Original subtitles

Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap.

In my opinion, a second-rate murder mystery.

Not that I've seen it, you understand.

But it's a whodunit.

You've seen one, you've seen 'em all.

You know the drill.

An interminable prologue

in which all the key players are introduced.

You get a sense of the world they inhabit,

and then the most unlikable character gets bumped off.

There's been a murder?

Cue the entrance of a world-weary detective,

who comes in and pokes his nose around.

Talks to witnesses. Takes a couple of wrong turns.

And then gathers all the suspects in the drawing room

and points the finger at the least likely chump

because of the way the guy,

I don't know,

ties his shoelaces.

Now you've seen our play, you're an accomplice to murder.

And so, we ask you to remember

that it is very much in your interests

not to tell a soul outside of this theater who done it.

But what do I know?

The Limeys, they just lap it up.

The play's a smash hit.

Not to mention a cash cow.

Right there is the milkmaid in chief, Petula Spencer.

This lavish affair is a party to celebrate the 100th performance.

No wonder film producer John Woolf

wants to turn the play into a major motion picture.

Here he is now in the arms of his slightly paranoid wife.

I sense that death is close at hand.

It's probably just a draft.

This is where I come in.

Leo Kopernick's the name.

Big-shot Hollywood director.

Hired to make the film adaptation

marginally less boring than the play.

Easier said than done when the writer's a giant pompous ass.

Mervyn Cocker-Norris.

I say, you're rather tall.

Am I? Haven't really thought about it, to be honest.

Is that what happened here?

Sort of. I had a bit of an accident backstage.

Sure, he's educated and he knows a lot of $10 words,

but it's like he's never seen a film before,

let alone try to write one.

Oh, ma vattinne!

Chi e chistu?

No one important.

Omm, femmina o bestia, basta che respira!

You know, at times you do rather overdo the temperamental Neapolitan.

That's a nice jacket.

Say, why don't you scare me up a real drink, will you, kid?

Like a pint of rye or bourbon or motor oil, if you have to.

Yeah. Hop to it, now, huh?

In England, that actually counts as good service.

I was stationed here during the war

and, if anything, the locals are more uptight now

than when they had the Luftwaffe overhead.

Mervyn?

Shouldn't you be home?

I thought we had a deadline.

I thought so too.

But then our esteemed director tore up the screenplay

and told me to start all over again.

He's of the opinion that a modern audience will walk out in protest

if they're not served at least one violent death in the opening frames.

Suffice to say, we are no longer on speaking terms.

Merv!

London's most sensitive writer.

How is The Mousetrap, huh?

Did they catch the guy who did it?

I will not stand here and be insulted.

Well, I guess he's gonna go over there and be insulted.

Huh.

What passes for glamour in these parts.

Sheila Sim and Dickie Attenborough.

Kid likes the sound of his own voice.

Even money, he makes a speech.

I suppose I ought to say a few words.

Not too many.

And when have I ever? Our wedding, remember?

We almost missed the honeymoon.

Yes.

Darlings, you're ever so kind.

I'd like to ask you all to raise a metaphorical bat

to the old pavilion.

The Mousetrap is 100, not out.

- Cheers! - Cheers!

I tell you what else is 100 not out.

Petula's mother.

The old kook's just crazy about seafood.

They just brought out more langoustines.

Excuse me, I just need to deal with that.

Mother! Please,

you've had quite enough. Hi.

Now, I'm not one to tell tales out of school,

but the girls over here,

they go wild for an American accent

and the promise of a pair of nylons.

But the husbands...

Right. I think it's time someone taught you a lesson.

...they're not so easily won over.

It's only fair to warn you that I learned to box in the RAF.

Yeah? Well, I learned to fly a plane in Gleason's Gym.

All of which explains, in an admittedly roundabout fashion,

how I come to be in the theater's backstage area

in need of a change of clothes.

Hello?

Hello?

Aw, jeez.

I guess I should have seen this coming.

It's always the most unlikable character who gets bumped off.

It's a whodunit.

You've seen one, you've seen 'em all.

We're closed.

Clear off.

Honestly.

Oh, I'm so sorry, sir. Inspector, uh, Stoppard, sir.

Sorry, I was under strict instructions not to let anyone in.

Just open the door.

Yes, sir. Of course. Sorry, I didn't recognize you, sir.

I've actually, uh, just been transferred myself.

Thought it was Leeke and Priestley on rotation tonight.

Careful, sir.

In you come.

Constable. Stalker, sir.

God, you're all wet through, sir.

Hope you don't catch a cold after that.

Yep, after you, sir.

Victim's name is Leo Kopernick, sir. The film director.

Suspected Communist, blacklisted in Hollywood,

so he came out here to work on a picture for John Woolf.

You know John Woolf, the film producer.

He made The African Queen with Humphrey Bogart.

"Nature, Mr. Allnut,

"is what we are put in this world to rise above."

That didn't sound anything like Bogart.

No, that was Katharine Hepburn, sir. She's in it too.

Wonderful actress.

I go to the pictures quite a lot, actually.

It's the escape, I suppose.

The romance of the silver screen.

Yes, thank you, Constable.

Yes, sir.

Eh, signs of a struggle.

Actually, sir, I believe that happened

when Mrs. Boyle was killed.

Mrs. Boyle? Who's...

Yes, sir. Um...

She's that woman in the front row there.

Well, she seems to have bounced back.

Oh.

Sorry, sir. No, she was killed in the play. Also strangled.

Not that I've seen it, although I would like to.

It's an Agatha Christie, and I do like a good murder.

Yes, thank you, Constable.

Yes, sir.

A ski did that, sir.

They use it in the play, apparently.

As I said, I haven't seen it.

And then the large dent in the cranium is a sewing machine.

Seems he was killed in the costume store initially,

and then he was deposited here.

Staged, so to speak.

Sorry, sir.

Yeah, that's the ski that he took in the face, sir.

And, uh, I'm afraid it was downhill from there.

Oh. Sorry, sir.

That one just came out on its own.

Seems he came down here

for a change of clothes.

Why?

It was a party to celebrate the 100th performance, sir.

The other nought must have...

When the victim upset the sponge.

Um, and he then proceeded to sit in the assortment of crustaceans.

I'm told he was intoxicated, sir, as a newt.

This was actually a lot more fun than I thought it would be.

Then he left. No one saw him again until the body was discovered.

That's correct, sir.

Perhaps they were all in on it together, sir?

Hmm.

Looks like the killer tried to pull out the victim's tongue.

Why would anyone do a thing like that?

Excuse me, Chief Inspector.

It's just "Inspector."

Yes. Of course. Inspector.

I hate to interrupt, I do.

There really is nothing worse...

Petula Spencer, sir. Prominent theater impresario.

Yes, thank you, Constable.

Tell me, how much longer do you intend to keep us all hostage here?

Or is that the idea?

"Let the galled jade wince."

Gather all the suspects under one roof

and then interrogate each of us in turn until the mystery is solved?

Mervyn Cocker-Norris, overrated playwright.

Celebrated playwright.

Oh, I'm so sorry, sir.

I can't read me own handwriting.

Not that we are suspects, necessarily.

Are we suspects?

It was just a reference to Agatha Christie

and her penchant for denouement,

in which the detective gathers the susp...

I dare say, that's not...

Please continue. Yes, thank you, Mervyn.

Inspector, I want you to know

that I have nothing but the utmost respect

for the Metropolitan Police.

But, well, do you think you might be finished

in time for curtain up tomorrow night?

Oh, for goodness' sake.

John Woolf, esteemed film producer.

Yes, thank you, Constable.

This is a murder investigation.

Surely that takes precedence, sold out or not.

Yes, it's all going to plan for you, isn't it, Woolfie?

You want the run to end.

I want nothing of the sort.

It's the decent thing to do, that's all.

Close the theater out of respect for Leo.

Such a tragic loss.

Inspector, I implore you not to overreact.

I would hate to have to go over your head and

talk directly to your superiors.

Oh, we wouldn't want that, now, would we, madam?

But I'm afraid that under the circumstances,

as a precaution... Precaution?

He's already dead.

He is, madam.

But until we have an idea as to a likely motive,

who's to say this is the end of it?

What is that supposed to mean?

We are no longer merely suspects.

We are also potential victims.

Oh.

Mmm.

Oh, God, I wasn't in that, was I? I must look dreadful.

Excuse me, sir.

Stoppard!

My office.

Hello, sir.

What in God's name possessed you

to close down the Ambassadors?

Uh, protocol, sir. It's a crime scene.

No, it's a public relations disaster, is what it is.

Public what, sir?

Stalker! Sir.

Not to put too fine a point on...

Yes, please. Here.

Not to put too fine a point on it, Inspector,

but your latest blunder is front page news.

Fleet Street is all over this,

like hot jam on a Devonshire scone.

You are slap-bang in the crosshairs.

Now, we need to do everything we can

to make sure the bullet doesn't miss you and hit me.

Yeah, of course, sir. Yes. Good.

Then you'll inform the theater at once.

Well, I thought as a precaution, I...

The Home Secretary

is a close, personal friend of Agatha Christie.

His brother-in-law is Rex Harrison.

Wonderful actor.

Yes, thank you, Constable. Sir.

It's actually worked in our favor to have the press distracted like this.

It means we can keep a lid on the Rillington Place murders.

Rillington Place murders. Yes. What's that?

Blimey.

Haven't you heard?

We have a serial killer on the loose.

You didn't think all of this was for you, now, did you?

No, of course... No.

Of course not.

Well, have all the resources been allocated to this other investigation?

No, not all of them, no.

I understand you, uh, met WPC Stalker last night?

I did, yes.

Constable. Inspector.

A very capable officer.

Or at least she will be once she gets the proper instruction.

Sorry, sir, I'm not sure I, uh...

You don't mean you want me to...

Yes, I do. I'd like you to show her the ropes.

I'm hoping some of her enthusiasm for police work might rub off on you.

But the, uh, bullet, sir. Is that why...

This is not a debate, Stoppard.

I have a reputation as a modernizer.

I have to be seen to keep it up.

I have said in public

that I think women are the future of the force.

Absolutely, sir, I agree.

But we're not looking

for stolen sweets... Sweets.

...or a lost bleeding bicycle.

This is a murder investigation, and she is inexperienced.

They were inexperienced in the war.

Ask Jerry how that turned out.

Yes, sir. But, uh...

That... Huh?

...will be all. Thank you.

Commissioner. Inspector.

Constable. Inspector.

Commissioner. Constable.

Um, sorry again about last night, sir.

With the rain and everything...

Water under the bridge, Constable. No harm done.

You all right?

Yeah. Do we have an address for the victim?

Yep. It is "Laurel Canyon, Hollywood, USA."

Where was he staying in England, Constable?

Oh. Um...

Right.

If I am honest, Monsieur Kopernick,

he was not a very good guest.

In arrears, was he?

La, non, but he did not pay for his room.

Monsieur Woolf did.

Hmm.

What part of France are you from, sir?

Belgium.

Ah, right.

Oh, my, my.

What a bloody pigsty.

They don't clean the rooms at the Savoy?

Helas, not this one.

Hmm.

The maids, they refuse.

We offer them more money, but still they say non.

There was

an incident.

Always avec Monsieur Kopernick, there was an incident.

Hmm.

Ooh.

Thank you, Constable.

Oh. Sorry, sir.

Did one of these incidents ever turn violent?

Oui. Une fois.

How dare you call me a bad writer!

I didn't say that. I said it's bad writing.

I did the best I could within the confines of the genre,

and Woolf loved it!

Woolf wouldn't know a good script if it came up and bit him on the ass.

It's horseshit! No, it isn't! Not all of it!

All right, what I read is horseshit!

You mean you didn't even finish it?

I read enough, pal,

to know that nobody gets killed in the first 10 pages!

You charlatan! Give it back!

Listen. Listen to me. Listen! Give...

We need to go in a completely different direction!

I'll kill you for this, Kopernick, you bastard!

That's that then, sir. It's as good as a confession.

Let's not jump to conclusions, Constable.

No, sir.

The least we can do is talk to this other party.

Yes, sir. Cocker-Norris, sir.

Tell me, do you write everything down

in that little notebook?

Only if it's important, sir.

How do you know if it's important?

Well,

uh, I'll just sort of put everything in as we go,

and then down the line when we know what's important,

we'll know that it's already in the notebook.

So you do write everything down.

Yeah, everything.

That's what I thought.

Make yourself comfortable.

You're just in time for elevenses.

Oh.

Oh!

You must excuse the desordre,

it's research for the film adaptation.

Police statements, court reports, newspaper cuttings.

The Mousetrap is actually based on a real-life case.

Nettle tea?

I appreciate you've not yet had time to come to terms

with the death of Mr. Kopernick, but...

Is it true his tongue was pulled out?

I'm afraid I can't divulge details

of an ongoing investigation.

It was disgusting.

Amore, non pozzo fatica cosi!

What?

E na cos' 'e pazz!

That's Gio. Nephew of mine. Very hotheaded.

I wonder if it isn't all the fumes.

You know, from the chemicals.

He's an amateur taxidermist.

He has a fascination with the macabre.

I call it his Stymphalian Bird series.

Hmm.

Macabre in a strictly "ornithological" sense, that is.

You wanted to ask me about Leo?

We heard there was an argument at the Savoy,

and I noticed you had the other half of this.

Inspector, that was a contretemps, nothing more.

Read that part. Yeah.

"I'll kill you for this, Kopernick, you bastard."

Well, obviously, I...

Taken out of context, I...

Those words were spoken in anger and under extreme provocation.

We had creative differences, that's all.

Hmm.

How did you like The Mousetrap?

Oh, yeah, the play? Mmm.

Yeah, I, uh... I didn't see it yet.

Well, if you'd like,

I can precis this... No, no, no.

I got the basics. It's a whodunit, right?

So, you got a dead body, a detective,

and then all the suspects rather conveniently

end up in a remote country house together.

In a nutshell.

Our task will be to present this improbable series of events

to an audience of moderate intelligence

in a manner that does not cause too much offense.

Easy.

Flashbacks.

No.

No what?

No flashbacks.

They are crass, lazy, and they interrupt

the flow of the story.

In my opinion, they are the last refuge of a moribund imagination.

Whatever next?

A caption that says, "Three weeks later"?

Merv. Merv, will you come on?

This is crazy. Will you open the door?

I'm not coming out until Woolf gets here.

What is it this time?

I'll tell you what it is.

I pitched a new ending,

Cockamamie-Novice over here locks himself in the bathroom.

Is this instead of the car chase?

As well as.

I think he thinks "denouement" is French for "shootout."

Will you at least hear me out first,

and then tell me you don't like it?

Come on, I storyboarded it for you. Come on, have a seat.

Why can't we just have the detective gather everyone in the drawing room

and then reveal to them who did it?

Why? 'Cause it's old, it's tired.

It's been done a thousand times.

So then who explains to the audience what on Earth's going on?

No one.

I don't know. The killer.

Now you see what I have to put up with?

Will you please have a seat?

So, a remote country house.

We got all the, uh, suspects gathered in the drawing room, right?

So far, soporific.

Suddenly, the lights go out.

Our hero grips his Colt Special, edges into the hall.

The killer's got a hostage, can't get a clear shot.

Suddenly, kaboom!

The place goes up in flames.

Blam! Blam!

Our hero plugs the killer.

One in the gut!

One in the knee!

Then, all of a sudden...

His goddamned gun jams.

He's a sittin' duck.

Sorry, not that one.

I'm sorry about this.

He's a sittin' duck.

Our killer, dying but not dead,

takes aim.

Boom! He fires.

Out of nowhere,

our hero cop's partner dives in slow motion!

Takes a bullet!

Our hero cradles his partner like a father would his child.

His face a gumbo of emotions.

We hold on the inferno,

and we pan left, to a dead butler.

Hank Williams plays us out.

I Saw The Light.

You hate it. No, no, I don't hate it.

But you don't love it. Of course he doesn't!

It's preposterous

and totally out of keeping with the rest of the film.

Oh, who cares?

The audience only ever remembers the last 20 minutes.

Oh, poppycock.

Uh, Hitchcock, actually.

How does he get the gun?

He's a cop!

Uh, police are not armed in England.

What? How do they kill the bad guys?

They don't.

They ask them to stop in the name of the law.

Huh.

Well, he fought in the war,

so he kept his service revolver.

God damn it, we're gonna have to pick this up another time.

Say, uh, Merv.

You wouldn't want to lend me this pad, would you?

Just for the night.

Only I got this dame parked outside I wanna impress.

As in, she actually is a dame.

And, well, you know.

My place ain't exactly the Savoy.

I thought his place exactly was the Savoy.

No, he didn't take up residence there till a month later.

And the production company footed the bill when he did.

How he finagled that, I'll never know.

Either I need a new agent, or he had dirt on Woolf.

Hmm.

Did you ever meet these women?

Who were they?

Oh, girls he met during the war

who had low standards and even lower self-esteem.

I never had the pleasure.

Oh, wait.

Tell a lie.

Merv! Come on.

When I said we should tear up the script,

I didn't mean literally!

Hello, Leo.

What is that doing here?

He was Kopernick's son!

Peas in a pod.

And the mother?

I didn't get a good look. A plain girl, rather homely.

Dark hair, glasses,

thick lenses.

So there we have it, sir. Cherchez la femme.

What?

It's Belgian, sir. It means, "Look for the woman."

I know what it means, Constable. What woman?

The mother of Kopernick's illegitimate son.

Cocker-Norris couldn't remember her name,

but I bet it's in that little black book.

You know, the one that you found in the hotel room, sir.

If we find her, we have our answer.

We need to get a police sketch artist down here at once

before he forgets anything.

Mmm. I'm doing it again, aren't I, sir?

Jumping to conclusions. Conclusions, yeah.

Little bit.

Sorry.

Constable.

I have a very important mission for you.

Mmm-hmm.

I need you to find a telephone box.

Call the station.

Get an address for John Woolf, the film producer.

And I'll wait for you here.

Uh, "Romulus Films, Soho," sir. I wrote it down.

You did? Mmm-hmm.

Right.

Well done. Thank you.

Shall we?

Uh, telegram came for you.

Bad news?

It's the studio.

Grace Kelly's doing a Hitchcock picture for Warner,

so it's Dial M for Maybe Next Time.

Grace Kelly? Yes.

For the part you promised Sheila?

Yes, that's right.

Which is why this is such good news.

Ann?

Darling, what's the matter?

You do know a promise is only a promise if you keep it.

What do you mean?

I mean you promised me a night out months ago.

I have been so busy lately.

Yes, I know. I am your assistant.

I promise, as