on?

- Very bonny, thank you.

- Ah.

All spruce and shipshape again,
Guillam.

You were grubby.

He did look a ruffian,
didn't he, George?

Well, um...
shall we?

Please, George, I wanted
to talk particularly to you.

All right, Fawn,
lock us in, please.

I think you know Mr. Smiley,
don't you?

- Yes, of course I do.

You once gave me a job,
Mr. Smiley.

Don't you remember?

Tarr, sir.

Ricki Tarr,
the lawyers boy

from Marseille.

Changed my first nappies,
as we used to say.

They were very tough interviews

you used to give
us tender young recruits.

Of course, 12 years ago,
and it's that long, Mr. Smiley.

Well, you don't look
any different to me, sir.

No, 12 years ago,

nobody but nobody
got taken on

unless we got past you,

not even scalp-hunters.

Weren't quite your type.

We all had to get the nod
from Mr. Smiley.

- Tarr...

- Of course I remember you,
Ricki.

Your father was an Australian,
I recall,

a solicitor

and a nonconformist
lay preacher,

altogether a most unusual chap
to pop up in Marseille.

But just such odd circumstances
do seem to provide us

with suitable personnel.

- Hmm.

Bad boys like Ricki.

Daddy thought he could
beat the sin out of me,

but you knew better,
didn't you, Mr. Smiley?

He only beat it further in,

and that's what scalp-hunters
are made of.

Isn't that right, Mr. Guillam?

- We're waiting for you, Tarr.

- Yes, I do think
we ought to get on.

- Well, I guess I better
make my pitch, then.

- Let's keep it precise,
shall we, all the way along.

- Before you begin, Ricki,

do I understand correctly

that no one at the Circus

knows you're in England?

- Only Mr. Guillam.

- You're officially
absent without leave?

On the wanted list?

- I think I'm safe now.

I've got a story to tell you.

It's all about spies.

And if it's true,

which I think it is,

you boys are gonna need
a whole new organization,

right?

Shall I start with the day
you sent me to Lisbon?

Changed my life.

You might find it's going
to change all your lives.

[sighs]

[Song of Simeon]

- ♪ Lord ♪

♪ Now lettest Thou ♪

♪ Thy servant ♪

♪ Depart in peace ♪

II

♪ According to Thy word ♪

J"J"

♪ For mine eyes ♪

♪ Have seen Thy salvation ♪

II

♪ Which Thou hast prepared ♪

♪ Before the face ♪

♪ Of all people ♪

J"J"

♪ To be a light ♪

♪ To lighten ♪

♪ The Gentiles ♪

♪ And to be the glory ♪

♪ Of Thy people Israel ♪

II

♪ Glory be to the Father ♪

♪ And to the Son ♪

♪ And to the Holy Ghost ♪

♪ As it was
in the beginning ♪

♪ ls now and ever shall be ♪

♪ World without end ♪

♪ Amen ♪