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Memorandum to Paramount Pictures, Hollywood, California...

From Alexander Meyerheim.

Subject: my latest production.

Gentlemen, while you sit back safely in your air-conditioned offices,

we here in the trenches are progressing brilliantly.

As to your curious anxieties about the script, dismiss them.

I talked to the author last night in Paris,

and he assures me that he has, at this moment, 138 glorious pages,

which are even now being typed.

It is my plan to join him in Paris on Sunday.

Period. Paragraph.

Gentlemen, success is inevitable.

An Alexander meyerheim production...

Of an original story and screenplay by Richard Benson.

Richard Benson? you know him, my little angel?

Know him? [ Speaking Greek ]

I hate him. Richard Benson? Phooey.

It seems there are certain facets of him that you know even better than I do.

I cannot imagine when he finds time to write.

Unfortunately, he had time to write a script for me.

The last ten pages were found floating off Malibu... In a vodka bottle.

Send the usual telegram to Benson.

Richard assures me that, for all practical purposes, he's on the wagon.

[ Doorbell buzzes ]

It's open. Come in.

Yes? Mr. Benson?

You are, I assume, the young lady from the typing bureau.

- I am. - If we're to have a happy and harmonious relationship,

I beg of you, never answer a question with a question.

- Is that clear? - did I?

There you go again answering a question with a question.

My original "yes" when you opened the door was a question.

Question Mark implied, of course.

You do know the difference between implied and inferred?

Isn't that a question?

- Yes. - well, then you just answered my question with a question.

To imply is to indicate without saying openingly or directly.

To infer is to conclude from something known or assumed.

My name is Gabrielle Simpson.

Is that by any chance a bird?

Yes. I hope you don't mind.

I was told the job would take several days. I had nobody to leave him with.

Well, this is it. The office there.

I live up here, and, uh, the terrace is out there.

That rather grotesque object...

Looming so formidably on the horizon is the Eiffel Tower.

I had it moved there to remind me what town I'm in.

If it offends you, of course, I'll have it taken away again.

You live through here. It's an adjoining room,

which, to your mind, has terribly sinister connotations.

No, not at all-- if so, dismiss them.

I would have got you a room down the hall or on another floor,

but the joint's all filled up.

Bastille day weekend and all that.

It's quite all right, really. I once worked for an American novelist...

Who could only write in the bathtub.

I'm used to anything. You can unpack-- in the bathtub?

Yes. on the second day, I gave him a packet of bubble bath...

And from then on in we got along swimmingly.

I see.

Uh, does that imply that the bird's name is Richelieu?

Oh, it's inferred, I believe, rather than implied.

"Swimmingly." interesting figure of speech.

[ Bird chirping ]

You call the canary Richelieu because you always wanted a cardinal.

[ Chuckles ] that's very funny.

No, it isn't.

Just one of the hazards of being a famous international wit, which I am.

You have to keep trying all the time.

I can't tell you how delighted I am to get this assignment...

And to have the opportunity to work with a screenwriter of your stature.

You see, I'm very interested in the cinema form myself.

And I'm sure I can learn a great deal. Well, thank you.

Last month, I worked for Roger Roussin, the young, new-wave director.

You've heard of him, of course? no, I'm an old-wave man myself.

The picture's terribly interesting. Very avant-garde.

It's about a lot of people who go to this party...

And decide not to play scrabble and then go home again.

It was called: The scrabble game will not take place.

His next one's about a girl who decides not to have a birthday party.

It's called, blow out no candles.

Roger believes the only important thing to put on the screen...

Is what doesn't happen.

This film you're writing, does it have a title yet? of course.

The girl who stole the Eiffel Tower.

The girl who stole the Eiffel Tower.

It sounds just fascinating. The title is symbolic, of course.

She doesn't really steal the Eiffel Tower. Does she?

- What's the story about? - it's an action/suspense,

uh, romantic melodrama, with lots of comedy, of course.

And, uh, deep down underneath, a substrata of social comment.

Oh, well, if I could just see the pages you've written,

I could estimate the size of the typing job.

[ Exhales ] the pages, my dear girl, are right here.

An Alexander meyerheim production.

The girl who stole the Eiffel Tower.

Original story and screenplay by Richard Benson.

Here, with a page or two of interestingly photographed establishing shots,

possibly from a helicopter, the boy and the girl meet.

But, Mr. Benson, I-- now, after some, uh, chitchat,

uh, getting-to-know-you kind of stuff-- the thing I do so brilliantly--

uh, we feel, uh, unconscious attraction between the two,

uh, an indication to the audience...

Of the tremulous beginnings of love.

And then... conflict!

We can tell by the music how deeply fraught with danger the whole situation is.

And now... The first switch.

The audience gasps when they realize they've been fooled.

Things are not what they seem. Not at all.

In fact, the whole situation is completely reversed...

Involving the magnificently ingenious...

Switch on the switch.

Amazed by the sudden turn of events,

the boy and girl realize how gravely they've misjudged each other.

At that moment, the music turns ominous once more.

They become aware of the danger that they're in.

And the chase is on. Screaming tires...

Rooftops, long shots of their tiny figures...

Racing through the empty, fear-gripped city.

When suddenly, in a deserted alley,

we see, seated on the closed cover of a garbage can,

licking its wet, rain-bedraggled fur-- close shot-- the cat!

And now, as we build step-by-step to the climax,

the music soars!

And there, totally oblivious of the torrential rain pouring down upon them,

the two fall happily and tenderly into each other's arms.

And as the audience drools with sublimated sexual pleasure,

the two enormous and highly paid heads come together...

For that ultimate and inevitable moment,

the final, earth-moving,

studio-rent-paying, theater-filling,

popcorn-selling...

Kiss.

Fade out.

The end.

That's it. 138 pages.

There's no point making it any longer. We'd only have to cut later.

Mr. Benson? yes.

This screenplay, when does it have to be finished?

Well, let's see. Today is Friday.

My friend, and in this case, patron and producer...

Mr. Alexander meyerheim, arrives in Paris from Cannes at 10:00 on--

Sunday morning.

Which happens to be Bastille day.

That's perfect. 10:01 we hand him the completed script,

and then you and I, we celebrate.

Drink champagne. Dance in the streets.

Whatever they do on July 14.

I already have a date for Bastille day.

You mean you haven't written anything at all?

You have a date.

You mean this entire movie has to be done in two days?

Miss Simpson, if you don't think...

That you're up to your part of the job, just tell me right now.

I can always find someone else. Oh, no! No!

I didn't mean that. It's just that it's, well, rather unusual, isn't it?

Not for me.

I imagine you've been giving the story a great deal of thought.

No, I haven't.

May I ask what you have been doing?

I have been doing what any other red-blooded American screenwriter...

Would, or should, if he had any sense, have been doing...

For the first 19 and a fraction weeks of his employment.

Water-skiing in St. Tropez.

Lying in the sun in Antibes. Studying Greek.

- Greek. - there was this starlet...

Representing the Greek film industry at the Cannes festival.

Then, of course, a few weeks spent unlearning Greek,

which involved a considerable amount of vodka...

And an unpremeditated trip to Madrid for the bullfights,

which, fortunately, since I can't bear the sight of blood,

had long since gone on to Seville.

Week 17 and 18 were spent in the casino at Monte Carlo...

In a somewhat ill-advised attempt to win enough money...

To buy back my $5,000-a-week plus expenses contract...

From my friend, employer and patron Mr. Alexander meyerheim.

Thus not having to write the picture at all.

Take a note. For the textbook which I will someday do on the art of screenwriting:

Never play 13, 31 and the corners thereof...

For any serious length of time for any serious amount of money.

It doesn't work.

[ Sighs ] and now I have to. Shall we begin?

An Alexander meyerheim production. Caps. Quotes.

"The girl who stole the Eiffel Tower."

"The girl who--" y-you do like the title, don't you?

Oh, yes. It certainly sounds intriguing.

It intrigued meyerheim too. He bought the title, script unseen.

Uh, original story and screenplay by Richard Benson.

[ Typing ] page one. Fade in.

Exterior. Paris, naturally. Let's see, night or day?

Day.

Begin with a shot of-- of the Eiffel Tower.

[ Richard's voice ] the camera zooms toward it.

Standing windswept and alone on the platform is a mysterious woman in black.

She glances at her watch. And we see--

how the hell do I know what we see? mysterious woman in black.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Mustn't be obvious.

We can't tip the whole story too early. Okay, fade in.

Exterior. Le Cacre Coeur. Day.

No.

Make that, uh--

the Grand Palais. [ Typing ]

Mm-mmm.

We've got to give the audience...

The taste and smell of the real Paris.

Okay.

[ Richard ] exterior. Christian Dior.

The camera pans. And now we see a white rolls Royce...

Pull up and come to a stop.

Now wait a minute. Uh, make that a white Bentley.

It's chicer.

A chauffeur in white livery leaps out and opens the door.

From inside emerges some classically glamorous star,

like, uh, Marlene Dietrich.

And now she, uh-- [ Typing pauses ]

Dot, dot, dot. [ Typing ]

She sweeps majestically into the store and--

and that's the last we ever see of her.

It doesn't make much sense, but Alex would have loved it.

He could have stolen the Bentley and charged it to the picture.

[ Sighs ]

- What'd you say your name was? - Gabrielle Simpson.

- How long have you lived in Paris? - two years.

And you came here to write?

Well, that too. But mostly to, uh--

I don't know how to say it exactly-- live.

Live. Uh, would you mind, uh--

you were saying you, uh, came here to live.

Yes. I spent the first six months...

Making a comprehensive study of depravity.

No kidding? seriously. Never got to bed before 8:00 in the morning.

I can't tell you the number of cups...

Of that poisonous black coffee I must have consumed.

I didn't drink then, so it was hard to get totally into the spirit of the thing.

Actually, depravity can be terribly boring if you don't smoke or drink.

But a person does have to try to grow.

And this guy you've got a date with on Bastille day,

is he part of the growth process?

Oh, no, he's just a friend, a struggling young actor.

An actor! ooooh!

A tragic relationship to begin with.

I only hope he's not one of those method actors...

Who scratches and mumbles and pauses a lot,

thereby destroying the impeccable rhythm of the author's prose.

Oh, he's a little intense, but lots of fun.

Uh-huh. Yeah. Well--

and you and this... actor,

what do you plan to do on Bastille day?

We're going to spend the whole day together,

starting with breakfast at this little cafe we go to.

Then we're going to dance from one end of Paris to the other.

The opera at 5:00.

Then to the guards and the singing of "Marseillaise."

And off to Montmartre for the fireworks.

And then supper and champagne and, you know, live.

You really like it, don't you? Life. What?

Oh! Every morning when I wake up...

And I see there's a whole new other day, I just go absolutely ape.

I've got an idea.

I've got an idea! first good one I've had in four months.

No, that's not true. I had an idea to give up drinking, but it didn't photograph.

Now, this could be good. Very good, indeed.

A simple story of a simple Parisian working girl...

And how she spends July 14.

The whole picture plays in one day.

And I've got two days to write it.

Fade. Exterior Paris. As our story begins...

It's early Bastille day morning.

And all the trumpets of Paris are sounding reveille.

** [ trumpets ]

[ Richard ] now, over a shot of the arch of triumph,

superimposed, "an Alexander meyerheim production."

Cut to the Eiffel Tower.

The main title.

The trumpets segue into the inevitable title song.

** [ orchestral ] Maybe get Sinatra to sing it.

[ Sinatra ] * the girl who stole the Eiffel Tower *

* also stole my heart *

[ Richard ] there follows an interminable list of other credits...

Acknowledging the efforts of all quote-- little people-- unquote,

whom I shall graciously thank in my acceptance speech...

At the academy awards.

As the cymbals crash-- ** [ cymbals ]

Original story and screenplay by Richard Benson.

Okay. Fade out...

And fade in.

A picturesque Parisian square where the holiday festivities are in progress.

A simple Parisian working girl...

Who looks remarkably like you, miss Simpson,

emerges from her simple Parisian dwelling...

And makes her way through the crowd and across the square.

She seats herself at a table at this little cafe she goes to.

With breathless anticipation, she awaits the arrival of her date.

Some... actor.

Now I suppose we'll have to describe him.

I see him as curiously unattractive.

[ Gabrielle's voice ] not at all. Philippe happens to be very handsome.

In fact he looks rather like, uh, Tony Curtis.

[ Richard ] I see him as one of those mumbling, scratching actors...

Destined only for minor roles and character parts.

And his name is not Philippe. It's Maurice.

Maurice!

Like, uh, bon jour, baby. [ Woman ] Bon jour, Maurice.

Hey. oh, darling, I'm so excited.

I didn't sleep a wink all night.

You do like my dress, don't you? yeah, very groovy.

Do you think it would be too wicked if instead of breakfast,

we had a glass of champagne right here before we start?

Uh, thanks.

Uh...

Look, baby. Yes, Maurice?

Uh, this Bastille day gig,

like, uh, we're gonna have to cool it.

But, Maurice, I don't understand.

Well, you see, baby, I'm gonna have to cut.

See, what happened, last night,

while I was, uh, making the scene at le drug store,

uh, I was tearing an Espresso with a couple local citizens...

When, uh, all of a sudden, this new-wave looking stud comes in...

And says to me his name is Roger Rosen...

And, like, he's making a film about Bastille day:

No dancing in the streets.

No dancing in the streets?

In Roger's flick, it, like, uh, rains.

Anyway, he offers me the lead.

Oh, Maurice, I'm, like, so happy for you.

Uh, you see, I'm gonna have to split.

We're gonna be shooting all day... In the sewers.

- I see. - Hey, baby, like, I got wheels. Can I drop you?

No, thanks. I prefer to walk.

Crazy.

Uh, toot a l'hoor.

[ Mumbling ]

[ Richard ] with the almost lunatic narcissism...

Peculiar to his curious calling,

Maurice rather preciously mounts his motor scooter.

Our heroine is left grief-stricken.

Not realizing how much better off she really is.

But they were going to spend the whole day together.

My dear girl, you have just witnessed the first switch.

Well, maybe. But I know Maurice would never behave that way.

Besides, his name is not Maurice. It's Philippe.

Now then, having thus successfully...

Disposed of her date for Bastille day, we move on to important matters: Conflict.

- Conflict? - the other man.

The third corner of the obligatory triangle.

Did Roger what's-his-name, the No Scrabb director,

teach you anything about writing movies?

No. For a moment, Gaby sits there-- Gaby?

We've got to call her something.

For a moment, Gaby sits there,

a lonely and pathetic figure.

But unbeknownst to her, this heart-breaking little scene...

Has been witnessed by--

dot, dot, dot--

a mysterious stranger.

A mysterious stranger. How exciting.

Miss Simpson, before you escape the confines of this unpretentious hotel room,

it's my intention to show you just how exciting a mysterious stranger can be.

Now I suppose we'll have to describe him.

- Yes, I suppose so. - He's American, of course.

I can write him better that way.

Now let's see. What else?

I see him as rather tall, rather suntanned.

Rather handsome, athletic-looking.

With a rugged, but... Curiously sensitive face.

[ Typing ]

[ Richard ] poor sad creature. [ Typing continues ]

Little does she realize that, in a moment, she and the audience...

Will have totally forgotten that dull clod Maurice or Philippe...

Or whatever his name is.

At this magic moment, her life has indeed begun.

Tenderly, he folds her into his arms.

And moving with the nimble grace of a Fred Astaire,

he dances her off into the crowd.

In exactly ten seconds, I want you to slap me in the face...

As hard as you possibly can.

What? there is, unfortunately, no time to explain.

No reason for you to trust me. But I trust you.

There's something about your big magic eyes.

And I am-- well, the name doesn't matter.

Just think of me as...

1331, American intelligence.

This must be some kind of a joke.

If you will look slightly to your left--

without moving your head, please--

you will see in that window--

in the bouquet which I just handed you, there's a piece of microfilm.

I can't tell you what it is, of course. All I can say is...

If it should fall into the wrong hands,

it might well mean the end of civilization as we know it today.

The time has come for you to slap me as hard as you can.

[ Gunshots ]

[ Gunshots ]

[ Richard ] stop! Stop!

Spies in trench coats?

I'm afraid I got carried away, miss Simpson. We'll have to go back.

[ Richard ] okay.

That brings us back to where we were.

We're all right through getting rid of her date for Bastille day.

The boy and the girl meet and--

[ typing ] and they dance, and they dance and they dance.

And they dance and they dance.

Mr... Benson?

- The mysterious stranger. Who is he? What-- -[ Doorbell buzzes ]

There's someone at the door. What does he do?

What suffering, what torment caused the deep sadness...

That lurks behind his eyes?

And why, while we're asking questions,

didn't I listen to my father and learn some useful trade?

Merci. merci.

It-- it's a telegram.

Well, aren't you going to open it?

[ Sighs ] no, miss Simpson, I'm not going to open it.

The reason that I'm not going to open it...

Is because I'm fully aware of what it says.

The reason I know what it says is...

Because in the last 19 and a fraction weeks...

I have received 134 telegrams from Mr. Alexander meyerheim,

all saying exactly the same thing.

When's the script going to be finished?

When's the script going to be finished?

How does he expect me to write when he keeps badgering me this way?

Day and night: Wires, messages, telephone calls.

"How'd it go today? did you work well? [ Laughs ]

When's the script going to be finished?" talk about men in trench coats.

He spies on me constantly.

His people are everywhere. For all I know, you might be one of them.

- Mr. Benson! - I'm sorry, but some of these days...

I just feel like what's-his-name in les miserables.

- Jean Valjean. - I guess so.

Only last night-- last night, I swore to him on the telephone...

That I had 138 pages in front of me on the desk.

I said, "Alex, any man who takes your money...

"And tells you that he's got 138 pages in front of him on the desk and doesn't...

Is nothing but a liar and a thief."

Sometimes I get the feeling he doesn't trust me.

[ Shaver whirring ]

[ Shaver stops ]

I know who the mysterious stranger is.

He's a liar and a thief.

Sure. A latter day Francois Villon...

Who lives by his wits and what he can steal.

A Jewel thief, maybe.

Expert safecracker! there isn't a safe in the world...

That he can't open with his bare hands in a matter of seconds.

I've got it. It means we have to start all over again, but that's not too serious.

We've only got eight pages.

Now let's see. We're all right through Alexander meyerheim production,

girl who stole the Eiffel Tower, original story and screenplay by Richard Benson.

We can still use the Bastille day jazz.

Only this time we don't start on Gaby.

We start on Rick.

Rick. that's a wonderful name for the mysterious stranger.

Don't editorialize. Just start typing.

Exterior. Day. A picturesque square. [ Typing ]

Amidst the throng of merrymakers,

the camera picks up a rather tall,

rather suntanned American.

[ Richard ] we'd better change his wardrobe. Put him a liar-and-a-thief suit.

You know, various shades of black.

Now moving with the lithe grace of a jungle cat,

Rick approaches the table where Gaby is getting the brush-off from her actor.

His almost superhuman intelligence takes in the situation at once.

He hesitates. If there is a single chink in Rick's armor,

it's a pretty face.

He comes to a decision, and moves off to another table...

Where two denizens of the underworld await him.

Just call them first gangster and second gangster.

Well, Rick--

have you thought it over?

[ Rick ] let's say I'm considering the proposition.

It is a plan of great simplicity and beauty,

and yet highly original.

Very daring. [ Woman ] Voila, monsieur Rick.

Now we need you for two things only:

To open the safe and deliver the note.

A few hours' work. And for this, a million dollars,

which we will, of course,

split three ways.

Half for me, the other half to be divided between you two.

But, Rick, you have already agreed.

Gentlemen, it's a well-known fact...

That I'm not only a brilliant safecracker, I'm also a liar and a thief.

Half for me and the other half divided between you two.

Very well. Well, I will pick you up with the car at 4:00.

Until 4:00 then.

And, Rick, resist at all costs...

Your continuous and overwhelming impulse to perform the double cross.

We will not this time be so understanding...

As we were last year in tangier.

[ Richard ] now, having established a climate of suspense,

intrigue and high romance, we've arrived once more at that magic moment:

The boy and the girl meet.

Okay, now we need more conflict. A new character, maybe.

I've got it. Seated nearby is Rick's deadly enemy--

inspector, uh, uh, gillet of the international police force.

[ Richard ] it is apparent that he knows something...

The audience does not know.

And now, miss Simpson, that we have set the wheels of our plot in motion...

And inflamed the audience with a passionate desire to find out what happens next--

and I don't blame them. I'm just dying to find out myself--

we can pause for a few pages of chitchat.

Getting-to-know-you kind of stuff. The thing I do so brilliantly.

The question is,

where should this charming little scene be played?

At lunch! that's it!

He takes her to a beautiful restaurant for lunch in the bois.

But that's ridiculous. She wouldn't just go off to lunch...

With someone who picked her up in a public square.

I mean, he's a perfect... stranger.

Miss Simpson, nobody's perfect. "Why," he asks as they dance,

and they dance, and they dance,

"are you so sad when everyone else is so gay?"

And then a suggestion from the mysterious stranger.

"If you will try raising your upper lip,

you might at least create the illusion of a smile."

That being somewhat of a disaster,

now he really has to turn on the charm.

"Do you know the meaning of the world serendipity?" he asks.

She shakes her head. What does it mean?

Why, miss Simpson, I'm surprised.

It means opening your eyes each morning and looking at the bright new day...

And going absolutely ape.

Serendipity? right.

Are you just making it up? no. Serendipity is a real word.

Actually, it means the ability to find pleasure, excitement and happiness...

In anything that occurs, no matter how unexpected.

Serendipity.

He explains the word to her in a much more fascinating way than I did...

And, at the right moment, proposes that they have a glorious lunch in the bois.

She's tempted. Of course she is. But don't you think--

miss Simpson, he's not asking her to spend a weekend with him...

In a motel in Asbury Park, New Jersey.

He's inviting her to lunch. Don't you think if he were terribly, terribly charming...

She'd go? well--

serendipity. all right, maybe she would,

if he promises they'll just have lunch and that's absolutely all.

He promises. Unless, of course, she can think of something...

She would like to do afterwards. Which she won't.

Sere-- all right, then.

He hails a passing horse and carriage, and they go off to the bois.

Settled? settled. And now we ought to write it, oughtn't we?

Not at all. The audience is way ahead of us.

They've known she was going to have lunch with him for an hour.

But how do we get them from the square through all that charm and serendipity...

And everything you do so brilliantly?

In the motion picture business, we have a simple device...

Which takes care of exactly this kind of situation: The dissolve.

Over the years, the audience has been conditioned to understand...

That when a scene fades away-- like an old soldier-- before their very eyes...

And another scene gradually appears to take its place,

a certain amount of time has elapsed.

So, miss Simpson, we dissolve.

We dissolve slowly and lingeringly...

To the bois.

[ Richard ] a hansom cab bearing our handsome couple...

[ Typing ] clippity clops its way past waterfalls and trees...

Toward a magnificent restaurant.

Notice, miss Simpson, how cleverly I will play our suspense-filled melodrama...

Against a background of holiday serendipity in gay paree.

** [ upbeat jazz ]

[ Richard ] we will spare the audience the ordeal of listening...

To pages of dreary small talk and get directly to the heart of the matter...

By the simple use of the device I've just explained to you:

The dissolve.

Who are you? what do you do?

Who am I and what do I do?

I'm nobody and I've done everything and nothing.

Driven racing cars. White hunter for a while.

Piano player in a rather curious establishment in Buenos Aires.

This and that, everything and nothing.

It's the curse of having been born too rich.

Oh, I know so well what you mean,

about the curse of having been born too rich.

That's why I left the castle and came to Paris to live. The castle.

We've got houses all over the world, of course.

But my favorite was our summer place in Deauville with its own private zoo.

When I was a little girl on Sunday mornings, if I'd been good,

I was allowed to feed the giraffes.

Giraffes? don't tell me that you had giraffes too.

You mean you? but of course we did.

Oh, what fun, both of us having giraffes as children.

It's a small world, isn't it?

Voila. madame. Monsieur.

To Rick. To Gaby.

[ Man ] if I may recommend.

[ Rick ] I prefer to do it myself.

To begin, we'll have paper-thin slices of prosciutto ham...

Wrapped carefully around well-ripened sections of Persian melon.

To follow, a touch of Dover sole... [ Typing ]

Sauteed lightly in champagne and butter.

With that, a bottle of, uh-- Pouilly Fuisse.

Fifty-nine will do. And after that--

we'll have a Chateaubriand for two. Ohh.

Uh, make that for four. Charred and brown--

nay! Black on the outside and gloriously rare on the in.

With the beef, we'll have white asparagus... Ohh.

And a bottle of chateau Lafitte Rothschild '47. Mmm!

And for dessert, an enormous order of Fraises de Bois.

Served, of course, with globs of heavy cream...

So thick you can put it on with a shovel, s'il vous plait.

Mmm! [ Kiss, sighs ]

You heard the lady. And make it snappy. We're starving to death.

Now, while awaiting the paper-thin slices of prosciutto...

So skillfully wrapped around perfect sections of ripened Persian melon--

please, stop. I can't stand it.

Do you think they'll really do the sole in champagne and butter?

Mm-hmm. In any case, while we're waiting.

I wonder if the very lovely miss Gabrielle Simpson...

Would consider joining the very talented Mr. Richard Benson...

For a small, very dry aperitif.

I think she's earned it. I think they both have.

All right. I think that would be very nice.

You know, I didn't really like Rick at first.

But he's beginning to grow on me.

[ Chirping ] [ Gabrielle ] Mmm!

[ Richard ] you were saying you find Rick growing on you.

Oh, yes, I think he's very attractive.

Important. The reaction of the female audience.

All right, lunch is over.

The Martinis, the two different kinds of wine and the Brandy...

Have had their effect.

And a glorious dream-like glow is settling over them.

The pages, miss Simpson,

those that we have covered so far with our fabulous prose.

Here you will notice, as advertised in the discussion earlier on today,

the opening: A series of interestingly photographed establishing shots.

And, uh, here, the boy and the girl--

if a middle-age, mysterious stranger can indeed be called a boy-- meet.

You're not middle-aged, Mr. Benson.

In fact, I think you're remarkably well-preserved.

As chilling a compliment as I've ever received, miss Simpson.

However, to continue,

pages eight, nine, ten of romantic chitchat.

Which you do so brilliantly. Well, thank you, miss Simpson.

Now you can feel the unconscious attraction between the two.

The-- the tremulous beginnings of love.

You see how easy it is when you've got professional know-how and experience...

Running on your side?

Miss Simpson, I don't think you realize this,

but a writer's life is a terribly lonely one.

Mr. Benson? mm?

Have you any idea at all what happens next?

Do you, miss Simpson, have any idea what will happen?

Well--

we've got to remember that no matter how charming he seems on the surface,

he is a liar and a thief!

It says so right... here. Mr. Benson--

I do know what happens next.

What happens next is the second switch!

The audience gasps as they realize they have been fooled.

He has been plying her with Martinis, white wine, red wine, Brandy...

For only one reason: To make her drunk.

Which, incidentally, she's not.

Not in the least. No matter what he thinks.

Now, as he forces one last Brandy...

To her unwilling lips-- oh!

[ Gabrielle ] poor ingenuous girl.

She has been charmed and serendipitied into believing...

That she was safe in the hands of this suntanned, handsome American.

Alas, things are not what they seem. Not at all.

The music turns ominous. ** [ ominous music ]

[ Gabrielle ] and she becomes aware of the danger that she is in.

[ Gabrielle ] the mysterious stranger.

Who is he? what is he really like?

And why does he keep nibbling on her neck?

[ Screeching ] [ Screams ]

Don't be frightened, my dear.

It's only a bat.

The creatures of the night are my friends.

[ Screams ]

[ Screams ]

[ Whimpers, gasps ]

Now I know why you keep nibbling on my neck.

You're some kind of a werewolf.

No, no, my dear.

I'm a vampire.

- [ Screams ] - [ screeching ]

[ Screams ]

[ Screams ]

[ Whimpers ]

The inner reaches of these caverns...

Make an ideal setting for my laboratory.

[ Whimpering ]

[ Screeching ]

[ Whimpering continues ]

[ Gabrielle ] and yet there's something about his eyes,

even though they are rather bloodshot.

A vampire's life must be a terribly lonely one.

But no. Not for nothing has she made a comprehensive study of depravity.

I suppose there are girls who let vampires nibble their necks on the first date.

But not our Gaby. She tears herself free from his evil grasp,

and the chase is on!

Ooh!

[ Whip cracking ]

[ Neighs ]

[ Speaking French ]

[ Gabrielle gasps ] he's caught her. No, Gaby. No!

You can't give in now. You fought him in the cave.

You fought him on the beaches. You fought him on the plains.

That's it! Planes!

[ Machine gun fire ]

[ Machine gun fire ]

[ Machine gun fire ]

[ Machine gun fire ]

[ Loud crash ]

Her face registers terror.

Mr. Benson, Mr. Benson! she's killed him!

[ Sobbing ] oh, there, there, miss Simpson.

It's perfectly all right.

It must be said in your defense, it's been a hard day,

and you've had a good deal to drink.

Anyway, he had it coming to him.

Plying her with all that booze, making her drunk.

Which, incidentally, she is not. Not in the least.

Of course not. Not only did she kill him,

but when I think of that poor horse...

And the way she beat him with that terrible whip--

anyway, I think she's the one who had it coming to her.

That was what?

Whatever it was he was gonna do to her.

I don't see why she was making such a fuss anyway.

It's not as if he were some kind of a vampire or something.

Actually, I think he's very attractive.

Miss Simpson, I think it would be a good idea if you were to go to bed and sleep.

You do? What about you?

I am going to think. Now, if you will please go in there and lie down--

maybe if I did get a few hours' sleep--

but if you do get an idea, and I know you will,

you've got to promise to wake me.

Sure. promise?

I promise.

All right then.

Good night, Mr. Benson.

Good night, miss Simpson.

[ Sighs ] good night.

Good night.

[ Bird chirping ]

[ Clears throat ]

Operator, I'd like to place a call to a Mr. Alexander meyerheim...

In Cannes.

Well, it's 1:30.

You can probably find him at the casino.

Uh... uh, Benson.

Mr. Richard Benson calling.

Person to person.

I'll hold on.

Dear Alex--

dear Alex...

It is my unpleasant duty to inform you...

That the girl who stole the Eiffel Tower will not take place.

You see, my friend,

that there's no point for you to come to Paris on Sunday...

To read the script,

because there is no script.

And as I see it, there will be no-- [ Squawking ]

Eh?

Como?

Well, try him at the chemin de fer game-- the big table.

Excuse me. I forgot to cover Richelieu.

Good night.

- [ Door opens ] - oh, Mr. Benson,

please don't think I'm quitting on you.

I'll be right here when you need me.

Good night.

[ Tapping telephone ]

Operator... cancel that call.

[ Typing ]

** [ orchestral ]

[ Man ] * that face

* that face

* that wonderful face

* it shines

* it glows

* all over the place

* and how I love to watch it

* change expressions

* each look becomes the prize *

* of my possessions

* I love that face

* that face

* oh, it just isn't fair

* you must

* forgive

* the way I stare

* for never will these eyes behold *

* a sight that could replace *

* that face

* that face

* that face

[ singers ] * that face, that face

* wherever I go

* it's here

* it's there

* bewitching me so

* it's got my crazy heart

* in such a tangle

* it drives me simply wild

* from many angles

* I love

* those

* eyes

* those lips

* that beautiful smile

* she laughs

* and spring goes right out of style *

* for never will these eyes

* behold a sight that could replace *

* that face

* that face, that face *

**

**

** [ stops ]

Unfortunately, miss Simpson...

We are not writing a musical!

Mr. Benson, you mean you did all these pages last night?

All by yourself?

While some of us were sleeping snug in our beds,

other, more productive citizens were toiling in the vineyards of beautiful letters.

I'm only sorry that you, as a fledgling writer,

weren't present to observe...

With your own big magic eyes...

A seasoned professional in action.

I was, in those few short hours,

the great DiMaggio going back, back, back for the high fly ball!

I was Manolete in Seville...

Going in over the horns for the kill!

And missing, fortunately, because I can't stand the sight of blood.

I was Pablo Picasso deftly...

Adding the third eye to a portrait of his lady love.

I was, uh--

how do you spell "ingenuous"?

I-n-g-e-n-u-o-u-s.

I was afraid of that.

In addition to the 9 1/2 yards of pages I wrote last night,

I discovered some errors in the earlier pages...

Which had to be corrected,

dealing, basically, with the character of Rick.

I found I had, at a moment of insecurity...

Underestimated the brilliance of the man.

No simple safecracker he,

but a master criminal wanted by the police of three continents.

The dazzling scheme has been worked out step by painful step...

For over a year by Rick himself.

The two other characters are just employees.

Now then, that brings us back to where we were.

Rick and Gaby had by now demolished a glorious lunch,

and it's almost 4:00-- time for the car to arrive.

Page 14. Now then,

sit down and brace yourself.

Here comes the switch on the switch.

In a minute and a half, both you and the audience...

Will gasp as you realize you've been fooled.

Things are not as they seem. Not at all!

In fact, the whole situation is completely reversed.

Mr. Benson.

Miss Simpson, please don't sit there gazing at me in mute adoration.

Read the script.

"Rick and Gaby are sitting with Brandy glasses before them.

Her big magic eyes are shiny."

I can't imagine when I've had a more marvelous lunch.

I don't know how to thank you. Please.

** [ French music playing ]

And now, if I may, I'll tell you the plans for the rest of the afternoon.

The rest of the afternoon? exactly.

I've asked my chauffeur to pick us up here at 4:00...

For a tour of Paris, to see how the celebration is progressing.

A brief stop at my office to pick something up,

and then on to a party being given in my honor...

At the restaurant in the Eiffel Tower.

Pardon, but you are monsieur Rick? Oui.

Your chauffeur is here, sir. He says he has an important message for you.

Merci, Jacques.

Pardon me for a moment.

It's almost 4:00. I know, I know.

What's the matter? have you gone mad?

Bringing a girl along on a job like this?

In our arrangement, my dear Francois,

you were to do the driving and I was to do the planning.

But the plan does not call for the presence of a girl!

The ability to improvise brilliantly in a moment of crisis...

Is one of the reasons I am a highly paid, successful thief.

If you will look to the left, just behind you,

as casually as possible,

you will see, stupidly trying to hide behind yesterday's newspaper,

our old friend inspector gillet.

What is he doing in Paris?

Do you think he suspects something?

Of course not. And even if he does, as always, I'm one step ahead of him.

Why do you think I picked up the girl? because she has big magic eyes.

Well, that too, but, actually, I picked her up...

To throw our inspector friend off the scent.

Never in his wildest imagination...

Would he think that the highly paid and successful Rick...

Would be so foolish as to take a girl along with him on a job.

Therefore, that's exactly what I'm going to do.

She's a perfect cover.

Meet you at the car in one minute.

Shall we?

My dear gillet. Our paths cross again.

My dear Rick. What an extraordinary coincidence.

This is messier gillet. He is, in a curious way, a business associate of mine.

Enchanted. any friend of Rick's is a friend of mine.

Please sit down and enjoy your lunch. And I beg of you, watch the calories.

This, my friend, is a moment to savor.

For three long years I've waited, and now, at last,

my brilliant, highly paid professional friend has risen to the bait.

What he doesn't know, poor Rick, is that the girl is ours.

You're sure he suspected nothing?

Inspector, my imitation of a method actor was impeccable.

I played the role internally, of course,

indicating all the basic elements of this curious calling--

the deep, almost lunatic narcissism,

the lack of personal daintiness,

the appalling grammar.

Pops, it was-- [ chuckles ] Sir, it was flawless.

I came in on a motorbike in wheat-colored Levi's--

I beg of you, Philippe, please don't get carried away.

Let me remind you that you are not the star of this drama,

but merely a supporting player--

and a very minor one at that.

If life, like the theater, came equipped with programs,

your billing, way down on the page and in tiny letters,

would simply be "second policeman."

As I was saying,

what he doesn't know, poor Rick, is that the girl is ours.

[ Sighs ] but can she be trusted?

A creature of the streets with a police record as long as your arm?

Nothing will go wrong, my dear Philippe.

There's a tiny, little chink in Rick's armor-- a pretty face.

One way or another, using such talent as she has,

the girl will extract from him the details of the plan.

The plan.

But should they not be followed? I have the car.

There would be no point. On the streets of Paris, Rick is a master.

There's no policeman alive who can stay on his trail if he wishes to elude him.

Yes. No. No. [ Chuckles ]

I shall sit here, have a glorious lunch--

everything to be cooked, of course, in this remarkable nonfattening safflower oil--

marvelous. and eventually, having followed my luncheon...

With several digestifs and a short walk,

rejoin my friend tonight for the climax of his adventures at--

at... the Eiffel Tower!

Brilliant, inspector. Brilliant.

[ Car horns honking ]

To the studio, Francois, if you please. Studio?

I told you I have to stop in at my office...

And pick something up there.

Have you ever been inside a motion picture studio?

No. Are you in the movie business?

In a way.

The studio is particularly marvelous on a holiday like this.

Silent. Empty.

The vast sound stages completely deserted.

Like the night before Christmas,

not a creature is stirring.

Wait here. I won't be long.

Mmm. Nice-ish.

Isn't it.

I-I don't understand. Are you an actor?

A writer? Producer? director?

Nothing as creative as all that. My interest in motion pictures is purely financial.

Gracious. I can't tell you how exciting this is for-- this is for me.

I just love movies.

Not those terrible new-wave pictures where nothing happens, of course.

What I like-- uh...

Westerns.

Good old-fashioned pictures with switches and switches on switches and...

Things like that.

[ Creaking ]

Do you happen to have an Emery board in your purse?

You know, one of those things to file the nails? I think so.

Thank you.

I particularly like movies with complicated robberies in them, don't you?

Absolutely.

I know this sounds childish, but, uh, next to pictures about robberies,

I think I like horror pictures best.

I always have.

You won't believe this. When I was a girl, I was in love with Dracula.

My mother was very upset. She thought it was somehow unhealthy.

She used to say, "that vampire's old enough to be your father!"

Whom, she would add, he in many ways resembles.

I'm glad-- not that your father resembled Dracula.

Which he didn't, at least not after he had his teeth fixed.

But that you are interested in pictures.

That makes two things we have in common.

Movies... and giraffes.

Here are the keys. Meet you at the gate in a half an hour.

Giraffes and movies. It's-- it's a small world, isn't it?

- [ Gasps ] - let me see that!

Oh! No, no. Please, Rick, you're hurting me.

The lipstick. It's been written with.

The napkin!

The napkin you gave gillet, what was on it?

What was on it?

You--

[ screams ]

[ Gasps ]

Oh!

Stop, Rick! Stop. I'll shoot. I swear I will.

- Mr. Benson, what happens next? - I don't know.

I don't know.

That's as far as I got.

Mr. Benson. Yes?

You know what I think? I think there's going to be another--

what would that make it, a switch on a switch on a switch on a switch on a switch...

On a switch on a switch... On a switch?

I thought I knew about movies, but working for Roger roussin was never like this.

Wonder if he knows about switches...

And switches on switches...

And switches on switches on switches.

I don't think so. If he did, it would change his whole life.

Suddenly, not only would they not be playing scrabble,

they would also not be playing Parcheesi.

I must say, the mind reels.

Anyway, you know what I think? yes.

You think she is not really a creature of the streets with a police record.

You think she's an American intelligence agent.

Well, miss Simpson, you happen to be wrong.

Our Gaby happens to be that most reliable, steadfast,

and you-cannot-possibly mess-with-no-matter-how-badly you-write-it character...

In all popular literature.

The prostitute with a heart of gold.

No. Actually, the "P" with the "H" of "G," is second-most.

The most is Frankenstein.

Sure. Someone who creates or remakes another human being...

And either falls in love with it or it destroys him.

It can go either way.

That's what gives it such flexibility.

Miss Simpson, did you ever realize...

That Frankenstein and my fair lady...

Are the same story?

One ends happily...

And the other one doesn't.

Think about that for a while.

[ Inhales deeply ]

You smell wonderful.

That's the bath oil.

When I took my bath this morning, I put some bath oil in.

Only a few drops, of course.

For which I am most grateful, for both our sakes.

[ Clears throat ] now, uh, where were we?

Bang, bang, bang! that's where we were.

Or rather, where you were.

She was standing with a gun, and he was moving toward her.

I don't see how Frankenstein and my fair lady are the same.

Oh, yes, I do.

Professor Higgins created Liza, and Dr. Frankenstein created the monster.

Oh, yes. Of course.

But don't tell anybody.

I'm saving it for the textbook on the art of screenplay writing.

Uh-huh. Yeah, well, uh... he's chased her through the jungle and all that stuff.

Blah, blah, blah. And, uh, past the bathtub--

if you think there's going to be a Richard Benson movie without a bathtub,

you're out of your head.

And into the bedroom.

She pulls out a gun, blah, blah, blah, blah,

and, uh...

My dear big magic-eyed,

bath-oil-scented miss Simpson,

is where we are.

Slowly... Rick continues toward her. [ Typing ]

Go ahead. Pull the trigger.

Don't reach for your gun. I'm warning you.

Cigarette? thanks.

Light?

Well, Rick...

Do you mind if I get out of these wet shoes?

And so my big magic-eyed Gaby...

Who came to Paris to...

Live...

Turns out to be a spy for the police,

an informer,

a common stool pigeon.

No, Rick. Don't say it!

It's that devil gillet. Oh, how I hate him!

He's relentless!

He'll stop at nothing until he tracks you down.

He'll never forgive himself for what happened last year in tangier...

Or the year before in Hong Kong.

You are his obsession!

He is a mad, overweight captain Ahab...

Searching down you, his Moby dick, his white whale.

- And you? - me?

I'm nothing.

A creature of the streets with a police record as long as your arm.

He had me paroled just for this-- to be the luscious and irresistible bait...

Squirming on the end of the hook he has prepared.

If I do not extract from you the plan that you have been building...

Step by painful step for the last year,

my life, well, it's over.

Back I go behind the bars. Maedchen in uniformonce more.

No longer Gabrielle nor Gaby,

but simply a number.

If, however, I succeed--

- and if you succeed? - freedom!

What exactly do you have to do to extract this plan?

Anything.

Anything? anything.

It's not so hard. I, too, in my own way, am a highly paid professional.

Well, not so highly paid as you, perhaps, but still a professional.

We're two of a kind, you and I.

There's no reason for us to be enemies. We can perhaps be...

Friends.

Perhaps.

[ Richard ] their two bodies, now moving as one, [ Typing ]

Roll like turbulent breakers crashing on an undiscovered shore.

And now... Now... [ Typing continues ]

We slowly... And lingeringly...

Dissolve.

Gracious.

Exactly, miss Simpson. Well said.

You might even add "heavens to Betsy."

What's the matter? don't you like it?

Oh, I-i like it, uh, but, uh, do you think you can get away with it?

Get away with it? get away with what?

Well, it's just that scene with them in the bed like that--

it's, uh, rather suggestive.

Don't you think the censors will object?

How can they possibly object?

We dissolved, didn't we? yes, but--

miss Simpson, as I said before,

a dissolve is a most useful device.

Not only can it take you from one place to another,

but it also leaves what's happening on the screen to your imagination.

Now, if I were you, miss Simpson,

I would stop going to those sinful art theaters...

And start seeing more good wholesome American family-type pictures.

I don't know what you and the censors think they're doing on that bed,

but I take the position that they're playing...

Parcheesi.

[ Dice rattle ]

As much as I've enjoyed our little game,

it's almost 8:30.

Time for the climax of our glorious day.

We must be off.

Off? Where to?

You know perfectly well where.

To the costume party at the Eiffel Tower to finish the job.

No, Rick, you mustn't. You can't go through with the plan, whatever it is.

Gillet will be there and the place will be surrounded by police.

Gillet was in tangier last year. The entire city was surrounded by police.

Now, if you'll excuse me--

where are you going?

To the wardrobe department to find something for us to wear.

[ Water splashing ]

Quite all right. I always carry of packet of bubble bath in my purse,

and I'm getting on swimmingly.

Howdy...

Stranger.

You must be the new schoolmarm.

I hate to rush you, ma'am,

but it's gettin' late.

How long will it take you to get outta that tub,

into this costume and out to the car?

Absolutely no time at all.

Now, according to my master plan, the time has come...

For me to take the most dangerous step of all.

Yes, Rick?

I must trust you and tell you the details.

I can trust you, can't I, Gaby?

How can you ask, Rick?

After our Parcheesi game this afternoon, I am yours forever and ever and ever.

Can I trust you, Gaby? can I really trust you?

[ Exhales deeply ]

In the back of this car there are 28 cans of motion picture film.

The party at the Eiffel Tower is being given by the producer of the picture.

You can tell me the plan in a minute, Rick.

It's a long drive to the Eiffel Tower,

and traffic is heavy.

[ Typewriter clacks ]

Mr. Benson.

Rick.

Gaby, maybe, but I'm not--

well, I'm not that kind of a girl.

Oh, I can't stand girls who say things like that.

Oh, dear.

I guess maybe we are that kind of a girl.

[ Richard exhales deeply ] exterior.

Eiffel Tower. Night.

Rick and Gaby have been driving and driving and driving.

[ Gabrielle ] through all that marvelous traffic.

Mmm. [ kissing noises ]

The tower is ablaze-- Richard...

How can I type if you're going to--

all right. All right.

The tower is ablaze, and the chauffeur-driven limousines are pulling up--

[ typing ] miss Simpson, how can I dictate if you're going to-- mmm.

Trust me, darling.

I do. We go.

[ Richard ] and now, darling, Rick and Gaby make their way to the elevator,

which will carry them and us to the inevitable party scene...

So dear to the hearts of movie directors everywhere.

It's summertime, and the vita is dolce,

breakfast is at Tiffany's and everybody is high.

** [ Latin jazz ] [ Laughter and commotion ]

[ Bystanders laughing ]

[ Richard ] and now that the director has distracted the audience...

With these totally extraneous vignettes,

he reluctantly returns to the plot...

And another new character-- the producer, host and victim,

who looks remarkably like my producer and victim, Mr. Alexander meyerheim.

** [ music continues ]

If you will look to the left just a hang as casually as possible,

you will see that idiot gillet...

Dressed appropriately enough as an executioner.

Ready, darling? ready, darling.

Excuse me for a moment, darling.

You're late. Untrue, gillet.

Everything is going precisely according to plan.

And the plan. Do you have it? of course.

While not exactly highly paid, I'm at least...

A professional.

[ Conversation inaudible ]

Well? if you will be good enough to read this,

I believe the entire situation will become clear immediately.

At this very moment, he's delivering the ransom note.

The ransom note? exactly.

He has in the trunk of his car 28 reels of film.

They are the negative and only existing work print...

Of the producer's just completed $6-million spectacle,

the girl who stole the Eiffel Tower.

You are certain you have both the negative and the only work print?

Absolutely.

And it is your serious intention to destroy them?

Unless you turn over to me, at once,

the key to your safe deposit box in your bank in Casablanca.

My dear boy,

I haven't the faintest idea who you are,

but you are beautiful.

[ Chuckling ] absolutely beautiful.

[ Laughs ] not only that, you've saved my life.

The girl who stole the Eiffel Tower is, frankly, a disaster.

The title, by the way, is symbolic.

She doesn't actually steal it. At least I don't think she does.

But the end's so confusing, it's hard to tell.

Anyway, the script is so ghastly that it could never possibly be released.

I was finished, done for. This party tonight...

Was planned as a final farewell gesture.

A sort of swan song.

At midnight, when the check was presented, it was my plan to sign it,

add a lavish, if purely imaginary, tip,

and then, as the fireworks were exploding in the black velvet sky,

to hurl myself from the top of this grotesque edifice.

And now, suddenly, at the last minute, in the Nick of time--

don't tell me there isn't someone up there who watches over whimsical movie producers--

you appear!

[ Chuckles ] unbelievable!

If you swear to me that you will destroy this film,

hook, line and sinker,

not only will I give you the key...

To my safe deposit box in Casablanca,

but we will split the insurance... 60/40.

Fifty/fifty.

[ Laughs ] oh, my darling.

My darling boy, if ever you should consider going into the motion picture business,

do not hesitate to call me.

I've been searching for a partner like you all my life.

We understand each other perfectly.

You're so beautiful.

It's a rugged, but curiously sensitive face.

It's so beautiful! [ Laughing ]

His plane is waiting for him at le Bourget Airport.

His chauffeur is even now warming up the engines.

Good girl.

Tomorrow your entire police record...

Will disappear oh-so-mysteriously from my files,

and you will be free.

Thank you, my dear gillet.

** [ go-go ]

And now, gillet, if you will be good enough to quite casually dance me across the floor...

And over to the gentlemen's lounge--

you fool! you little fool.

He using you like he did that poor unfortunate girl last year in tangier.

Keep dancing, gillet.

I should have known. I should have known that man is irresistible to women.

He is, my dear gillet. Keep dancing!

You fool. You little fool.

**

I've worked the whole thing out with my analyst.

I don't really hate inspector gillet.

I just feel sorry for him.

He insists on projecting himself into the starring role...

And relegating me to some minor character.

Got me waiting for him outside the Eiffel Tower. Okay.

Got me saying lines like "brilliant, inspector. Brilliant,"

or, uh, "I have the car right here, sir."

[ Rick ] Maurice. Inspector,

I am Philippe.

It doesn't matter. Rick is making his escape at Bourget Airport.

Where is my car?

Uh, I have the car right here, sir.

You read that line beautifully, Maurice.

Inspector, please. I-- I am not Maurice.

I am Philippe.

My dear boy, you are a minor character,

and your name is of no importance.

Now, you were saying something about the car.

I have the car right here, sir. Ayyy.

[ Tires squealing ] faster, Maurice! faster!

Faster, Philippe. Faster.

I keep forgetting. My god, you are a dull character,

even in the nontaxing role of second policeman.

Bourget airport! quickly!

[ Siren ]

But if you are the inspector, then who--

you are only third policeman and shouldn't have any lines at all, so shut up and drive.

Do you know what this is? the key!

The key to our future and $1 million in small, unmarked bills worth of happiness...

For the two of us.

[ Siren continues ]

Inspector gillet of interpol here calling all voitures.

Faster! Faster!

Uh, the gate, sir. It is closed.

Then go through it, you fool!

[ Siren continues ]

You wait here, Maurice. I'll take him alone. Inspector, can I speak to you?

You're Rick!

But I don't understand. Of course not. You're not supposed to understand.

Can't you get it through your mind? you're only a bit part.

Nobody cares anything about you.

You're a mere literary convenience,

someone for the hero to punch in the jaw at the correct moment.

And that moment, I'm happy to state, has finally arrived!

[ Siren ]

Stop, Rick!

Stop or I'll shoot!

Philippe!

- Philippe! - [ gunshots ]

Mauri-- Philippe.

[ Sirens approaching ]

[ Sirens continue ]

[ Sobs ] darling.

It's all right.

Perhaps it's better this way.

- [ Sirens stop ] - no, no, no, my darling.

We'll make it to Casablanca.

And when we get there, we'll buy a darling little castle.

With its own-- unh-- private zoo.

And will there be giraffes?

Of course... giraffes.

[ Whimpers ] oh, dear.

[ Whimpers ]

This is what it means to be a cop.

You're first policeman now.

[ Richard ] thus, having proved once again that crime does not pay,

unless you happen to be me.

[ Typing ]

[ Richard ] fade out.

The end.

Well, there it is.

All hundred and thirty-odd pages of it.

Finished with...

Hours to spare.

It's wonderful, Richard,

only does it have to end that way?

I mean, Philippe could miss when he shoots.

And then Rick could tell the inspector where the stolen film cans are...

And give him back the key and...

He could explain that now that he's met Gaby,

he's retiring from the liar-and-a-thief business.

And then the inspector might let them go away together.

It could be the last big switch on a switch.

Couldn't it?

[ Sighs ] it won't work.

You see, he is a liar and a thief.

And he's been one for too long.

He can't retire now.

In addition to which, he has become, I'm afraid,

a hack.

He may think he's all those things, but she knows he's not.

What gives her that curious idea?

She's been with him constantly for the last few days.

She's seen him when he was shaking with terror, exhausted, ready to quit.

She's watched him pull himself together again and...

She's also seen him be warm...

And tender...

And funny.

Not famous, international-wit funny,

but really funny.

Do you think she's an idiot?

Do you think she doesn't know what kind of man he is...

Or what he needs?

And what he needs is l-o-v-e?

Uh-uh.

It's too late.

He's 43 years old.

He will be this October.

Been married twice,

both times disastrously.

And there have been too many years of...

Too much dough,

too much bad writing...

And too much whiskey.

He's got nothing left inside to give.

Even if he could, which he can't--

but that's not true, Richard. You can. You have.

I just love it. No, you don't.

It's lousy.

In any case, the problem is...

[ Exhales deeply ] you're not in love with the script.

You're in love with me.

And why shouldn't you be?

Suddenly waltzing into your life...

Comes this charming and relatively handsome stranger.

Me.

Smooth as silk with a highly practiced line of chatter...

Specifically designed to knock relatively unsophisticated chicks...

Like you, miss Simpson,

right on their ears.

Which, I'm terribly afraid, I've done.

Well...

If it's the last decent thing I do in this world,

and it very well may be,

I'm going to fix that.

I'm going to send you packing, miss Simpson...

[ Clatter ]

Before I cause you serious...

And irrevocable...

Harm.

You want the truth?

Of course you don't.

I'll give it to you anyway.

I do not give one damn about anything!

Certainly not my work, as you so touchingly and ingenuously call it.

No, that's not true.

There is something I care about.

Money. And good whiskey.

I am, as you've probably noticed,

rather fond of that.

[ Chuckles ]

But my work?

That's a hideous little something...

That must occur five days out of the year...

So I can spend the other 360...

In the manner to which I have become--

and fully intend to remain--

accustomed.

To you, Richard Benson.

To you... and your glorious professional know-how.

[ Exhales deeply ]

Long may you wave.

And may you go on...

[ Sighs ]

Fooling the people.

[ Exhales deeply ]

** [ "la marseillaise" ]

** [ continues ]

[ Bird chirping ]

[ Chirping continues ]

Miss Simpson? Mm.

Miss Simpson.

Gabrielle?

[ Chirping continues ]

[ Spraying mist ]

[ Bird chirping ]

[ Bird chirping ]

** [ Latin jazz ]

**

**

**

**

pardon, Maurice. Maurice?

No, no. Philippe.

Oh, come on. You don't even know when a joke is over.

[ Speaking French ]

Ahh. why, Mr. Benson.

What are you doing here?

Come on, miss Simpson. Stop overacting. You know very well what I'm doing here.

Of all the hokey, cornball, grade-b picture devices--

she forgot the bird. She forgot the bird.

I don't know what you're talking about. Oh, yes, you do.

Girl leaves bird, boy has to come looking for girl.

I've written that scene a thousand times myself.

Always works, of course. That's point one.

Point two. How dare you quit me when we haven't even started?

Point three. I love you.

Miss Simpson, if you don't feel that you're up to your part of the job,

just tell me and I can get somebody else.

Oh, no. I'm perfectly capable.

Very well then.

I hold here in my hand a hundred and thirty-some odd pages...

Of contrived and utterly preposterous, totally unmotivated--

ooh! If you could only say it in pictures--

come on. We've got a screenplay to write.

We're not starting from scratch, of course. We've got two great characters.

She's sweet and bright and very, very beautiful.

And he, well-- [ Blurts French ]

Since he's gone straight, he's rather dull.

We've got to find something to jazz him up, find something for him to do.

Uh, some physical action. [ Speaking French ]

Uh, to accentuate the masculine image.

There is something in American movies.

It's a terrible cliche, but you did use it in the script.

Oh, yes. [ Speaking French ]

Whoo!

I think maybe we should, like, split!

[ Commotion ]

** [ stops ]

Aah! [ Giggles ]

** [ marching band ]

[ Whistles blowing ]

[ Whistles continue ]

[ Popping ]

** [ waltz ]

Richard, this new movie you're going to write, what is it about?

It's a love story, naturally.

It will have a happy ending, won't it? He won't get shot running for the plane?

On the contrary, miss Simpson.

** [ soaring ] The music soars, and there,

totally oblivious of the fireworks, the fountains,

and the holiday-mad throngs,

they fall happily and tenderly into each other's arms.

I know what's going to happen next. You do?

The two enormous and highly paid heads come together...

For that ultimate and inevitable moment.

The final, earth-moving,

studio-rent-paying, theater-filling,

popcorn-selling--

popcorn-selling--