Original subtitles

SERLING: Tonight's stars:

Bradford Dillman,

Steve Lawrence,

Louise Sorel,

Harvey Lembeck,

and Maureen Arthur.

H.P. Lovecraft, known to the aficionados of the occult,

demonology, witchcraft as a master storyteller,

is responsible for our first selection in this museum of the frequently morbid.

To you, connoisseurs of the black arts, you'll probably recognize it.

It's a painting that tells the story of a young artist

who recruits his models from odd places.

And the models are very odd indeed.

The painters name is none the least Pickman.

The title is Pickman's Model.

And where else would you see a story like this

except in the Night Gallery.

Now do you believe me, Larry?

Well, I'll admit it does resemble a Pickman...

Resemble nothing. I'd be willing to bet on it.

But they all disappeared at the same time Pickman did,

except for the four already hanging.

And except for this one.

Look at it, Larry.

Can you seriously doubt its authenticity?

Well, the signature looks real enough.

Eliot, do you realize what this is worth to you?

The last Pickman brought close to $100,000 at auction.

But is it mine to sell?

The man vanished 75 years ago, he left no known relations.

If it's in your possession, it's yours to sell.

Now, I could make arrangements through my gallery.

How'd you come by it?

I found it in here yesterday just after I moved in.

Larry?

At the time Pickman disappeared, where was his studio?

No one knew.

Somewhere in the North End. People thought that...

Good Lord, Eliot! You don't suppose...

Perfect for an artist and certainly old enough.

How did you find this place?

Probably the same way Pickman did.

Scoured the entire city for it and probably for the same reason.

He didn't have any money, did he?

Not a Boston bean.

He kept bread on his table giving drawing lessons to

young ladies of good family.

You know, Eliot, I read somewhere

that the last few years before Pickman vanished

no one ever saw him without his gloves on.

There were all sorts of theories.

He was becoming leprous like Gauguin,

he'd mutilated himself like van Gogh,

been in an accident that left his hands deformed.

But you don't paint pictures like this

with deformed hands, do you, Eliot?

I call it Ghoul Preparing to Die.

And I brought it this afternoon not because

I wish to impose my own special style of painting upon any of you,

but merely to point out that if one paints what one sees,

one must also be prepared

to accept the consequences of such candor.

Now the consequences of my painting this picture, for example,

were expulsion from the Boston Art Institute,

the removal of two of my canvases from the Cabot Museum.

And a punch in the nose

from a city father who thought that he recognized the background

to be St. Bartholomew's churchyard, of which he was an elder.

Yes, Miss Goldsmith?

Mr. Pickman, you keep telling us to paint what we see,

but where would anyone see something like that?

In my mind's eye, Horatio.

Were you thinking that I spent my predawn hours

lurking about cemeteries

hoping to surprise ghouls at their dinner,

and persuading them to sit for me?

And now, Miss Goldsmith,

let us discover what your mind's eye sees

when it looks at a vase of perfectly...

Your flowers are dying, Miss Goldsmith.

You neglected to add water to your vase.

And what is that?

It was meant to be you.

That's the effect I have on flowers? Even artificial flowers?

I'm sorry.

But as I said before you keep telling us to...

Paint what you see. And this is what you see in me?

It wasn't meant to be a cruel thing.

I only meant it as a sort of power,

a magnetism.

Something in your eyes.

I quite understand, Miss Goldsmith.

How fortunate that I chose painting for my profession

instead of landscape gardening?

Not that the demand for my services in the profession I selected

has been exactly overwhelming.

You have sold some paintings.

Ah, yes!

Why just yesterday, I heard from the proprietor at Wilderman's,

where I've had a canvas on consignment,

that he had succeeded after two and one-half years...

View From An Artist's Window.

You know it?

I bought it.

I was walking by the gallery and I saw the signature

and I thought,

"That can't be our Pickman."

Yes.

Not a ghost or a graveyard, or a lurking shadow.

A monster, a violated maiden anywhere.

Just housetops, and chimneys,

and a particular pre-gambrel roof that

antiquarians say no longer exists in Boston.

Why did you buy it? It's not very good.

You painted what you saw.

But not with the eyes of who was looking.

Excuse me?

To paint what you actually see

you must first discover who you actually are.

The painting you bought predates my own self-discovery,

and, therefore, is no more an authentic Pickman than this.

After my meddling with it remains an authentic Goldsmith.

What is it?

An object lesson.

Beware of self-portraits, ladies.

At the least you may lose an ear,

while at the worst, you run the danger of revealing...

Revealing your soul.

And now, I think you have enriched your existences

sufficiently for this day.

We'll meet again next Wednesday

and strive for even greater heights of artistic achievement.

Good afternoon, ladies.

Mrs. DeWitt.

Mr. Pickman.

It was the impression of the Institute

that you were instructing our young ladies

in the principles of painting from life,

in the transferring to canvas of recognizable shapes and figures.

Quite correct, Mrs. DeWitt.

And you employ this as an example?

Oh, a modest one.

And one better suited, I'm afraid...

Ladies.

To a less genteel conservatory.

You're telling me that my services are no longer etcetera, etcetera?

Despite your ready wit and bohemian élan, Mr. Pickman,

some of our parents do not consider you

a proper influence on their daughters.

And now that I've seen this specimen of your work,

I quite agree with them.

The Institute will, of course, pay you to the end of the month, but...

Well, I'm sure you understand.

She had no right to do that. You're a great artist.

And you, Miss Goldsmith, had no right to eavesdrop.

I couldn't help... Or do you feel because you come from

a fine old Back Bay family,

you can do anything you damn well please?

Certainly not!

Nor do I, Miss Goldsmith, nor do I.

I just happened to be passing by.

In Cadbury Lane?

And, stooping to tie your shoelace,

you glimpsed at me through the window?

Since you obviously insist on savoring the admission.

Yes, I followed you.

Indeed? Might I ask why?

After the incident at the Art Institute,

I thought you might need some sympathetic company.

You are in error, Miss Goldsmith.

I have never felt the need for human companionship.

Then I shall make it my project to awaken those feelings in you.

What are you doing?

Inviting myself to tea. No.

Oh, I know that's a very brash and unladylike thing to do.

But as you so accurately charged, Mr. Pickman,

when you come from a rich old Back Bay family,

you can be brash and unladylike.

Will you order another cup, or shall I, Mr. Pickman?

Why do you picture me as wilting flowers?

As you said,

do not attempt to paint a self-portrait.

It reveals the soul.

But I was to be the face.

And I was the flowers.

Miss Goldsmith, I think I should warn you...

Why did you sketch in hideous features and say they were your soul?

I paint what I see.

And you see your soul as a beast?

You see falsely when you look inwards, Mr. Pickman.

Or, perhaps, you do when you look outward, Miss Goldsmith.

And now, if you'll forgive my shortcomings as a host,

I have pictures to paint, and while the light remains...

May I come?

What? To your studio.

That's impossible. No one comes to my studio.

No one has ever come to my studio.

Yes, I've heard that often.

No one in all of Boston knows where it is.

Why, Mr. Pickman?

What are the secrets that only the north light knows?

I believe that an artist's work is his own, exclusively his own.

Until it's completed.

Only then, does the world take it from him.

And when will it be completed,

this work of yours that has occupied you for so long?

This series of canvases?

I heard about it at the Art Institute.

Sometimes I drink.

And when I drink, sometimes I say too much.

A sequence of painting so horrible that they would turn a man...

Turn a man to stone. Yes.

Then it's true.

Tell me all about them.

No, Miss Goldsmith. It would chill your blood.

I'll run the risk.

There is a legend.

There is a legend that tells of an eldritch race,

more foul and loathsome than the putrid slime

that clings to the walls of hell.

Twisted creatures, half men, half beast,

who move with the rustling sound of predatory rats,

carrying with them the stench of the charnel house.

Wretched mutations,

who live deep beneath the earth in dark tunnels,

surfacing in the dead of night and returning before dawn.

Practice their unspeakable acts

and breed their filthy spawn, until the day arrives

when their swollen numbers will finally emerge

and ravish the earth like a noxious plague!

You said it was only a legend.

To be sure, Miss Goldsmith.

But a legend to excite the genius of a Bosch, a Brueghel, a Poe.

And one that I am driven to paint.

And now, if you'll forgive me, I've stayed too long. I must go.

Let me see your paintings.

That is completely impossible, Miss Goldsmith. Excuse me.

Richard!

Richard?

Haven't you guessed?

Don't you know how I feel about you?

You must not. No.

I forbid it. You can't.

Where my heart is concerned, I am God.

Then I grieve for you, Miss Goldsmith,

for investing that heart in such a bankrupt enterprise.

Old part of town.

Oldest there is, most likely.

North End, couldn't be anyplace else.

But no place you'll find on any of your city maps, my child.

Can be assured of that.

And definitely not a place for the squeamish.

What do you mean?

The North End has always enjoyed a rather unsavory reputation.

Ladies of the evening, muggings,

opium traffic, that sort of thing.

And then there was that persistent old wives' tale.

Yes?

Oh.

Something about a breed of creatures.

Human, and yet not quite human, either.

They're supposed to have lived in that part of the city.

Oh, years ago, 100 years, at least.

And they'd dug tunnels all through the area,

tunnels under the earth, linking them with the burial grounds

and with the sea from whence, allegedly, they originally came.

Surely, Uncle George, you don't subscribe to any of these things?

I?

Not on your life, child.

Though I can recall, when several bodies disappeared

from St. Bartholomew's Cemetery a short while back.

There were those who insisted it was the handiwork of these creatures,

come to pay us a return visit.

Wretched mutations

who live deep beneath the earth in dark tunnels,

surfacing in the dead of night, returning before dawn,

to practice their unspeakable acts.

Did anyone ever try to prove these creatures really existed?

Oh, yeah.

To some it became a fanatical obsession.

Particularly those whose womenfolk had disappeared in the dead of night.

They believed these creatures had carried them off to their subterranean dwellings

for purposes of procreation.

But if you ask me,

they disappeared more from boredom than from beast.

Then no one ever actually claimed to have seen them?

No.

Traps failed, as did every attempt to smoke them out.

They finally ended up sealing off

every underground opening they could find,

and praying that they'd found them all.

Richard Upton Pickman.

Well,

if that's the view from his studio,

his outlook on life can't be particularly cheery.

Richard.

Richard?

Richard, you forgot your painting.

Richard?

Richard?

Richard?

I brought your painting.

What are you doing here?

How did you find this place?

You left me a perfect map of the neighborhood,

the painting I bought.

I brought this for you, you left it in the tea room.

All right.

You performed your errand. Now you must go.

Richard... I tell you, you must go. This instant.

I have work to do.

Can't I stay and watch?

Dear God.

Miss Goldsmith, please.

Leave me a little of my pride, for heaven's sake,

I pour out my heart to you,

I hunt you down through the filthiest alleys in the world.

I do everything but throw myself at your feet...

No, Mavis, please.

I'm the one to kneel, to throw myself at your feet,

but only to beg you,

to plead with you to leave here, now, at once, forever!

Never try to see me again. Never humor.

Oh, my God, it's too late!

What?

Wait here. Do not leave this room.

Richard... Did you not hear me when I said

I had no need of human company?

And could you not understand why?

It became a fanatical obsession,

especially those whose womenfolk had disappeared in the dead of night.

They believed that these creatures had carried them off

to their subterranean dwellings for purposes of procreation.

Do you hear me?

Get back to the cellar where you belong!

I've promised it a thousand times, I'll do it yet,

brick up that well.

And leave you to live out your obscene lives inside your cursed tunnels forever!

Get back down, I tell you!

Richard.

Richard!

Richard!

Richard!

What is it?

Run, Mavis!

It's enough to curdle your blood!

Did you send for the bricklayers?

I did.

They should be here in 10 minutes

if they can locate this rabbit warren.

Then, help me, please.

Yeah.

The man must've been insane.

No.

He painted what he saw

and what he was.

You say you've searched. Do you mind if I do, too?

Of course not.

Locating the 10 lost paintings of Richard Upton Pickman is

a lot more important than who does the finding.

We'll start up here at the top of the house

and work our way down to the basement.

What's this thing?

Can't imagine.

Noticed it when I moved in, but it means nothing to me.

A sewer, do you suppose?

In a cellar?

This thing's hollow.

You know what I think, Eliot?

I think we ought to open this thing up.

Why? What do you think we'll find?

Well, at the worst, nothing.

At the best, those missing canvases.

Why would they be in there?

If for no other reason that they're not anywhere else.

Well if you think there's anything in it...

Let's see.

Feeling muscular?

I hope we don't find anything besides the paintings.

What's that supposed to mean?

Remember, Pickman's canvases weren't the only thing that disappeared.

Pickman did, too.

You're all familiar I suppose with mediums and séances.

The slightly curdling nocturnal event in which the dead come back to visit,

through the good offices of a middleman or a woman.

It's a sport that lends itself to table toppings.

Some ghostly manifestations that float transparently across the room.

And a few distant, sepulchral voices.

This painting offers a new side to the familiar séance

because it tells what happens when a séance is successful.

But the appearing dead isn't the one expected.

Offered to you now on the Night Gallery,

The Dear Departed.

Come to me.

Come to me now from beyond the veil.

Closer.

Closer to me. Now.

Let my words go forth and let us know that you are here.

We are now in touch with the spirit world.

I'm calling the spirit of Running Deer,

the Indian guide of the Arapaho tribe.

Are you with me, Running Deer?

Answer me now!

He's made contact with Running Deer.

Shh! You'll frighten him.

Oh, guide to the spirit world,

in what manner will you communicate with us today?

Radha Ramadi, ask him about my little girl.

Running Deer,

we were hoping to communicate with the spirit of Dorie Harcourt.

Will you help us?

Please, Running Deer.

What did he say?

We must all concentrate very hard. Very hard.

And let no one break the circle.

Mommy?

Mommy!

I'm here, Mommy.

Dorie.

My little baby, my sweetheart.

Are you all right?

I'm very happy, Mommy, but I miss you and Daddy.

Oh! And we miss you so much, darling.

We miss you, too.

Mommy,

I have something for you.

Her stuffed elephant.

Oh, she loved it so much.

Dorie!

Mrs. Harcourt, you've broken contact.

I warned you about trying to reach out and touch the spirits.

I'm sorry. I apologize to all of you.

But she used to keep it next to her bed.

And then when she...

Passed over.

Yes.

Passed over.

It just disappeared.

I wanted to contact my husband next. You promised.

Mrs. Hugo, I'm afraid we can't continue anymore today.

Perhaps tomorrow.

But this is his birthday.

The birthday of his corporal form, Mrs. Hugo,

not his spiritual one.

And now if you, ladies and gentlemen, will excuse me,

I'm desperately tired.

My assistant will show you out.

Radha Ramadi,

I'm so grateful to you.

Mrs. Harcourt, I'm merely the messenger.

Yes, but without your help,

I might never have seen Dorie again.

That's why you must take this.

Please, Mrs. Harcourt...

I consider my psychic powers as a gift to be shared,

not exploited.

I'm sure you do.

But now I want to share my happiness.

Please.

Then in the spirit in which it's given.

And perhaps someday soon,

I'll be able to communicate with Dorie again.

The first contact is always the most difficult.

What a blessed thing to know that the dear departed are never really far away.

Yes.

When we need them.

When we need them so desperately.

You're a saint, Radha Ramadi. Do you know that?

You're an absolute saint.

May I?

Of course.

What's the going price of sainthood?

Five hundred bucks.

Did you hear that, Ange?

That Harcourt broad coughed up 500 clams

for my wires, a little smoke,

and your imitation of her kid's voice.

The elephant.

That's what unbuttoned her bank account.

Everything else is just window dressing.

Yeah, you're right, Ange.

She's right, Mark.

If it wasn't for that stuffed pachyderm,

we'd have bombed for sure.

You don't know what you're talking about, Joe.

We're gonna be rolling in dough.

Joe, baby, stick with me. This is just the beginning.

Before we're through with Mrs. Harcourt,

she's going to cough up 20 times that amount.

And what about the others? Senator Cummings, Mrs. Hugo...

I tell you, Joe, it's gonna be easy street.

I don't know, Mark.

You've been smoking those cheap stogies again.

It smells like a snooker parlor in here.

You don't know? What don't you know?

Me. Me I'm talking about.

This whole setup. The track's too fast.

How many times you told me?

About the cigar?

About how the spirits don't like to do business

when there's smoking or drinking around.

But does it register?

So you made a mistake.

That's just it. With me, mistakes is a way of life.

One of these days I'm gonna make a mistake

and there's gonna be a guy sitting there from the Bunco Squad.

And then what?

Let's face it, man, I just can't hack it.

Joe, don't talk like that. I need you.

Like Custer needed Crazy Horse.

You need a guy with class. Me, I'm pure tent show,

from my socks to my hairline.

Hey, remember me?

I came from the same tent show.

Yeah, but what a difference.

You got style.

You got elegance.

Man, you walk into a joint,

and the waiters are all over you.

I walk in to that same joint,

and they put up a condemned notice from the sanitation department.

I don't belong here.

Trimming suckers for nickels and dimes, that's my speed.

But this is the big league.

Which is exactly why I'm counting on your talents, Joe.

What talents?

You're the one that brings the suckers here,

finds out the facts they wanna hear.

Charms them with that swami jive.

You, you're the act, I'm just the prop man.

Joe, Joe, what I do wouldn't raise a tambourine an inch off the table,

much less float a spirit around the room.

You're the genius, Joe.

Genius?

Look, take that elephant, for example.

I only discovered that the kid's nurse had it, that's all.

But you gave it meaning.

What meaning?

I mean, it didn't just fall down from the sky.

You made it appear

and right in front of Mrs. Harcourt. Yeah.

At the right time.

Yeah.

Show business.

Just a prop man, are you kidding?

You're the Michelangelo of prop men.

Michelangelo.

A regular Leonardo da Vinci!

Come on, don't talk like that.

You pack up and go back up to the Carney, I'll go with you.

We're a team and I need you, Joe.

You really mean that? You really need me?

I'd never lie to you, Joe.

What about your wife? What about Angie?

Doesn't she deserve the best?

Joe, stick with me, you'll be draping her in diamonds.

Yeah, Angie.

Angie, I...

I didn't even consider her.

Okay, you really need me.

I'm gonna stick to you like adhesive plaster.

I'll never let you down, my word of honor.

That's the spirit!

Hey, Mark.

Oh, Joe.

Okay, okay, okay.

Hey, why don't I set up for the séance tomorrow?

Then we all go get something to eat.

Good idea. Okay?

Okay, Joe.

That was a dumb crack to make about the elephant.

Putting him down like that. And in front of me.

Why don't you just buy him a bus ticket and be done with it?

Bus ticket? I'd like to reserve him a front seat

on the next moon shot.

Oh, you do that. You do that.

And see how you like waiting on tables again.

All glands and no brains, that's your problem, baby.

You think I'm talking just to hear the sound of my own voice?

Listen, without that husband of yours,

I'd still be a pitchman back at the carnival.

There are other mechanics.

Mechanics! Is that what you think he is?

He's an artist, baby. And don't you ever forget it.

Don't be cross with me, honey.

Well, why don't you take your knee out of his back

and try patting it for a change.

You think you can shake him?

It is easier to lose your own shadow.

Kiss me before I break out into a rash.

Did you hear what he said? About leaving?

It is talk, just talk. He does it to get attention.

He is like a child,

the more you give him, the more he wants.

He is eating up my oxygen supply.

I go to the beauty salon for a touch up

and there he is, sitting in the corner

doing a crossword puzzle.

I am on a 10-foot leash, and it is suffocating me.

Kiss me. I just want to feel your hands on me.

Oh, baby, one more year.

Why not a century?

I won't make it, I tell you.

You're talking death row.

I'm talking about Majorca, the Azores.

Me and you and Paris in the spring.

I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes,

and there he is,

lying there propped up on one elbow,

staring at me. Just staring at me.

As if he has to pinch himself to make sure I'm real.

Just one more year, baby.

I have to see you.

Are you listening to me? I have to see you alone.

My hair hurts!

Okay.

Tonight.

Tonight we'll send him to a movie, all right?

A double feature?

With selected short...

Subject. Subject.

Nobody...

Nobody cooks up a lasagna like Gio.

Gio!

Hey! How about Dark Intruder and Destiny of a Spy.

I'd like to, Joe,

but I've got some notes that I got to look over for tomorrow's session.

Angie?

Honey, I have a terrible headache.

Why don't you go by yourself?

By myself?

Who's gonna watch my seat when I go for the popcorn?

Come on, Mark, what do you say?

You could memorize the notes in the morning.

Okay.

I'll just go get some Aspirin for Angie, I'll run across the street.

You two guys finish up. I'll be right back.

It's been a long time since we've been to a movie together.

I had in mind something different like an island for two.

Remember that picture we saw in Springfield?

It was supposed to be a comedy,

and you cried all the way through it.

Now, Angela.

Don't you see he's never going to leave us alone.

Never!

Angela, don't talk like that.

Look, maybe it won't take a year.

You don't understand.

He may be dumb but he is not blind.

What do you mean?

The way I feel about you, it's written all over me.

Every time you walk into a room, I'm one big goose bump.

One of these days you're going to suddenly be standing around

wondering what became of your head.

You mean Joe?

Just because his temper is invisible,

don't kid yourself that it's not there.

The wind is invisible.

Do you want to try a cyclone on for size?

Oh, Angela, don't be silly.

Just cool it a little, huh?

Mrs. Casey?

Gio said you were Mrs. Casey.

Your husband Joseph Casey?

Yes.

One of the witnesses said he was just in here,

sitting with friends.

One of the witnesses?

What's this all about, Officer?

I'm afraid there's been an accident.

Truck ran a red light, your husband was in the crosswalk.

How bad?

The truck must've been doing about 50.

I'm afraid he's dead, Mrs. Casey.

That should do it.

Speak to me, Running Deer.

We are back in the séance business, darling.

Are we? Are you sure?

Maybe we should call it off,

cool things down a little till I can find somebody to replace Joe.

What for?

Why make it a three-way split

now that we're finally a harmonious duet?

But suppose something goes wrong?

Suppose something goes wrong?

Honey, my whole life has gone wrong.

Teaming up with you was the first right thing that ever happened to me.

The second was that truck driver running the stoplight.

It'll work, I tell you.

The fix is in.

Everything that Joe did from behind that curtain,

you and I can take care of, out here.

I wish Joe were here now.

Bite your tongue.

Now do you still wish Joe were here?

Bring on the rubes.

Come in, please.

Good afternoon.

Hi.

I brought my husband.

You understand. I don't believe in this witchcraft.

That's up to you, sir.

I'm afraid you'll have to get rid of the cigar.

The spirits are opposed to tobacco.

May our hearts be free of bad thoughts

so that no evil spirit can descend upon us.

Are you with me, Running Deer?

How will we communicate today, my spirit guide?

It appears Running Deer dropped his tambourine.

Horace! Shh!

Ask him about my husband, please.

Running Deer, we wish to communicate with the spirit of George Hugo.

We must all concentrate very, very hard.

Clara, here I am. I am here, Clara.

Oh, my Darling, you called me and here I am.

George, what is it? What's the matter?

Ladies and gentlemen, once again, I will contact our spirit guide.

Mr. Harcourt, you were told to put out that cigar.

That's why I'm having difficulty in establishing complete contact.

Your assistant put it out for me.

Mark?

Mark.

Mark.

Here.

Here I am, Mark.

You said you needed me so I came.

You didn't think I'd let you down, did you?

After I'd made a promise?

We're a team, remember?

And we're gonna stay a team forever.

And now, Night Gallery's slightly distorted version of history.

An Act of Chivalry.