All language subtitles for The Twilight Zone (1959) - S02E04 - A Thing About Machines (1080p BluRay x265 ImE)

[THEME MUSIC PLAYING]

NARRATOR: You're traveling
through another dimension.

A dimension not only of
sight and sound, but of mind.

A journey into a wondrous land

whose boundaries are that of imagination.

That's the signpost up ahead.

Your next stop, the Twilight Zone.

[CLANKING]

How are you today, Mr. Finchley?

I'll answer that burning question

after you tell me what's wrong
with that miracle of modern science,

and also exactly how much this
current larceny is going to cost me.

Well, there's two hours' labor,

broken set of tubes, new
oscillator and a new filter.

How very technical,
and how very convincing.

I presume I'm to be dunned once again

for three times the
worth of the blasted thing.

Last time I was over here,

you'd kicked your foot
through the screen. Remember?

I have a vivid recollection, thank
you. The set was not working properly.

I tried to get it to do so in
a perfectly normal fashion.

By kicking your foot through the screen?

Why didn't you just
horsewhip it, Mr. Finchley?

That'd show it who's boss.

Supposing we stop this
moronic small talk, shall we?

And get down to some serious larceny.

You may read me off the damages.

Although I sometimes wonder

what exactly is the purpose
of the Better Business Bureau

when it allows itinerant extortionists
like you to come back week after week,

move wires around, busily
probe with ham-like hands,

and achieve nothing but the
financial ruin of every customer.

We're not a gyp outfit, Mr. Finchley.
We're legitimate repairmen.

But I'll tell you
something about yourself.

That TV set doesn't work because,
obviously, you got in the back of it

and yanked out a lot of wires,
and I don't know what else.

Now, a month ago, you called me
over here to fix your portable radio

because you threw it downstairs.

That did not work properly, either.

Well, that's the point, Mr. Finchley.
Why don't they work properly?

Offhand, I'd say it's 'cause
you don't treat them properly.

I assume there'll be an
extra charge for that analysis?

What does go wrong with these things,
Mr. Finchley? Have you got any idea?

Aside from being a
rather incompetent clod,

you're a very unreceptive man.

I have already explained to you, the

television set simply
did not work properly.

And as for that Marconi original operating
under the guise of a modern radio,

that gave nothing but static.

Are you sure that's all
that was wrong with them?

All right, Mr. Finchley,
I'll send you a bill.

Of that I have no doubt.

Finchley, what is it
with you and machines?

I shall file that idiotic
question in my memorabilia

to be referred to at some future
date when I write my memoirs.

You, my good friend,
will fill one entire chapter

entitled
"The Most Forgettable Person I Ever Met."

It just so happens that every
machine in this house is…

[CLOCK CHIMING]

[CLOCK STRIKES HOUR]

All right.

That will be enough of that.

Do you hear me?

I said that will be enough of that!

Stop!

[SHOUTS] Stop!

[CHIMING CONTINUES]

NARRATOR: This is
Mr. Bartlett Finchley, age 48.

A practicing sophisticate who writes
very special and very precious things

for gourmet magazines and the like.

He's a bachelor and a
recluse with few friends,

only devotees and adherents
to the cause of tart sophistry.

He has no interests save whatever
current annoyances he can put his mind to.

He has no purpose to his life except the
formulation of day-to-day opportunities

to vent his wrath on mechanical
contrivances of an age he abhors.

In short,
Mr. Bartlett Finchley is a malcontent,

born either too late or
too early in the century,

and who, in just a
moment, will enter a realm

where muscles and the will to fight
back are not limited to human beings.

Next stop for Mr. Bartlett Finchley,

the Twilight Zone.

Miss Rogers.

Is this all you've done?

That's all I've done. That's 30
pages in three hours and a half.

That's the best I can do, Mr. Finchley.

It's that idiotic machine.
That typewriter of yours.

Thomas Jefferson wrote the
entire Declaration of Independence

with a feather quill, and
it took him only half a day.

Why don't you hire Mr. Jefferson?

Miss Rogers, did I ever tell you

with what degree of distaste
I view insubordination?

Often and endlessly.

I'll tell you what, Mr. Finchley.

You get yourself another
girl. One with three arms,

and with roughly the same
sensitivity as an alligator.

Then you can work
together till death do you part.

As for me,

I've had it.

And you are going where?

Any place where I can be
away from the highly articulate,

oh, so sophisticated, bon vivant
of America's winers and diners.

A Mr. Bartlett Finchley.

You even got me talking like you.

Miss Rogers, please.

Don't leave.

I beg your pardon?

I do wish you'd…
I wish you'd stay for a bit.

Oh, I don't mean for work
or anything. All that can wait.

I was just thinking that we
could have dinner or something.

The theater perhaps?

How very sweet, Mr. Finchley. Thank you.

But no thank you. Goodbye, Mr. Finchley.

Before you go,
Miss Rogers, before you go.

Yes?

I'd like very much…

I'd like very much not
to be alone for a while.

Are you ill? Bad news or something?

No.

What's your trouble?

Does there have to be
trouble just because I…

I'm desperately tired.
I haven't slept for four nights.

Quite frankly, the thought of being alone
just now is intolerable, Miss Rogers.

Things have been
happening. Very odd things.

Go on.

That television machine in there,

it goes on late at night and wakes me up.

Just goes on all by itself.

That radio I kept in the bedroom,

that went on and off, too,
just when I was going to sleep.

There's a conspiracy in
this house, Miss Rogers.

Conspiracy?

That's exactly what it is. A conspiracy!

The television set, the radio, the clock.

Even that miserable car I drive.

Last night, I drove it into the driveway.

Just drove it into the
driveway, mind you.

Very carefully, very slowly.

The steering wheel turned in my hand.

It twisted itself in my hand. The car
deliberately hit the side of the garage.

It smashed a headlight.

It cost $140.

That clock over the mantelpiece.

Oh, uh, I threw it away.

What I'm getting at, Miss Rogers,
is that, for as long as I have lived,

I have never been able
to operate machines.

Mr. Finchley, I think
you ought to see a doctor.

A doctor?

The universal panacea of the
dreamless 20th century idiot.

If you're depressed, see a
doctor. If you're happy, see a doctor.

If the salary is too low and the
mortgage is too high, see a doctor.

You, Miss Rogers, you see a doctor.

I am a logical,
rational, intelligent man.

I know what I see. I know what I hear.

[ASHTRAY SMASHES]

And for the past three months,

I've been seeing and hearing a collection
of mechanical Frankenstein-ian monsters

whose whole purpose is to destroy me.

Now, what do you think
of that, Miss Rogers?

I think you're terribly ill and
you need medical attention.

I also think that you're suffering from a
bad case of nerves due to lack of sleep,

and that way down
deep you yourself realize

that these are nothing
more than delusions.

I will not be intimidated by machines.

So it follows that no
empty-headed little female

with a mechanical face
can do anything to me, either.

Mr. Finchley, in this
conspiracy you speak of,

this mortal combat between
you and the appliances,

I hope you lose.

[SHOUTING] Get out!

[TYPEWRITER CLATTERING]

[MOANS]

"Get out of here, Finchley."

"Get out of here, Finchley!"

Who are you to tell
me to get out of here?

No, no, this is absurd.

It's a typewriter, a device.

An inanimate, senseless machine.

[CLATTERING]

WOMAN [ON TV]: Get out of here, Finchley.

[FLAMENCO MUSIC PLAYING]

Why don't you get out of here, Finchley?

[FLAMENCO MUSIC RESUMES]

[TYPEWRITER CLATTERING TO FLAMENCO MUSIC]

All right. All right, you machines.

You're not going to intimidate
me. Do you hear me?

You are not going to intimidate me.

You, you machines!

[TYPEWRITER CLATTERING]

Miss Moore, please.

Oh, Agatha.

Bartlett Finchley here.
How are you, my dear?

Yes, it has been a long time. Too long.

Which, indeed, prompts this
call. How about dinner tonight?

Oh. I see.

Yes, well, of course,
it is short notice, but I…

Hm. Of course.

All right, I'll, uh, I'll
call you again, my dear.

Mrs. Donnelly, please.

Oh, Pauline, is this you?

And how is my favorite,
attractive young widow?

Bartlett.

Bartlett Finchley.

Yes, I was just wondering if… Oh.

Oh, I see.

Well, I'm delighted,
I'm simply delighted.

I'll send you a wedding present.

Of course. Good night.

Telephones.

Just like the rest.
Exactly like all the rest.

Their whole existence
dedicated to embarrassing me

or irritating me or
making my life miserable.

Well, who needs you?

Who needs any of you?

[TELEPHONE BELL JANGLES]

[HUMMING]

[ELECTRIC RAZOR BUZZING]

[BUZZING LOUDLY]

WOMAN [ON PHONE]: Why don't you
get out of here, Finchley?

Why don't you get out of here, Finchley?

Get out of here, Finchley!

Get out of here, Finchley!

[SIREN WAILING]

[CAR APPROACHES]

She rolled down the driveway.
Almost hit a kid on a bike.

You ought to check that
emergency brake, mister.

The emergency brake was on.

Oh, no, it wasn't. Or if it
was, it isn't working properly.

She rolled down the driveway
and right out into the street.

You're lucky it didn't hit anyone.

Monster.

You got the keys?

Yes. Oh, they're in the house.

Well, you better pull it
back up into the garage.

You ought to check that emergency brake
the first chance you get, understand?

All right, dear friends.

You may remain on my property
goggling at this astonishing sight

for another three and a half minutes.

If, when I return with my car
keys you are not off my property,

I shall enlist the aid of this,
uh, underpaid gendarme

to forcibly eject you.

Idiots.

[GROANS]

[CLOCK CHIMING]

[STRIKING HOUR]

[TYPEWRITER CLATTERING]

"Get out of here, Finchley."

[TYPEWRITER RESUMES]

No.

WOMAN [ON TV]: Get out of here, Finchley.

Why don't you get out of here, Finchley?

Get out of here, Finchley!

MAN [ON TV]: Get out of here, Finchley!

[JUMBLED VOICES SHOUTING]

-[CLOCK CHIMING]
-[VOICES SHOUTING]

No, I won't!

I won't!

[GROWLS]

[RAZOR BUZZING]

[BUZZING LOUDLY]

VOICES [SHOUTING]: Get out of here!

-[CLOCK CHIMING]
-[RAZOR BUZZING]

[TYPEWRITER CLATTERING]

[CAR ENGINE STARTS]

[ENGINE ROARING]

[TIRES SCREECH]

[ENGINE REVVING]

[TIRES SCREECHING]

[TIRES SCREECH]

[TIRES SCREECH]

You pulled the body out?

Yeah. It's funny, they usually float.

What do you mean, usually?

He was on the bottom. He hadn't come up.

He wasn't weighted, either. There
was nothing to hold him down.

His eyes were open.
He looked scared, like

something had been
chasing him or something.

The neighbors said that he'd been
shouting and running around last night.

I wonder what it was that
could have scared him?

Whatever it was, it's a little
item he took along with him.

Yeah. Maybe he was
drunk. Imagining things?

Maybe.

Could be he had a
heart attack or something.

Could be. It could just be.

NARRATOR: Yes, it could just be.

It could just be that
Mr. Bartlett Finchley

succumbed from a heart
attack and a set of delusions.

It could just be that he was
tormented by an imagination

as sharp as his wit and
as pointed as his dislikes.

But as perceived by those attending,

this is one explanation that has
left the premises with the deceased.

Look for it filed under "M" for "machines"

in the Twilight Zone.

PRESENTER: Rod Serling,
the creator of Twilight Zone,

will tell you about next week's story

after this word from
our alternate sponsor.

And now, Mr. Serling.

Down this hall is a very strange
individual locked in a room.

He's known by various
names and by various forms,

next week on
The Twilight Zone, you'll be close

to the elbow of the
people who let him out.

Our story is called "The Howling Man,"
by Mr. Charles Beaumont.

It's designed for the young in
heart but the strong of nerve.

I hope we'll see you
next week, along with

"The Howling Man."
Thank you, and good night.

[THEME MUSIC PLAYING]

PRESENTER: Come to the aid of your party.

♪ Don't pass the buck but give your
bucks to the party of your choice ♪