Original subtitles

Brou...

ha...

ha...

Brouhaha.

Zurich station.

A young man rushes through the crowd.

Ah, hi, sir. Yes, it's Edward.

I just wanted to let you know

I'm about to catch the train to Domodossola.

And, um, I was wondering

if you've heard anything from Appleby?

You know that's not why we sent you there.

Yes, sir, of course. Uh... N-no.

Just get the contract signed, Edward.

Yes, I-I won't disappoint.

Merci.

Hey.

I'm so sorry.

Do you mind switching seats with me?

I get really sick facing backwards.

-Sure. Yeah, yeah, yeah. -Thank you.

-No problem. -That's kind of you. I'm sorry.

No, no, of course.

Go back to sleep.

No, I'm up, I'm good.

How did you know I spoke English?

Oh, your...

Oh, right.

You-you're American, too, obviously.

-Yeah, from New York. -Oh, me too.

-Oh. -Yeah.

Vacation?

Uh, no, my aunt lives here, so I'm visiting for a few days.

What about you?

I'm an editor for a publishing house,

so I've been sent to deal with one of our writers.

Does that mean shoot to kill?

Uh, it might. She's-she's kind of blocked.

It's not Highsmith you're dealing with, is it?

Actually, it is, yeah.

No way! I knew she lived in Switzerland.

Is that the book she's famous for?

Well, there are five Ripleys. 'The Ripliad', uh, as it were.

Did she write a Hitchcock?

Strangers on a Train. Strangers on a Train.

Right.

I'm Clementine.

Clementine Harriet Balfour.

Sorry, no, I just... I saw your luggage tag.

Oh, yeah, thank...

Sorry, I didn't mean that.

Not like...

Sorry.

I'm not like a weirdo.

And your name?

Edward Ridgeway. Edward Ridgeway.

-Nice to meet you, Edward. -Nice to meet you.

Basically, I have to get her

to sign a contract to write another one.

Is it gonna be difficult?

Um, she doesn't like people.

Well, that's great she's narrowed it down.

So you just have to go in there,

turn her on to humanity, and persuade her to write a book?

Exactly. Cinch.

Well, I hope she writes you a bestseller, Mr Ridgeway.

Thanks.

-Bye. -Bye.

She's American, Highsmith, the writer?

Crime, you know. Wooo-wooo.

The American lady, sure. She poisoned the dog.

She what? What dog?

The neighbour's dog.

It was barking too much, and then the police had to come.

She may be eccentric.

I don't think she's a dog killer.

I don't know.

You Americans are a little bit crazy.

Two weeks ago, I'm driving to town,

back along this road at midnight.

And around here, there was an American fellow in pyjamas.

Nearly frozen.

This idiot walked out of a house in what he was wearing.

Like it was Florida.

-Oh. -There you go.

Good luck.

I rang the bell.

I'm so sorry, Miss Highsmith. Um, I'm Edward Ridgeway.

Um, from New York.

From the publishers.

-I'm the one who's bas-- -I know who you are.

A lot of snails.

Astonishing powers of observation.

Must be a hundred in here. Do you eat them?

No, I don't eat them. Who would eat a snail?

Oh, no, I would never, but the French, they have the--

The French? The French are fixated on their stomachs.

Have you ever seen them copulate?

Uh, maybe the odd art film?

No, not the French. Snails.

Oh, um, snails. No, I--

Hermaphrodites.

They can have sex with either gender as either gender.

That's what I call fun.

For foreplay, they just stab each other with a little spike.

Love dart.

We could do away with a lot of tedious seduction

if we were more like snails.

Right.

When the publisher said they were sending someone,

they didn't say he was fresh out of kindergarten.

Oh, no, I'm-I'm a lot older than I look.

Your timing is lousy.

I'm right in the middle of something.

Oh, but wasn't it agreed that we would have a few days to work--

What matters... What matters is your timing is wrong.

Mr Hunter said if I got here today--

Hunter's a bully. He coerced me.

Well, that's not...

I guess the point is I'm here.

Ugh, you would never be the point.

Look, why did Hunter send you after Appleby?

I was the only one who volunteered.

Really?

Thing was that I think they were a little put off.

I mean, he never came back.

One minute he's on the phone babbling about a knife

and then... he just vanishes.

There was no knife.

I don't have time to threaten underlings.

Of course not, absolutely.

We realised it was some kind of psychotic break.

I mean, the guy's crazy.

Exactly. Anyway, let's just put Appleby aside.

The company still feels very strongly--

You mean Hunter?

Mr Hunter and the senior team--

Want to make some money.

The company believes you have another Ripley.

Yeah, money, money, money.

OK, but they want you to make money too.

I'm not writing a Ripley so that your boss can get rich.

All right.

Um, it's been kind of a long trip. Do you mind if I sit down?

Yes, I do mind.

I got out of New York so people like you don't sit down.

So people wouldn't sit down?

So I wouldn't have to deal with the dregs of humanity.

The pseuds and the fools and the Jews and the Blacks

and the Puerto Ricans and the Catholics and the Koreans.

And the New York "literary fraternity", obviously.

One drink. Beer. Fridge. Kitchen.

Pantry!

Hello?

Up!

Wow.

Don't touch those.

Don't touch anything.

Hm!

Would you look at that?

"To Patricia Highsmith and Tom Ripley."

The Ordre des Arts et des Lettres.

You added his name?

Credit where credit is due.

I guess they don't usually

award prizes to fictional characters.

The point is, I'm always in Tom Ripley's company

and he deserves the prize as much as me.

Well, I-I guess that's why

he's the most compelling literary protagonist

of the second half of the 20th century.

What would you know about the 20th century?

You've only just scraped into it.

I'll never go back to that hellhole, New York.

Not in a million years.

You know, the Europeans, the French, they get me.

The French may be repulsive, but they do know their stuff.

So we'll, uh, we'll forgive them the snails?

They do know what's art.

So, is that why you're here?

You're in Europe for the praise?

I don't like your tone.

No, I didn't... I don't think there's anything wrong--

Those bastards in New York

believe women are not and cannot be geniuses.

Well, guess what? I am a genius.

As Graham Greene said, "the poet of suspense."

Apprehension.

Don't try to butter me up.

One beer and you're going.

- You're joking? - No.

You're not seriously going to have me leave?

- I am. - I only just got here.

If Hunter wants a book,

tell Hunter to come instead of sending an intern.

- No, I'm not an intern. - Well, you dress like an intern.

In the email, you did agree.

What email?

The email prior to my coming here.

No, no, no, no. I rarely send emails.

I write letters.

With an email, there's no pause between thought and send.

That gets a lot of people into a lot of trouble

who don't have my sensitivity.

Well, you know--

And even then, apparently, some people complain

about my tone, because, you know, the world...

the world is full of babies whose feelings get hurt.

Oh, my God. Grow up, people.

I've got this contract--

- Put that back in your pocket. - Hear me out.

One more Ripley would cement you in the Pantheon.

Ah!

So, you don't think I'm there, in the Pantheon?

No, that's not what I'm saying.

-Who do you think you are? -Just please let me explain.

I have zero intention of revisiting Ripley.

No one knows you the way I do.

You presumptuous little--

I've read everything. All of it.

Say a sentence. I'll tell you where it's from.

"The flames were first pale and eager,

then they became yellow with touches of red.

As Lucille watched,

all the tension that was left in her body and mind

-flowed evenly upward--" -The Heroine.

She burns the house down to rescue the kids to be a hero.

And does she rescue them?

We don't know.

I think we do.

I've read everything.

But I am not going to lie. I still need to prove myself.

Oh. Oh, I see.

Oh, I'm some kind of company test for you to keep your job.

I'm a life buoy you've thrown yourself.

-Get out! -There's no train till tomorrow.

What do I care? Walk to Zurich.

The fact is you need this too.

I need this?

Get out! Go on!

Get out before I call the cops!

I'll say you're an intruder.

They'll throw you into jail and force-feed you Bircher muesli.

You are the most psychologically astute writer

of the 20th century.

But some say the recent stuff is a little...

A little what?

Inconsistent.

How dare you stand in judgment of me?

You're barely out of braces, and you're lecturing me

on the body of work

that stretches over half a goddamn century?

I can help you.

I understand your sensibility better than anybody.

-I am confident, if you-- -Oh, confident, you kids.

You start out confident without doing a damn thing to earn it

because you're deluded.

I don't think I'm deluded.

Because you are deluded, genius.

You are the reason that I'm interested in publishing.

I'm so moved. I turned you on to literature.

Oh, God.

I mean, what makes you think

you'll succeed where Appleby failed?

Because I'm not Appleby.

I-I didn't grow up rowing at Yale.

I didn't have rich parents.

I never had a trust fund like Bradley.

In fact, I'm an orphan.

An orphan?

Oh, that's interesting.

Sit.

Well?

My parents died in a car crash.

I was nine. My brother was... 11.

I'd really rather not go into the details.

No, do. Go on. Go into the details.

They were driving to the Heywards'.

They had a cocktail before they left.

It had been raining for a full week and the roads were greasy.

My father took the bend too fast

and was blinded by the lights of an oncoming vehicle.

His car skidded across the...

the Brooksfield Bridge

and went over the side railings and sank.

My... brother went to my uncle and I was...

raised by my Aunt Verna.

Hm. First class bitch, I assume.

It wasn't a happy time.

Ah. Happiness.

It's overrated.

It's an opiate or a delusion.

Mm.

Anxiety, misery, those are the energetic forces.

Well, you know what? I would rather--

Happy people... You know, happy people

are just people who don't ask enough questions.

Congratulations, Mr Ridgeway.

You are now qualified to make something of yourself.

Do you really believe that?

My mother had an exquisite talent for mental torture.

And she saved her most acute ruthlessness for me.

She started by attempting to abort me with drain cleaner.

Oh, Jesus.

As I used to lie in bed at night,

certain I'd die in my sleep,

and not at all sure that that wasn't the best option.

Even the best childhood is a field of grenades

you spend your life tiptoeing around.

Would I trade it? Of course I wouldn't. It made me.

-Give me a chance. -Why should I?

Because I'm as obsessed with Ripley as you are.

He's the most beguilingly evil protagonist in literature.

I am not revisiting Ripley.

I don't believe in evil.

You see, we all have a dark side, Mr Ridgeway.

One day, you'll be looking in the mirror and there he'll be.

The devil smiling back at you.

Come back then, Mr Ridgeway.

You don't really want me to go back to New York.

Yes, go.

Tell Hunter to go brown nose those fakers like...

like Vonnegut.

Tell him I'm not a hooker for hire.

Go on, get the hell out of my house.

What about the stuff you wanted?

Have you got them?

Yeah.

Then what are you waiting for?

-Notebooks. -Mm-hmm.

Mm-hmm.

-Brooks Brothers. -Ah.

Soup.

Only six cans?

Well, they're quite heavy.

Oh, boo-hoo.

And?

Um, I'm so sorry. I...

I tried, but it was way beyond the Périphérique.

-I don't speak French. -Oh, get out. Get out.

Go on, get out of my house. Go on.

I'm joking.

Isn't she a beauty?

Rob Hozier, fighter.

Fantastically thin taper.

Steel mirror polish, like you asked for.

Yeah.

I mean, who wouldn't want to slice something with that?

The fact is, Mr Ridgeway, we all contemplate murder.

Because underneath the social niceties,

biding its time, is rage.

It's true, we identify with Ripley.

You smash the reader's moral compass.

No, I have no moral compass.

I don't take sides. I'm right in the middle.

In Switzerland.

Stand up.

Oh, Jesus! What a fey little choir boy.

Hold it like you mean it.

-I never held a knife like this. -Just lift it up.

You know, hold it like you're gonna thrust it into me.

Stop grinning like an idiot.

Did you have a pet at home?

A labrador.

- What was his name? - Ralphy.

Imagine I've got Ralphy, held tight,

and I'm gonna snap his little neck.

He's a fluffy little puppy

and I'm gonna murder him just because I feel like it. Huh?

Come on.

Come on.

Come on.

Come on.

Come on, Edward, come on!

You know you haven't finished with Ripley.

Oh, please.

You have to write it.

What if I can't write it?

You're standing on the blocks again.

Maybe now's finally the time

to get some help firing the starting pistol.

And you think you can fire that pistol?

I know I can. I understand the characters.

I understand what they've cost you and what they've given you.

And I understand the writer.

How she starts with a word.

A single word, and from it, she makes a world.

She shapes it, colours it, populates it.

She makes her own people.

What a skill that is.

Imagine that mountain is 20th century literature

and you're standing just a few feet from the top.

The summit awaits,

within reach, but demanding one just final surge of energy.

One more masterpiece.

I'll give you one night.

It's Edward, sir,

I was wondering if you've heard anything from Appleby.

"The idea that I could be jealous

of your perverse relationships,

your squalid relationships, so vicious and strange,

your psychological damage, entirely self-inflicted.

The expression of the fundamental hatred

that is a bottomless well in your soul.

We never had anything between us.

The truth is

you were fundamentally nasty and spiteful,

and have been since birth.

You are not a child that could be loved nor adult either.

Because everything with you is what you can take and not give.

No heart at all.

It's hard to not regret having a daughter

as bitter and graceless as you have always been. Mother."

Holy shit.

What do you think, Tom? Just in time for the main event.

A long way for a family trip.

Yeah, well, my-my grandfather lives in Rome

so I'm back and forth to Europe all the time.

Plus he wants me to have, like, a European education.

My aunt, she is my guardian.

Holder of the purse strings.

She lives in Zurich, but she's staying in our country place.

Aunt Peg thinks all young people do is fritter away money,

so I shouldn't have any until I'm older, wiser.

The truth is if she doesn't sign the contract,

I needn't bother going back.

Is it gonna be difficult?

Yeah. Actually, one of my colleagues

went before me and no one's heard from him since.

He kind of freaked out and...

Fuck.

Bitch.

Miss Highsmith.

Ah.

I made you breakfast.

And I don't make breakfast very often.

If I'm motivated, I can really deliver.

Cooking or murder?

Well, I'm rather good at both.

Hm.

Oh, damn, I forgot the sugar. Would you mind? It's in there.

Thank you.

You know, Mr Highsmith expert,

it's not actually murder that interests me.

It's love.

It's just that love is indivisible from murder.

I like guns, all right, and knives, obviously,

but variety is the spice of life... and death.

What about stranglings or drownings?

Obviously, poison. I'm so playful.

Do you know, one droplet of dimethylmercury

can penetrate cell membranes and devour the brain like termites.

Arsenic. Unoriginal, but iconic.

Of course, the really great thing about it

is that it has no colour.

And no smell.

And no taste.

I wouldn't murder a little nobody from New York City

now, would I?

I don't know. Would you?

A newsstand.

Rome.

Right by the Spanish Steps.

A beautiful young woman is buying a newspaper.

And because she looks right out of Bergdorf's,

and she's buying the Herald Tribune,

he knows she's American.

He's standing across the street,

simply, but elegantly dressed, his eyes intent.

Louche.

Watching her.

This young man has a sixth sense

about where his bread is buttered,

and this young woman looks very much like buttered bread.

What's her name?

You tell me.

Clementine Balfour.

Hm.

Clementine Harriet Balfour.

Twenty-two.

Dark hair.

Large brown eyes.

High cheekbones, and never goes anywhere

without a copy of Camus in her purse.

No, no. Camus, Camus is overkill.

She's beautiful.

She's upper class. She's, uh...

She went to Dalton.

She speaks French,

and she looks swell in her mother's cashmere sweaters.

You know, she's the kind of girl

he can take to the opera at Fenice.

Or look at the Caravaggios in Roman churches.

The kind of young woman created from,

used to, and destined for money.

But you know, it's not the money that he loves,

it's the world that's furnished by money.

It's the Pre-Raphaelite paintings, and the foie gras,

and the antique watches.

Bit by bit, piece by piece,

he's applied an exquisite curatorial eye to himself.

You want to go now or later?

Yeah, let's do it. Yeah. Come on.

For two weeks, he follows the girl

as she exits an apartment building,

makes her way to the Spanish Steps for coffee,

and on to the Palazzo Barberini.

Crossing the Ponte Sisto,

and visiting the Sant'Ivo alla Sapienza.

Clementine's grandfather is Douglas Balfour.

Originally of New York,

ensconced for 30 years in a grand apartment in Rome.

He and his sister...

Peggy. Uh, Aunt Peggy, who lives in Zurich

and insisted on Clementine acquiring a European education.

Good. Good.

La Scala, the Prado, the Uffizi, the Gritti Palace.

And Paris, obviously,

for sea scallops mousseline at the Georges Cinq.

And then one evening,

he follows her back to the apartment

where she meets her grandfather for cocktails,

to recount the day's adventures.

-How was your day? -Bellissimo.

After rhapsodizing over the treasures of Rome,

Clementine sits at the baby grand

and launches into the Goldberg Variations,

her grandfather's favourite.

Of course, our young man has found his mark.

Well, when and if I ever do it,

it's white Valentino all the way.

He watches as Clementine lunches

with two old friends from Dalton

who are interning over summer at a fashion house...

...over cool glasses of Prosecco and Carciofi alla Romana.

They swap stories and reminisce.

No, on le continent, it doesn't count.

While he waits.

Going to the ladies' room.

I'll come. Do you like the food?

I don't know.

I feel like they've changed the chef recently.

So, is she still going to be able to study?

Yes, abroad.

Did you polish the prosecco off by yourself?

I did. Do you have any issues with that?

I do, actually.

You're going off to some amazing day and then going...

- Come. - Bye, enjoy.

Excuse me, signorina.

I think you may have dropped this.

Oh, my gosh.

Yeah, you dropped it. I saw it on the floor.

Thank you. God.

My saviour.

I'm Clementine Balfour.

Clementine Harriet Balfour.

I checked your ID to see whose wallet it was.

-Of course. -Yeah.

Well, thank you again.

Yeah.

Have a very good day, Miss Balfour.

The ultimate opportunist.

He knows she needs a man

she wants just a fraction more than he wants her.

She wants a hint of rebellion to prove she's not a good girl,

but she doesn't want to spend the rest of her life

being irritated by the way he holds his silverware.

Grazie.

Is that the guy from the restaurant?

Oh my God, it is, yeah. Oh, fuck.

-No. -Oh, you should totally go.

-Yeah. -I dare you.

Fuck. OK.

If it isn't my saviour.

Miss Balfour.

That's so crazy, running into you twice in one week.

Of all the joints. I thought you'd be on to Florence by now.

Oh no, I'm-I'm-I'm here for six months.

I'm staying with my grandfather.

He says I'm not really finished until I experience real history.

What about you, what are you doing here?

Um, I'm actually here for five or six months too.

I'm working.

I'm an art consultant for an auction house in New York.

Oh! I studied Art History at Vassar.

No.

Yeah, my dissertation was on Caravaggio and homoeroticism.

What's there to write? Isn't it all on the canvas?

Well, actually, there's-there's rather a lot of controversy.

What we see is homoerotic might just be

20th century interpretation of 16th century norms.

I figured you were far too attractive to be clever.

Oh. That's funny, because I thought the same about you.

Well, um...

Um, yeah, I need to go.

But, can I call you so we can avoid

any other false assumptions like that?

Uh, sure.

Um, yeah.

I don't have a pen, I'm sorry.

Uh...

Scusa.

- Well, thanks. - OK.

"Clem."

Have a good night, ciao.

Ciao.

She's in his net.

Oh, you like that, don't you?

Of course I like it. It's what we've been waiting for.

He is the master of seduction.

The intensity of his gaze

evaporates the world around them.

His mellifluous voice, his control.

Barberini commissioned it in 1633.

It became the most celebrated of all the collection.

But what's it all about?

The war between the virtues, the children of reason,

and the vices, the children of sensuality.

And who's winning?

Why?

Whose side are you on?

I think you know.

The virtues, but... I could be persuaded.

He takes her for a drink at L'Angelo Assetato,

the hidden bar near Santa Maria di Trastevere.

Oh, great.

Um, what would you like?

Um... a gin and tonic.

And a whiskey. Gin and tonic and whiskey, thank you.

Tell me something you don't tell other people.

Um...

I'm an orphan.

And my parents died in a car crash.

I'm-I'm an orphan, too.

Plane crash.

Wow.

-To orphans. -To orphans.

After summer, when I move back to New York,

I'm gonna look for a job.

I don't have tons of money.

Once my grandfather and my aunt passes, then that's when the...

So, she reveals she has a family trust

that will go to her only on the death

of her grandfather and great aunt.

And he deflects expertly, telling her...

I couldn't care less, really.

And love is rarer

and harder to come by than lucre.

She's crazy about him.

And he knows how to ignite desire.

She feels him touch her.

Hands sliding up inner thigh.

Skin transfixed by the fire in his fingers.

As if he's lighting her up,

bit by bit, after decades of innocence.

She's never felt the longing to be transgressed.

To be actually penetrated.

She wants to receive him with her body,

to lift her hips and fit into him.

She wants to be consumed.

And, within a month,

Clementine can hardly remember a time

she didn't know this charismatic creature with his almond eyes.

And if she can, she doesn't want to.

I understand why he was mad.

He's reeled her in.

Now, he casts the line for Grandpa.

Here, let me help.

Don't you think it's time I stayed at your place?

Well, it's a hovel.

Besides, you know, I want your grandfather to like me.

I don't think he would if I carried you off

to my den of iniquity.

Well, I'll see you tomorrow at the opening.

OK.

If it's a bore, we can sneak out for dinner.

Terrific.

Oh, I-I almost forgot.

Oh, my God.

Uh... Oh.

Yes?

Yes.

Yes!

Mm!

Douglas Balfour is delighted by the news.

The boy may not be from money, but he's got spirit

and he's hungry to make a success of himself,

besides, clearly adoring Clementine.

-Your drink, sir. -Grazie.

A few weeks before the wedding,

he waits in a busy hotel bar.

Establishing an alibi.

He pulls out a cigarette and casually exits.

He has 20 minutes before Clementine meets him.

It's four blocks to the grandfather's house.

He enters,

armed with an intimate knowledge of Papa's evening rituals.

So, he drops a sedative into the cocktail shaker.

Regular as clockwork, Grandfather makes his martini.

With only the very best Russian vodka, naturally.

Impaling Grandfather on his own cocktail stirrer.

The perfect accident.

Tragic, yet witty.

His 20 minutes are up.

Hey, you.

-You OK? -Mm-hmm. Yeah.

What have you got?

Oh, I've got some goodies.

Signora Clementina, the Chateau Montagnier?

Perfecto. Grazie, Franco.

You like?

If that's all you'll be wearing, then yeah.

Shh!

And despite the sadness of grief,

of the loss of those we love dearly.

A terrible loss which this young couple

have endured in recent weeks.

As I said to them, God wants us to continue.

To continue in faith and in hope and in love.

And so, it gives me great pleasure

to now pronounce you man and wife.

You may now kiss the bride.

Bravo!

What a performance!

So, he marries her,

his almost heiress.

The Italian police investigate the grandfather's death

and come up with nothing.

And now, of course...

The great aunt has to go.

And then the trust is theirs.

So, how does he kill the great aunt?

Huh?

- With the Glock? - No.

Um...

Hiking. Pushes her into a crevasse.

If it's a Highsmith,

we want something elegant, beautiful... unexpected.

Right. So, how?

No goddamn idea.

You kill her.

What?

You kill the aunt.

Me?

Now, go on, get out of my hair. I've got work to do.

Come back after eight.

And if you deliver something good, something Highsmith...

I'll sign your goddamn contract.

Deal.

Now go on, toddle off.

Eight o'clock.

Hm.

-Buongiorno. -Buongiorno.

Telefono?

Can I... Do you have a telephone?

Oh, grazie.

No, I'm not saying that.

I'm just saying it's not a slam-dunk.

Listen, just do what we sent you there to do.

- Hey! - Oh, my God. Hi.

Hi.

- Hello. - Hello.

Are you... I didn't realize. You're staying in Tegna?

No, my aunt lives on the road out of town.

Oh.

I had to get out that fucking house. She's exhausting.

What are-what are you doing here?

She's writing today, doesn't want to see me until tonight.

I... It's... pretty claustrophobic in there,

so I just thought I'd walk around.

Oh. Well, I was going to take a walk to the river.

-Have you been? -No.

-Do you want...? -Sure.

-OK, let's go. -Yeah.

So, how have you been?

Uh... yeah. It's been, uh, kind of crazy.

Really? Why?

So, she hasn't signed?

No.

Well, I have every faith she will.

I think you're more capable than you seem.

Cryptic insult or cryptic compliment?

No, it was definitely a compliment.

Does she like you yet?

I had to bring her a knife from Paris

for her weapons collection.

I think that's gone some way toward winning her affection.

A knife?

Yeah. Let's just say it's her pornography.

What kind of knife?

Long, sharp, you know? Shiny.

Oh, I'd love to see that.

I'd be happy to arrange it.

So, maybe I'll see you in New York.

If I make it out of here alive.

Yeah, definitely.

Take care.

OK. OK, bye.

Edward?

Hey, Aunt Peg is having a little shindig at five.

Don't suppose you'd want to come?

Guten Abend.

Guten... Hi, I'm Edward Ridgeway.

I'm a friend of Clementine Balfour.

Merci.

Oh, thank you.

Um, one second, I just have to say hi to someone.

Edward? Hey.

- Hi. - You made it.

Yeah.

I'll bring you in. Don't even look at me.

Aunt Peg made me wear her old Chanel.

Oh, I think you look great.

Shut up, Tolstoy.

Aunt Peggy.

Aunt Peg, this is Edward who I was telling you about.

Oh!

Very pleased to meet you, Mrs...?

Oh, Peggy, please. Delighted.

And this is our very dear friend, Kathryn Grierson.

-How do you do? -Nice to meet you.

And Harry Appleton-Roy from next door.

- Welcome. - Thank you. Thank you.

This is a really beautiful place you've got here, Peggy.

Thank you.

Clemmie tells us you're staying with that old Texan battleaxe.

Yeah, for my sins.

I don't think we've ever said boo to her.

So I, believe you're at Columbia with Clementine, Edward?

Oh, God, here comes the Inquisition.

Aunt Peggy thinks everyone knows everyone.

Yeah, yeah. We were introduced by a mutual friend.

You know Dally Hazleton, right?

Dally? Dally's mother, Popsy, and I were at Vassar.

Oh, really? Yeah, well, Dally introduced us at Lincoln Centre.

We were all there hearing Mahler's Fifth.

- It was very special. - Oh, wonderful symphony.

It's the best, yeah.

Dally and I practically grew up together, so.

What, New York or Sag Harbor?

I'm going to show Edward around.

-Oh, OK. -So nice to meet all of you.

OK, but make sure he has some of Helga's cheese puffs.

They're to die for.

You threw me into that without a life vest.

Well, turns out you're an excellent swimmer.

Aunt Peg would not be impressed with me meeting men on trains.

Really?

Oh, wow.

That's not a...

- No! - Yeah.

Whoa!

I don't think I've ever seen one outside of a museum.

I'm really trying to figure you out, Mr Ridgeway.

You've got that cute smile and wholesome look, but...

I think there might be a whole lot of something

going on inside that head.

Makes me want to ask questions.

Or maybe that's just wishful thinking, 'cause...

I like a bit of mystery in a guy.

What kind of questions?

Like, when are you going to fuck me?

Clemmie.

Oh! There you are.

Edward just wanted to see the Gauguin.

The Brunettis want to see you, darling.

Oh.

Besides... why should you keep Edward all to yourself?

Come on, come and meet them.

They're delightful.

Fabergé.

1894.

Presented by Alexander III to his wife Maria Feodorovna.

I always look at these houses

and think that there's so much to catch up on, don't you?

All those references that people of a certain kind

just seem to know by osmosis.

Whereas the rest of us have to learn them.

Of course, if you're determined,

it's perfectly possible to pass as one of them.

But like everything, the devil's in the detail.

I'm not sure I'm following.

"Very pleased to meet you"?

I'm afraid that's a dead giveaway.

I doubt very much that you're chums with Dally Heselton.

Never the bottom one.

And if you think Mahler's Fifth is the best,

then you've obviously never heard Mahler's Ninth.

Thank you for the tips.

Do you have a 24-hour helpline?

I'm an ally, Mr Ridgeway.

There's nothing wrong with wanting to go places.

Peg and I were at Trinity College, Dublin together.

She was a naive young American heiress

and I was a cobbler's daughter on a scholarship.

She wanted to be more real.

I wanted to be her.

I think you are clever enough to know what to be,

but too timid to be it.

I was rather hoping you were a bit more of a Jay Gatsby.

Or a Kathryn Grierson.

Isn't that the objective?

To reinvent oneself?

To live more than one life?

You're American, for Christ's sake.

Isn't the whole point of being American

to have the temerity to recast yourself

as who you want to be?

The truth can go fuck itself, can't it?

Just a minute.

Good night.

-Edward's leaving. -Oh.

Thank you very much.

Well, not at all. Safe journey home.

Oh, and if you see, uh, Dally or-or Popsy before I do,

do say hello.

I certainly will.

Uh, Ms Grierson, I enjoyed our chat.

As did I, Mr Ridgeway. Bon courage.

When will I see you again?

Surprise me.

Where the hell have you been?

Uh...

Well?

I-I was having a drink with a friend. You said eight.

I thought, you know, I'd get out of the house.

You thought you'd use this like a bed and breakfast.

What friend?

A girl I met on the train.

A girl? Oh, that's a crying shame now, isn't it?

Why?

Well, because you're a pansy. Hm?

Fag, homo? No?

I'm sorry. I don't think you have the right to say whatever--

Of course I have the right.

And I know a homo when I see one.

For obvious reasons.

Well, in this case, you happen to be wrong.

Whether you know it or not, Mr Ridgeway, you like men.

I mean, come on, let's get real.

You're too timid.

That's not what women want.

They want a man who makes their blood dive into their groin.

They want someone who frightens them.

And that's not you.

You're not the kind of full-blooded male

that girls on trains go for.

You're neither one thing or the other.

You're a snail.

What gives you the right?

Seriously.

Who are you to stand in judgment?

Here you are in a Swiss bunker drinking yourself to death.

You don't have the courage to face who you've become.

Oh!

Then stop whining and tell me how you kill her.

- Were you in my room last night? - In your room?

- With a knife. - A knife?

Oh, it's the return of Bradley Appleby.

Were you frightened, Mr Ridgeway?

You know, do you ever wonder if you might have someone wrong?

-Like you, you mean? -Yeah.

I've worked my ass off to get a first-class degree

and a good job in New York City.

You know, that ought to interest you.

What ought to interest me?

Well, you're in love with opportunism, aren't you?

Ripley's past was a millstone around his neck.

Only, he knew how to kill it.

That's why you wrote Ripley.

Because you can't stand yourself.

And you wanted to be him.

Go to bed.

I see you, and you don't like it.

Go to bed!

The Talented Mr Ripley was brilliant.

But is there anything worse for a writer

than not being able to top the work that put them on the map?

A lifetime of trying to be as good as you used to be?

Get out of my sight!

We have a story to finish.

I'm here to help, and you know it.

I'm here to be who you need me to be.

As if you could.

A knife?

Long, sharp, shiny.

Oh, love to see that.

I'd be happy to arrange it.

Surprise me.

You wanted to see this?

Uh-huh.

Nightcap?

Sure.

So, with Great Aunt Peggy

still controlling the family trust,

Clementine isn't going to get a penny for years.

The aunt is the only thing standing between him

and the money, and he likes money.

Because he likes beautiful things.

The accoutrements of the rich are sexual to him.

They literally make him hard.

After the grandfather's funeral,

he suggests that they visit Aunt Peg.

Wouldn't it be nice to offer her some support in her grief?

Aunt Peg sends two first-class tickets.

Where to?

Switzerland.

Now... tell me how you kill her.

So...

When they check into their suite at their fabulous Zurich hotel,

they're greeted by a note from Aunt Peg,

inviting them over the following day.

She's a control freak,

and she won't change the terms of the trust on principle.

You know, Clementine,

your relentless scepticism can be very boring.

My relentless scepticism?

I told you it'll be all right.

Why can't you trust me?

No one believes in you more than I do.

Clem, I'm sorry. I'm...

I'm not feeling 100%.

Maybe you shouldn't run.

No, it'll help.

I have the beginnings of a migraine and...

I need the fresh air.

Here. Look.

For tonight.

Pergolesi's Stabat Mater.

Reservation at Chez Maurice.

That's wonderful.

Wear the blue.

Our friend stops at nothing to get what he wants.

Murder, it's just a simple equation.

Inspiration,

preparation,

timing.

Are you sure you don't want me to stay?

No, I just... Why waste the ticket?

-Really? I can stay, it's fine. -No, no, no.

I think the migraine will probably be better

and I can come and meet you at Chez Maurice.

OK, great. No pressure.

Drink lots of water.

Good evening. Good evening.

Hi, good evening. Um, I'm not feeling very well.

I was wondering if somebody could come and bring some tea

with, um, lemon and honey.

No, I don't think it's anything serious.

Just the tea, please. Thank you very much.

OK, thank you.

Yeah, just in here, please.

Would there be anything else, sir?

Uh, no, thank you.

Thank you very much, sir.

Off to bridge, Peg.

-Have a lovely evening, Harry. -And yourself.

Off you go.

Come on, Tolstoy.

Tolstoy! What are you doing out, boy?

Tolstoy!

Ja, hello.

Tolstoy!

Tolstoy!

Tolstoy!

Come to Mummy!

Tolstoy!

Sweetie!

It has to be the knife,

because who wouldn't want to slice something with that?

Right?

Wow.

He sets the stage, a violent break-in.

It's risky. But as you know, our hero likes risk.

It's when he's most alive.

Hello.

By ten, he's at Chez Maurice.

- All better? - Nap and good as new.

Great.

Time to celebrate.

-Good evening. -Hi.

Would you ask the sommelier to bring over

the Château Canon-La-Gaffelière, please?

-Of course. -Thank you.

How was the concert?

Oh, wonderful.

Pergolesi's best.

I prefer Mahler.

Job done. Goodbye, Peg.

Hello, money.

And there we have it.

The nasty, intoxicating final book.

Who says it's the final book?

Obviously, it's your final one.

You're dying.

Those white blood cells are multiplying

and the red ones don't stand a chance.

Hence the fatigue.

Shortness of breath.

Pain in your joints.

An ordinary death.

An unhappy life.

Two things you couldn't write your way out of.

You don't keep them loaded.

Don't I?

So, how did you do it?

How did you kill your parents?

It was a Saturday morning.

Dad was painting the shadow board in the garage.

That evening they were supposed to go to the Heywards'

for Christmas drinks.

I remember just sitting on the old barstool

playing with a flashlight.

And watching Dad as he painted in the outline

of the hammer on the shadow board thinking...

how an ordinary thing like a hammer,

it's such an efficient device for killing.

The average house has a million ways of satisfying the calling.

A packet of matches.

A baseball bat.

Prescription pills.

We're spoilt for choice.

Dad said, "Son, can you fetch me a damp cloth?"

I jumped up, dropping the flashlight

which rolled under the car.

I crawled under there...

took out my pocket knife...

and I cut their brake cable.

Ninety seconds, tops.

Then I fetched Dad the cloth.

Now from the moment I heard that insistent knock

and opened the door, I was...

right there, inside my own performance.

The policeman said, "Son, I think you ought to sit down."

That's it. I thought, that's exactly how it played out

in my imagination.

He is saying it exactly the same way. The miracle of it.

And the whole time I'm thinking, it's not that hard.

It's actually not that hard to kill.

We stood there...

on Middleton Road with a crowd

as the divers tried to rescue the bodies from the wreck.

It ended up taking days. So, no open caskets.

They were thought too unsightly.

Their bodies bloated.

I wouldn't have minded seeing them, but...

that's just me.

It's been fun, Pat.

We were good.

We were great.

Hello, stranger.

What a surprise.

So...

what's been happening, Miss Balfour,

in your sleepy little Swiss hamlet?

Well...

I was ravished

in my bed by an intruder.

In a good way?

Mm-hmm.

Did she sign?

She did sign.

And then she tried to shoot me.

Well, congratulations, Mr Ridgeway.

Did Great Aunt Peg relent about giving you the money early?

No. I will be poor for at least another five years.

Clearly, you just didn't try hard enough.

You think you could have got the money?

I know I could.

What do you think, Tom?

Let's see how you do on your own.