Original subtitles

Good afternoon, Lady Clare. Welcome aboard.

Good afternoon, Elaine.

Thank you.

What if she doesn't like me, Bailey?

Yeah. And?

So what if I muck it up?

You'll hate me forever and never speak to me again and...

I couldn't give a stuff what she thinks.

But Bailey, I...

What?

Never even been on an aeroplane before.

It's like a 29 bus with wings.

Come on now.

You're beautiful.

It'll be fine.

Dry white wine, love.

And she'll have a medium sweet.

Chop-chop.

This is Captain Michael Fitzmorris.

Good afternoon, madam.

To New York International Airport.

Our flight time today is approximately nine hours.

We'll be serving you a five-course luncheon,

and looking after you in the cabin is...

All right, Lady C?

They'll never let us land.

And we were by the river,

and Tony Armstrong Jones was posing me by a willow,

and this man, this rude and rather dirty man,

who I suppose must work on boats or something,

he came up, and this man said,

"Can I be in your picture, lady?"

And I said, "No."

- Never. - Absolutely.

A little higher with the arm, Your Grace.

Not too wide on the lovely lips.

And he said, "Why not?"

And I said, "They don't photograph just anybody, you know."

If we started saying just anybody was worth photographing,

who knows where we'd be?

There'd be a revolution.

What did Tony say?

Tony gave him half a crown and told him to bugger off.

- My goodness. - I know.

Where's Lavinia?

Well, she was here a moment ago.

Oh, no, no, no.

You utter beast.

- Oh, no. - Go on, you love it.

Oh, God, yeah.

Oi, Bailey, we're on.

Righto.

So same time next week, Your Highness?

Listen, sonny.

You can stuff me, but don't ever imagine you can afford me.

Love you too, chief.

So are you going anywhere nice

for the weekend?

Well, I...

Ah, David, good.

And do we have...

Lavinia.

Are you quite all right?

You look a little flushed.

I'm divine.

Perfect, thank you, ladies.

And

still.

Lovely.

Well done, all.

Now, for this next shot, I think a little more erect.

If we could orientate it this way,

can we have the key lights higher, George?

20 points, I think, on that.

And if we raise that up a little bit there.

Mr. French?

I'm off.

Good heavens, for tea already?

No.

I'm gonna get me own studio.

I'm leaving you.

Really, David?

- But you're... - What?

Not quite the type, I suppose.

So?

I mean, who will you work with?

I'll find someone.

Easy.

Look, Jean, they've started already.

They're doing it, you know, the...

The walking thing.

Good day.

I'm Miss Lucie Clayton, principal of the academy.

And you must be Joan.

Jean.

Jean. Jean.

Exactly.

Do come this way.

It all happened at

a holiday camp, actually.

Last year.

How picturesque.

Yes, it was one of those beauty contests, you know.

Well, we thought they were just trying

to make up the numbers, but blow me.

- Third. - Third place.

Can you believe it?

Our Jean, a beauty?

Well, you know, in the eye

of the beholder and so forth.

It's only until she gets married, of course.

Yes, of course, yes, yes.

Walking out with a lovely young chap she has caught,

Richard from Henley.

Fascinating.

Thank you.

Mm.

I'm not sure.

You see, it's a matter of being model material.

The requirements are rather specific.

I can do it.

The book thing, I mean.

See?

Very well.

I've brought cash.

- Now, is that wrong? - We thought

we should pay first.

You may settle your account in any way you wish.

Jolly good.

Building trade, you know.

Smallholding as well.

Lots of cash.

Jean, why don't you join the other ladies?

Yes, as well as...

Deportment.

Yes, as well as that, could you teach her a bit of...

She needs to fit in a bit more.

Sorry.

That might require our extended course.

That's beautiful, love.

This hand here, just bring it up a little bit.

There you go, that's lovely.

There you go, it's lovely.

Hang about, ladies, keep your knickers off.

Hello, studio five?

Hello, yes, would that be Mr. David Bailey?

This is Bailey, yeah.

The Mr. David Bailey who was responsible

for the interesting photograph of Pauline Stone

in the "Express" involving a...

A squirrel, yeah.

It was stuffed, by the way.

Who's this?

Oh, sorry, yes, my name's Parsons.

John Parsons, I'm telephoning you from Vogue magazine.

Come on, darling,

- perk it up, will you? - Yeah, and?

Concerning whether you would care to take up

a position, here, on the staff.

How much?

I'm sorry?

How much is it?

"Mary had a little lamb," say it.

Get your boat race moving.

15 guineas.

A shot?

Good heavens, no.

Per week.

- There we are! - Sorry, chief.

- Can't hear you, love. - I can't hear you.

- Hang about, stay there. - Look on here, you know?

Aw, come on, darling, loosen up a bit.

Christ's sake!

Take a jump, I don't know, skip.

Something, anything!

Excuse me, mate, can you just keep it down a bit?

Sorry, guv.

Women, eh?

If they didn't have a Morris, you'd have to shoot 'em.

Well, look, try saying, "Mary had a little lamb."

Hello? Yeah.

Sorry, I gotta pass.

15 guineas is less than what Woman's Own

are giving me per photograph.

You wanna work for a proper magazine,

what people really read.

Well.

Will you wake up?!

Christ's sake!

All right, ladies,

who wants a lick of my raspberry Mivvi, eh?

Come on, then, get back in positions.

Oi, mate.

Sell a lot of these?

Some.

Nice little earner.

Bailey.

All right, Mr. Bailey, a contract position.

Per page, 15 guineas.

Free to shoot for anyone except the enemy,

Harper's, Vanity Fair, Queen.

All right, cock.

You're on.

Oh, jolly good.

And is she your girl?

Squirrel lady.

It's just, I'm not wholly sure she's us,

if you know what I mean.

No, she's not my girl.

No, I don't have a girl.

Shall we say Monday?

Done.

Miss Shrimpton.

Love.

You forgot your shoes.

Hey, Charlie, what happened to that bird from Pinner

with the big Eartha Kitts?

I feel like celebrating.

♪ Ba ba, ba ba ♪

Hello?

You've got a booking, darling.

Yeah, Acrilan.

Autumn skirts.

The photographer is one David somebody,

not long out of John French's, working at Vogue.

Yeah, asked for you by name.

- Who? - Chrissie!

- David Bailey. - Turn that down this instant!

It's an ad, darling.

30 guineas.

Smile, pack your bag, and try again.

Do I have to?

Yes, darling, you do,

if we're ever going to pay for all those 10 by eights.

I can't do my bloody accounts

surrounded by that bloody noise!

Come on, Dad, she'll turn it down.

Too right she bloody will!

Daddy, what are you doing?!

Daddy...

It was a birthday present!

Why would you do that, Daddy?!

It wasn't that loud!

I mean, seriously, you never, ever

let me do anything that I want, Daddy!

Please, why would you do that?!

Daddy, I hate you!

That was a birthday present!

If you think that wretched gramophone's

coming back into this house...

I'm sorry, Daddy!

I said I was sorry!

I am, come on, really, I am!

Richard's here.

Thanks.

He's so nice.

He's not gonna wait around forever, you know.

First the typing, now this modeling business...

Mum.

Your dad keeps asking.

Have you still got that car of yours?

I do indeed, sir, yes.

What's it called again?

Sunbeam Alpine.

Sunbeam, that's a silly name for a car, isn't it?

Mm, it drives like a treat, though.

Mm.

Oh, hello, Jean.

Hi, Richard.

Thank you, sir.

Can I help you?

Yes.

Sorry.

David Bailey?

Up there.

All right.

Good God.

Sorry.

Sorry.

I was looking for the photographer.

What, well, we have many fine photographers.

Claude Vernier?

Norman Parkinson?

- Mr. Cecil Beaton. - Morning.

Morning.

Oh, those are photographers.

This is a rather charming tea boy.

Studio three, top of the stairs.

Small one.

Thanks.

What a drip.

Bailey.

Bailey what?

I mean, what Bailey?

Just Bailey.

Gosh.

Okay.

Yeah.

Have we...

Yeah.

You forgot your shoes.

Oh, yes.

All right, then.

Acrilan.

Hang about, this is marvelous.

Good girl.

Open your mouth slightly.

That left elbow, let it go out more slightly.

That's your right.

No problem, John.

No.

Who told you to move?

Come on, go back to where you were.

Sorry, being very stiff.

Yeah, you are a bit.

That's all right, though.

Kinda looks good on you.

Kinda.

Lose the bag, lose the hat.

Lose your gloves, lose the earrings.

- Really? - Really.

Sorry.

I thought you were like John French.

Silly studs.

Pearls don't really suit me.

I don't know.

You'd look good in a pearl necklace.

Maybe I could help you out with that.

So what part of town you live in, then?

I don't.

Bucks. I'm a country girl.

Oh, right.

Head up.

On a sort of a farm.

I see. That's it, more.

What do you see?

Higher.

Do you have a boyfriend, then?

As a matter of fact.

What's he called?

Yes, again.

He's called Richard du Soixante.

Oh, right.

I got it.

Right, you got what?

Well, you're MGs and Daddy

and chinless wonders, ain't you?

You don't know anything about me.

I know you're posh.

I'm not posh.

I feed the pigs.

Mm-hm.

And I know you have very, very, very long legs.

Spread 'em, would you?

And you?

What are you?

Apart from happily married.

Do you like dogs?

Of course.

We have five.

What sort?

Two sheepdogs, an Airedale,

Schnauzer, and a German Shepherd.

I just got an Afghan.

Fancy a cup of tea?

See, what you want, doll,

is to work with the best and then pick the best of them.

In America, it would be Avedon, it would be Penn,

it would be William Klein.

In America, it would all be different.

Who's your booker, you need a new booker.

All right, what we'll do is get you a nice do,

get you a nice outfit.

You want your hair up, though.

Wanna see them eyes.

And we'll do you some nice pics, but good pics,

interesting pics, something they haven't seen before.

What are you doing next week?

We'll start next Monday and I'll pick you up.

Do you want milk in that, or do you like it

- like an old sock? - Which are you?

Which am I what?

Best, or what?

Oh, me?

Well, I'm just Bailey.

I don't get no complaints, though.

He said a Sunbeam doesn't go faster than 30!

He wants to put his bloody foot down!

Well, that's your pictures sorted.

What do we do now, then?

Right, well, if you drop me off at Wandsworth Town,

then I can catch the Waterloo train to...

Bailey, no.

What?

You don't look frigid.

You don't look faithful.

Well, if it's undying love you're after,

maybe Mr. Richard the Nice Boyfriend can supply.

As long as you're happy.

Kiss me again.

Just kissing.

Till I know you better.

All right, then.

If you want.

Done that, done that.

Oh, Bailey, we need someone for "Brides" magazine.

All right, chief.

Here we go, big smile as though it's your wedding.

Dad, on jump, I want you to fling your hand up in the air,

when you're jumping, all right?

Here we go.

One, two, three, jump!

There you go.

That's it, that's it.

Remember, lips open.

That's good, lovely.

That's it.

That's it there.

Great.

There we go.

Again.

Lovely.

I guess I should take you home, then?

Not immediately.

Can I trust you?

Mainly.

Oh, hello, dear.

Where's Dad?

The hayfield, I think.

Want a cup of tea?

Mum.

Mm-hm?

My friend's here.

Bailey.

In the barn, it was late and I said he could kip there.

Your friend, the married one?

Oh, dear.

Shit!

Shit!

Shit!

Bailey!

Lovely jam, Mrs. Shrimpton.

Thank you...

- David. - David.

Any more toast, David?

Ha-ha.

Daddy.

Hi.

This is my friend, it was late, and this is Bailey.

Get out.

I said out.

Get out, damn you, before I throw you out!

Sorry.

I'm sorry.

It's just the way he is.

Big fucker, your dad, ain't he?

You are not gonna live here

if you are seeing a married man.

But it's my home.

What do you think's gonna happen to you, hm?

To us, to Chrissie now.

- I don't know. - I haven't worked as hard

as this from nothing, nothing.

I haven't worked all these years

to raise a daughter who was a slut.

Now, either you never see him again,

or you get out and you stay out.

Dad.

I'm 18.

I have a job.

I can do what I like.

I'm not gonna stop seeing him just because you...

Well, you'd better go, then, hadn't you?

And we thought you were the good one.

Right.

Right.

Take it.

- Mom. - Take it.

Oh, Bailey.

Bailey, you said we were going for a walk.

Oh, come on, you look beautiful.

That's it, lovely.

I'm not even dressed for it.

Look at this trench coat.

Don't worry about your coat.

Beautiful. That's it.

Don't move, don't move.

Just stay, that's it.

Jean, you look beautiful.

Woo, there you are.

- Wow! - Lovely.

Beautiful, gorgeous.

That's it.

Straight at me, look straight at me.

David will be here hopefully any minute.

So we have "Shop Hound," the knitwear thing,

the "Hits and Misses" spread.

The cover with Enid Boulting.

The portrait of Zeffirelli.

And, of course, Paulene Stone

and the squirrel in the "Express."

Innovation is our metier, but I don't think we're really

looking for the Tufty Club, are we?

Oh, David.

Do sit down.

David, now, you'll be aware that Lady Clare

has been running the "Young Idea" section

to showcase some of the more youthful styles,

and we have an upcoming lead

we thought you might like to take a shot at.

"Young Idea goes West."

West?

What?

Reading, Basingstoke?

No.

New York.

Mm!

Who's wearing the frocks?

We were thinking of Nicole de Mesier.

Well, you've got to use Jean.

Jean Shrimpton, she's terrific.

She'd be great for New York.

She did "Brides" last year.

Got sort of a beatnik thing.

Just 'cause you're bonking her doesn't make her any good.

That's not the point.

The point is she is the most beautiful,

captivating thing I've ever laid eyes on.

In love, are we?

It's in the pics.

She's got it.

I've never seen anything like it.

She doesn't have a bad angle.

You want new, you want young,

you want anything remotely near the 20th century

possessed of actual functioning sexual equipment,

she's your girl.

I won't do it with anyone else.

Really?

Really.

It's her, or you can stuff it.

You do realize this a lead feature?

Absolutely.

So we should get it right.

So Miss Shrimpton, perhaps, as the model.

Oh, no.

Come on, John.

She doesn't look remotely like a "Vogue" model.

I've never seen anyone so plain.

Why not give it a little try?

Well, only on the strict understanding

that if we don't like it, we'll shoot it again.

Not with you.

She will not stand in that way on the street in New York.

What way?

That way.

Legs akimbo.

Why not?

Because it's not the way a lady stands.

On the street, it will seem experienced,

vulgar, open for business.

If you want innocent, maybe I should have her holding

a bloody teddy bear in every shot.

Ha, maybe you should.

Oh, Mr. Bailey.

Congratulations.

Enjoy your trip.

And remember, you are representing "Vogue" magazine.

You will not wear your leather jacket

in the St. Regis Hotel, understood?

Clare, thank you, darling, for the gardenias.

They are just perfect.

Mr. Bailey?

I just wanted to touch on a couple of items.

You can touch what you like, Lady C.

Did you receive your latest shoot itinerary?

Yeah.

Yeah?

Yeah.

Though, frankly, I could have read any photo feature

on New York in the past 20 years

and it would have been the same.

Indeed?

Well, to shoot blah blah blah fashions

against blah blah blah classic backdrops,

the Empire State, the New York Library, Brooklyn Bridge...

Have you ever been to New York, Mr. Bailey?

Well, I have, many times.

And I can attest it's the most thrillingly modern city,

largely unfamiliar with many of our readers.

Now, with these particular clothes...

Yeah, the schmutter.

What about the clothes?

Well, they wouldn't upset your mum, would they?

Why on Earth would I want to upset anyone's mum?

Well, I thought we were "Vogue" magazine's "Young Idea"?

Where's the "Young" bit?

I mean, that coat, that silly white dress.

I suppose you'd have it all leather and sunglasses?

Yeah, shades might help.

A lady does not wear shades.

So it ain't young, and it ain't got an idea.

Mr. Bailey, David, we should be friends this week.

I should be your best friend because I'm the nice one,

and one day I'll be editor-in-chief of this magazine

and I'll be deciding whether you're hired or fired.

Really?

Yes, really, because what do you know about fashion?

You don't know anything about fashion.

I heard your father was a tailor's man,

your mother was, what, a machinist, factory girl?

You are working for "Vogue" magazine.

You could learn something,

if you follow the instructions, Mr. Bailey.

Cut to the pattern.

Oh, and just as soon as you can,

do ditch this ridiculous girl.

I hear that's something you really are quite good at.

Ah, could I have another blanket, please?

- Yes, Your Ladyship. - And a little more Sancerre.

Certainly, madam.

My ashtray is full.

I'll empty it.

Is it true, then?

What?

That you're quite good at ditching girls?

Only when I've completely used them up

and spat them out like a dry husk.

At night.

I think it was supposed to be night.

I didn't know...

Lady Clare?

Lady Clare, hi, I'm Larry Schwartz.

Welcome, welcome.

I've been assigned to you

by the Conde Nast Logistics and Transportation Office.

Mrs. Vreeland sends her compliments

and invites you all to her Friday soiree.

And I am here to assist in your orientation around this...

- Mr. Schwartz. - Yes?

Larry.

It may be happy hour here,

but back in civilization, it's two o'clock in the morning,

I have a headache the size of Gloucestershire,

and I have just had to wait

in the most ugly custom halls imaginable

because of the thoughtlessness of an idiot girl.

They were only dog-worming pills.

Oh, that's terrible.

You know, for my dog.

I'm so sorry to hear about that...

If you speak a syllable again

during the entire process of checking in,

I will have you fired from Conde Nast so swiftly,

you will not so much as draw breath

in the Graybar Building again.

Now, carry my bags, find me some cigarettes, shut up.

Imbecilic, stupid girl.

♪ Are the stars out tonight ♪

Follow me.

♪ I don't know if it's cloudy or bright ♪

♪ 'Cause I only have eyes for you, dear ♪

♪ The moon may be high ♪

♪ But I can't see a thing in the sky ♪

♪ 'Cause I only have eyes for you ♪

♪ I don't know if we're in a garden ♪

♪ Or on a crowded avenue ♪

♪ You are here, so am I ♪

♪ Maybe millions of people go by ♪

♪ But they all disappear from view ♪

♪ And I only have eyes for you ♪

A whole week.

No daddy.

No wife.

Do you think the springs will last?

♪ Oh, I don't know if we're in a garden ♪

Jesus.

There's a bleeding telly in a hotel room.

Later.

♪ Maybe millions of people go by ♪

♪ But they all disappear from view ♪

Oh, Bailey.

It's so tall.

Didn't I say?

Didn't I?

Look, darling, we're in New York.

We are.

God, we are!

Yeah, that's right, tosh.

Egg and chips, as in fish and chips,

as in saveloy and chips, as in chips and chips.

We're English.

Sorry, we mean fries.

Do you mind awfully?

Right.

What?

What, Bailey?

What on Earth did I ever see in you?

Excuse me!

Mr. Bailey.

Mr. Bailey.

What?

You know perfectly well what.

You're pointing in the wrong direction.

Really?

Over there, model.

Over here, no model.

I think I'm pointing in the right direction.

No, that's not what I mean.

The girl should be over here.

It's not about the girl.

Well, on that we can agree.

It's most certainly not about the girl.

It's about the fashions.

It's about the mid-price spring season young ladies' fashion

that the editorial board of Vogue have decided to showcase

against the sophisticated backdrop of New York.

Pace, morning one, item one:

The famous stone sculptured lions

in front of the famous New York Public Library

in this precise direction over here.

And while you're about it, I would be obliged

if you could show off the exceptionally fine

stitching on the lapel.

No.

Sorry?

No.

You're wrong.

It's not about the poxy clothes.

It's about the street, in actual fact.

It's about the noise.

It's about that drunk guy over there.

It's about the steam!

It's about that big plastic sign that says Twist

which will appear three to four inches above Jean's head

in the magazine spread.

It's about the vibe!

Jean!

Head up!

Bit more!

Yeah, down with the bear!

That's it.

Give us a profile.

Yeah, up a bit.

Too much.

Into the light.

Little smile.

Oh, come on.

That's not the way you looked at me

- at three in morning. - I've never heard of anything

so ridiculous.

That's it.

Done.

Done?

We're done.

What's next?

Midtown?

Or can we have a cup of bloody coffee?

I'm freezing me tits off here.

He hasn't even brought out a tripod.

We haven't done anything we wanted to do.

So was that okay?

Yeah, yeah, of course.

- Taxi! - How can we possibly be done?

Look at her, she looks like a tramp

with those circles under her eyes.

What on Earth is that you're using?

It's a Pentax S3.

Tourist camera?

- No. - An amateur camera.

Well, that depends who's holding it, doesn't it?

Are you seriously telling me you intend

to spend the morning shooting on that thing?

Rest of the week,

- if I can help it. - Oh, no, Mr. Bailey,

I'm not an idiot.

What about the reduction in quality?

There will be no reduction in quality.

There will be a change in quality.

The negative area produced by a medium format camera

is several times the size

of what can be produced on that thing.

Our results are going to be grainy, blurry...

Energetic.

- Hurried. - Fresh, young.

- Real. - Cheap.

Vibrant.

- Grubby. - Instant.

Messy.

And alive.

Does anyone remember alive?

That's the one before dead.

Well, I'm sure we'll still end up with some snaps.

Who asked you?

Is this it?

Is this the big idea?

You and her?

Oh.

Sorry.

I thought you were supposed to be special,

not some snapper with a jumped-up convent girl in tow.

Well, Shrimp is right.

Wet, pink, and needs dressing.

Come on, Larry.

Leave him to his bit on the side.

Bailey.

What have you got me into?

I'll bloody take it off if you want.

Well, she's right, Bailey,

I'm just your little bit on the side, aren't I?

Will you give it a rest?

What do you want from me?

Confetti?

Good morning, Your Ladyship.

We've got the first contacts

and the document you wanted was telefaxed through, so.

One or two teething problems, but...

Was there anything else in particular you...

Mm.

What?

No one.

Nothing I haven't handled a hundred times.

And I think things are about to be straightened out.

Oh, is that the little darlings?

Oh, they just come in from their walk?

Oh, good.

And the children?

You feeling better?

Mm-hm.

Good 'cause you made your bags even bigger than ever

with all that fuss and crying.

We got shots to do.

Big shots.

Can't work with a bleeding panda.

Well, you'd better look after

your bleeding panda, then, hadn't you?

Another egg and chips, Al!

Good morning.

Sleep well?

You are required, under contract,

to provide photographic services of a quality commensurate

with Conde Nast Publications in general,

and "Vogue" magazine in particular,

and to "provide these services as directed

"by appropriate senior editorial staff."

Commensurate means...

I know what it means.

And senior staff means me.

Now, I'm going to assume that you don't quite yet

wish to resign your contract?

Very well.

Today, we are scheduled to shoot Miss Shrimpton

in front of the United Nations Plaza

in the suede battledress pullover.

In keeping with the grandeur of the architecture,

you will use a tripod, she will appear elegant...

And you want it delivered on medium format.

Yes, I do, Mr. Bailey,

just like every other photograph in "Vogue" magazine.

All right, then.

It is more than all right.

It is correct.

Just one thing.

Yes?

Is it possible Jean could wear sunglasses?

Just this once?

I suppose she might, Bailey,

in a limited amount of exposures.

It is rather bright out and about today.

Well, see you there.

Door, Larry, door.

One step ahead, Larry, one step ahead.

Thank you.

What are you up to?

Nothing.

Oh, Mrs. Vreeland,

congratulations on the new appointment.

Ah, you know, new broom.

And how are you enjoying your stay, Lady Rendlesham?

Well, photographer and model already

Nothing we haven't dealt with a thousand times.

Mm.

Be sure to see me Friday.

Friday it is.

The dress size is absolutely wonderful.

Taxi, please.

Now, the scarf, I think,

is the absolutely piece de resistance.

Ah, now, aren't they wonderful?

I do love shopping in New York.

Thank you very much.

Here you go.

Lady Clare.

Hello?

What on Earth are you doing?

I'm shooting Jean in front

of the UN building using a tripod.

Yes, but this thing's in the way.

Not really.

Oh, no, yes, really.

Yes, positively.

It's in the way.

Well, I can see through it.

Can you, Jean?

Yes, I can see through it.

I don't want to see through it.

If I wanted to see though a filthy fence,

I'd have gone to a filthy scrapyard.

Good idea.

Larry, see if there are any scrapyards

within a cab ride of here.

- Okay, sure. - Larry, do no such thing.

Okay, sure.

Mr. Bailey, I appeal to you, omit the fence.

Commit it?

Omit it.

Omit it?

Yes, leave it out.

Oh, I couldn't do that.

Why not, pray tell?

Because it's symbolic.

Symbolic?

Of what?

Old, rusty, been around a long time,

no use anymore, needs to be torn down.

Do I have to draw you a picture?

Right, if we've finished with this location,

I think we can move on.

We've got several more to complete...

You're not even shooting on a proper camera.

Oh, don't worry, I'll get you your medium format.

Quite how?

How?!

Because I'm a bloody magician!

Abra-bloody-cadabra!

I'm gonna telephone London about you.

Oh, suit yourself.

And I'm going to speak to the editor.

Old girls united?

About you and her,

and don't think you're going to be invited

to Mrs. Vreeland's soiree on Friday night.

- Shame. - And I strongly suggest

you complete your schedule,

the Empire State and the park before lunch.

- Larry. - I got you your...

Oh, never mind about the ruddy tea,

just get me to the hotel, man.

Taxi!

Bye!

She's not pleased, Bailey.

She'll make a lot of trouble.

Why are you doing this?

Because it's important.

Because I hate her, I hate all of them.

Bailey, if you hate them so much,

why do you want to be one of them?

You what?

You know what I mean.

You don't have to do this.

You could do something else.

If you think I wanna be one of them,

one of them stuck-up twats...

All I'm saying, Bailey, is...

Jesus Christ, I wonder why I even brung you here.

- All I'm saying... - Look, if you've

got a problem, why don't you go home to daddy

and cry about it?

I can't.

Remember?

I'm the cheap tart who's having an affair

with a married man.

I can never go home ever again.

And you've dragged me out here and put me on bloody trial.

And if she hates me, which she does,

and you hate me, which you obviously do too,

then I have no bloody idea

what will happen to me in my life at all!

At all!

You forgot your bloody teddy!

Hello?

Caller, we have your international collect call

to London, England.

Yes, yes.

Connecting you now.

Hello?

Hello, is that Miss Garland's office?

No, Clare, it's John Parsons.

It's past five.

Ailsa's gone.

Oh, I saw your telex about Bailey.

He's frightful, John.

He really is.

Low, rude.

I mean, there is a right way to conduct things

and he's not subscribing to it in the least,

he and the girl.

He's not even shooting on proper...

We have six or seven star photographers.

But he does have a certain raw talent.

Sorry, how did he do this?

I don't know, Your Ladyship.

How the hell is he turning them into proper film?

Long as he's delivering in the appropriate way.

You should see these shots.

I'm having them expressed to you.

Of course, listen, Clare, I'll make some calls.

Do try and work together in the meantime.

But he's impossible.

And this girl...

Remember, Clare, we need this session.

If you don't feel able to complete it...

I warned you about her.

Shall I speak to Ailsa?

You dare, John.

I'll handle this.

Very well.

And make sure Ailsa receives them.

She will agree with me.

Jean!

What?

You know I think you're beautiful.

Hardly.

No, I do.

I think you're amazing.

You're Jean Shrimpton.

I can't take my eyes off you.

You have the longest, most elegant neck,

the most intense eyes.

You have a spine like a swan

and the most gorgeous hands I've ever seen.

You have the longest legs, fantastic bum.

Every time I see your toes, I want to kiss 'em.

I don't have any bosoms.

You're perfect.

You're Jean.

I can't do this without you, girl.

- Bailey! - What?

You look great.

Can't I take some snaps?

This place is great.

But what if she finds out?

Won't she mind we're not

- at the Empire State... - She can't say nothing.

We're on lunch.

There you are, Mr. Bailey.

All in medium format now.

Thanks, Al.

- You're welcome. - Nice job.

No.

Maybe.

No!

Never.

No!

No!

Not good enough, no!

Ah, Jean.

Could us girls have a little chat?

Well, I feel neglectful.

Here we are in one of the chicest cities in the world,

and I have spent no time at all

showing you the best of the place,

or my special access to everything it happens to offer.

This is Lanvin.

They gave it to me at Glamour yesterday.

You should try it.

Suits you, when you feel like being a lady.

All right, be difficult.

I expect that's what they taught you at secondary modern.

What do you want?

I'm having a little man trouble, sweetie.

This, I suspect, we do have in common.

Mm?

Not quite responding how you'd like either, is he?

Thing is, we've wandered a little off-piste

as far as the job's concerned.

Do you ski?

No, of course not.

But you should be very clear

that if we stray this far off the path,

one of us is going to get fired.

Me?

You?

Him?

Now, do you want it to happen to him?

Do you?

Just when he's doing so well?

Do you have any opinions about this?

Do you?

Why can he not actually see,

why can he not actually understand that I am an innovator,

that I am the only one at that ruddy magazine

who can see, who can actually see, where things are going?!

And to be treated like I'm some super-annuated

Edwardian battleship...

I do apologize.

We're all a long way from home and...

Leave it with me.

Give me 10 minutes.

Should I follow?

Yes, Larry, yes, do.

Come bearing a flag of truce.

You mean her.

I mean her.

She means her.

Like she can't talk for herself.

Like you have to go helping her.

What is this, posh girls stick together?

Miss Jean Shrimpton shows her true colors...

You know, at the bottom of it, I think she's hurt.

So?

So fashion isn't just a job for her.

It's her birthright.

You know, she's supposed to inherit the job

of deciding what's beautiful, and what's not,

from all the other purebred old ladies who went before her,

and maybe we're the end.

Bailey, me, you, us mongrels,

we're just the end of all that.

Wouldn't hurt to be a little nicer.

What does she want?

She wants a proper picture at the UN,

just one, like in the plan.

God, I need a coffee.

What sort of picture?

Nonspecific, but without a chain-link fence.

Please?

Tell her all right.

Bailey, I knew you were a softie.

Yeah, that's me all right.

Bailey?

Bailey, are you sure about this?

Absolutely!

- But... - But nothing!

I can't see an old chain-link fence anywhere.

Can you, Larry?

No, no, I don't see a chain-link fence,

probably because of the great big sign about dog poop!

After I'd personally appealed to you.

Look, you can't blame her.

It was me, it was my fault.

We have to have a talk, don't we, David?

Because whilst I might be able to overlook

a small lapse or two,

even perhaps find humorous your campaign

of juvenile defiance,

I think it's pretty obvious you've gone too far.

Now, I don't suppose you and I are ever going to agree

on the nature of beauty, or elegance,

or anything important we're here to shoot,

so let's agree on some changes instead.

I'm not changing nothing.

In which case, I'm not saying

she has no redeeming features,

and I've tried very hard to like her,

but as one professional to another,

we have to save this assignment and something has to give.

Now, if you are going to insist on this grubby verite,

I've already been recommended

a number of professional girls

all with much more acceptable looks,

several of which whom I'm sure

will be available immediately.

Is this a joke?

Am I laughing, Mr. Bailey?

You still don't get it, do you?

What Jean's got.

What all those other bloody bints don't even come close to.

Then perhaps you'd like to alter

some other aspect of the shoot personnel?

You don't want Jean.

Up yours.

Your Ladyship?

I wanna apologize for my behavior

and I also want to reassure you

that they'll never be an incident like that again.

Good.

She's a bloody good model.

I ain't gonna work with no one else.

Mr. Bailey?

Alexander Lieberman.

I'm the senior creative director over here.

Can we talk?

Walked out on her, huh?

Well, okay, fine.

It doesn't matter, then.

What, what don't matter?

I gotta say it, Mr. Bailey,

your pictures need more direction.

You're all over the place.

Now, I've had Clare Rendlesham on the phone

about your choice of model

and I've been hearing some pretty hair-raising stories

about the situation here.

Who wants to see stiff birds standing in stiff poses

that no one's ever stood in in their lives?!

Well, no one.

But you want to be William Klein?

You want to be Dick Avedon?

You're gonna have to do better

than sticking two English fingers up to your fashion editor.

I just wanna make something alive.

Then go farm chickens, son.

This here is fashion.

It's a serious business involving serious people.

Frankly, I'd have fired you a while ago.

Now, look, mate,

- first her, now you! - Look at what?

I don't get it with you.

You're good.

You could be really good.

No!

Boring, boring, boring!

Who else doesn't want to work at Vogue anymore?!

But you gotta pick your battles a bit better.

Bailey?

I blame Picasso.

When I saw Picasso, I thought if you can do that,

you can do anything.

Maybe you can't.

Maybe I can't.

What happened?

Is it about her?

What do you want to do?

I don't know what I wanna do.

I have no idea, none.

Why is it so important to beat Lady Clare?

Because I've been fighting her all my bleeding life.

You're too posh to understand.

I am not posh!

Let me have a look.

I'm not posh any more than you are, David Royston Bailey.

I am me and sometimes when you go head-to-head

with that stupid woman, I wonder if you even know I'm there.

Oh, I know you're there, all right.

Christ, I know you're bloody there!

Can't exactly miss you, can I?!

What is it?

What's the matter, Bailey?

I sorta walked out.

You what?

She didn't like what we were doing.

We?

You mean me.

You stupid man.

You absolute bloody idiot.

You know I'd do anything for you.

Anything.

I don't care.

I really don't care.

But you do.

Where is she?

She here at the hotel?

Jean!

Thank you.

Whatever you want, name it.

I'll do anything, be anything.

Just let him do his job.

Lovely.

I think we'll do Fifth Avenue.

Well, that's it now.

Now roll your shoulder a bit.

That's it, a little lean.

Now, into the window.

Yeah, we're not quite there.

Stupid bloody hairdo.

Very elegant.

A little higher with the teddy bear.

We'll need all the way

down toward, oh, that's wonderful.

Oh, today is going well.

Yes, yes.

A little bit more lapel, please, Miss Shrimpton.

Perfect, done.

Right, now.

Hold it there, darling.

Mr. Bailey.

Come on, Bailey,

we'll get through this, it's all right.

I don't want it to be all right.

Didn't come all this way for it to be all right.

Now, let's do it again, and maybe this time,

the bags underneath your bloody eyes

won't show up so bloody much!

Right, well, one more little job left to do.

The Brooklyn Bridge, Larry.

Freezing.

Stupid thing's stuck to my hand.

Where's the view, Mr. Bailey?

- What? - The view.

What is the point in a bridge, Mr. Bailey?

What is the point in this vast expanse

between these two islands,

if not to look back at that wonderful vista?

Ah, like Norman Parkinson did in 1956.

I'm not here to make postcards.

Sorry, what?

I said I'm not here to shoot bloody postcards.

No, we're here to do exactly what I tell you to do.

Oh, really?

Yes, really.

So kindly point it in that direction.

No.

Larry, could you get me a cup of coffee, please?

Okay, sure.

Tea, Larry, China tea.

The bilge they call coffee here is universally vile.

- Bailey. - We'll have tea.

- Okay, yes, ma'am. - Coffee, Larry.

American fucking coffee.

Mm-hm.

All right, then, Jean, here we go.

I order you to turn around.

Get off!

- Do it, now! - Get the fuck off,

you stupid, stuck-up bitch!

That is it, that is it!

You're fired!

I'm gonna have your contract incinerated!

- Jean, head up! - You're never going to work

for Conde Nast ever again.

I said higher, are you bloody listening to me?!

- I knew it. - Down with the bear!

I knew it!

Bailey.

And you will never...

Bailey.

Bailey, please.

Conde Nast was in debt.

Bailey.

And we are not in Hanover bloody Square anymore!

- Bailey, please. - Do you want to know

who runs me and you?!

Mrs. bloody Vreeland, that's who!

Runs!

Owns!

There's a new world coming, with new rules,

where people will be applauded and will be beautiful,

not because of who their daddy was,

but because of who they are, here and now,

in front of the camera!

You're dead and gone, you and all your hoity-toity pals.

You just don't bloody know it yet.

Lady Clare, the concession was shut,

so no tea or coffee, I'm sorry.

We are leaving, Larry.

Thank Christ for that!

Go polish your fucking tiara!

Jean?!

Jean?

Shit.

Jean?

Darling, Jean.

Hello, Ailsa Garland.

Thank God.

I've been ringing and ringing all week.

Yes, it's about him.

Ailsa, he is just impossible.

He is an upstart of the worst, worst sort.

His ego.

Doesn't even know how to frame a shot.

He has no culture, he has no restraint.

He insists on using his girlfriend, some snub-nosed parvenu,

who shudders and shakes through every shot, the decors.

He just wants to rub us in the filth

he finds on every street corner.

And he seems to think that being ridiculously young

is some justification.

I have to insist that he is removed.

Oh, you have?

Yes, yes, they arrived yesterday.

Oh!

Oh, that's marvelous.

That's wonderful.

Well, now you have the proof.

Now you can see.

You can see for yourselves how appalling...

Clare, darling, listen to me very carefully.

Really?

Of course.

Consider it done.

Thank you, Ailsa.

You all right?

Got a bit chilly up there.

I'm sorry.

Nice pics, though, my last for that magazine.

Yeah, well, we gave her what for, didn't we?

We showed the posh old tart.

You hungry?

You something else?

You ticked off?

Don't be like that, Jean.

Come on, let's go eat,

see a movie, have a giggle.

I'll get you a nice towel, take care of you.

No, you won't.

Yeah.

Of course I will.

No 'cause it's always me

that does the changing, isn't it?

Clothes, the hair, they make me different somehow,

like a dressing-up doll.

But you, you don't change, do you?

I haven't changed you a bit, none of this has.

Don't think you feel the same way about me

as I do about you.

You're too selfish and proud

and entirely yourself to manage it.

And I need you to, Bailey.

I want...

I deserve someone who feels the same way about me

as I do about them.

So if you don't, then that's it.

Isn't it?

I'll take care of you, all right?

Fuck 'em.

Fuck 'em all.

I love you, Jean.

I always have.

Oh, Bailey.

Ready.

Did you...

Have you changed something?

Oh, I suppose it just felt like me.

Yeah.

Yeah, it is.

It's just like you.

Come on.

Let's say goodbye to Al before we go.

Well, Good Housekeeping pays more.

Pet Fancier's Gazette pays more.

Ain't really about the money, though, is it?

No.

No, it's not.

Nice day for it, Your Highness.

Bit bright, maybe?

Oh, shut up, you little shit,

and shoot whatever trashy nonsense you have in mind,

so we can get out of this godforsaken latrine

and back to civilization.

What, we're staying?

We're not fired?

You're to complete the assignment.

There is, apparently, a refreshing vitality

and youthfulness in the material

conducive to newer and younger readers of "Vogue."

She apparently, she's beautiful.

Sorry, I'm a bit Mutt and Jeff.

She's what?

Beautiful.

Yeah, she bloody is.

One little problem.

I trashed the negs.

We have nothing.

Unless you sent some copies home to Matron?

Larry, egg and chips all around.

- All right. - That's cola.

- Egg and chips... - Pancakes.

Four egg and chips.

- What's that? - Colas.

Pumpkin pie.

Pumpkin pie.

And an English tea for Lady Clare.

And English breakfast if you have that.

- No, tea, Larry! - Yeah, that is a tea.

Yeah, okay.

Lady Clare, come on, love!

Are you coming?

Get over there for some shots.

There, yeah.

There you go.

Here we go now.

Here we go now, into the reflection.

The one building in the entire city

of New bloody York without a lift.

Great.

Now he gets serious.

Right, here we go, Jean.

Head up.

Lovely.

Mrs. Vreeland, I must apologize

for the unkempt appearance...

But they are adorable.

England has arrived.

Now, this is exactly what I have been

telling all you people about.

This is now!

Are you two married?

Don't you think they should be married?

It would be so chic.

I don't know about that.

Maybe you picked the right battle after all.

- Call me. - Turn around, turn around.

Who's the the dress by?

The dress.

Did you want me to introduce you?

- Sure. - Yeah, come on.

I'm from the country.

Bucks.

- Bucks. - Bucks.

What is that, dollars?

Bailey, you want to know this woman, okay?

Hello, you all right?

So why do I wanna know you, then?

Where did you find it?

It was left over from the shoot.

It's from Quant.

It's Mary Quant.

- Mary what? - Mary Quant.

What the hell is this rubbish?

Don't know, some pop person.

Cliff Richard, probably.

Skiffle?

I hate pop, and skiffle.

If I never have to shoot a bloody pop star again,

it'll be too soon.

I tell you, this is gonna be the best jazz decade ever.

Mr. Bailey.

Lady Clare?

We should talk.

Perhaps I could offer you some form of representation.

Let's have a coffee and go around two o'clock.

Jolly well done.