Original subtitles

You suggest in your novel that women are

all masochists, Mr. Luke.

Is that your personal experience?

I present women as I know them to

be.

The success of Women Weeping would suggest that

I'm right.

But surely at this point in time when

women are gaining leading positions in so many

areas...

That will affect the positions they take up

in the sex war.

In that ongoing action, women are still a

weaker sex who long to be dominated by

men.

Is that a rather old-fashioned view?

A rather old-fashioned species.

Women have been the weaker sex in the

beginning of our existence.

Are you suggesting that a few years of

voting and unisex have fundamentally changed?

Well, I don't agree.

You may wear well-tailored suits and smoke

cigars, but at heart you're still the same

eminently crushable creatures you've always been.

You're a real tiger, sweetie, when you got

to have a bottle of bourbon inside your

bra.

Well, whether we agree with Sam Luke's reactionary

ideas or not, we all have to agree

that Women Weeping is a runaway success.

And who argues the success in New York?

Who indeed?

You know, it's a pity Zara isn't here

to bask in your reflected glory like a

good little wife.

Good little wife indeed.

You know, she wouldn't hear her coming to

New York.

A vulgar circus, she considers this.

Apotheosis of my career.

Little wife Zara doesn't deserve any glory.

But I deserve a drink.

Where is it?

I wonder.

Ah, Toots, you're impossibly macho without her.

Well, I gotta go look after the shop.

Uh, Joni!

Come in, come in.

Come by with those copies for the mayor,

okay?

Lovely!

Sammy, I promise Zara no more.

What do you want it, sir?

Where it was before Miss Jansen had it

removed.

It's full of goodies, I hope.

Yeah, you got the worst in them, Mr.

Luke.

Yes, you'll like your book, sir.

Oh, thank you.

I ain't read it yet, but it sounds

real good to me.

Uh, sign here.

We gotta keep them women in their place,

eh, sir?

Keep fighting the good fight.

Right on, Mr. Luke.

Have a nice day, now.

Thanks.

Well, drink your dry, darling, and the rest

of British luck to your liver.

Sammy, you are such a naughty boy!

Big boy's heart, Clodagh.

So I shall inform the lovely Zara if

she ever gets around to ringing me.

Now, remember, Joni is coming by with the

presentation copies for you to sign for the

mayor and his staff.

And don't forget to write, I love New

York, huh?

And have a nice day, of course.

And have a nice day, of course.

Bye.

Here she is.

Get in there quick, kid, and keep him

off the booze.

Oh, you're kidding.

How?

Come on, you'll think of something, sweet pants.

Hello?

Zara!

You might have rang me yesterday.

Oh.

So how is your mother?

Well, her timing's always perfect.

I don't know why you didn't give some

money to look after her.

I told you I'd pay.

I've got money now, lots and lots of

money.

All those lean years, as soon as I

land the jackpot, you abandon me.

Hmm?

Well, I'm mostly on television during the day,

alone, except for the chat show host and

40 million people.

Everybody loves me here.

Even the guerrilla in immigration knew about the

book.

It's the friendliest city in the world.

Look, I've got to go now.

Joni's here.

Joni, the colonial secretary, Man Friday.

She's blonde, petite, and gorgeous.

You should be here to keep an eye

on me.

Yeah, I know you trust me.

Sometimes I wish you didn't trust me.

Hello?

Hello?

I think your wife's lovely, Mr. Luke.

Zara.

Who is that?

I can't hear you.

I saw you on television last night.

I'm dead.

And have a nice...

I have to get these back to the

mayor's office, Mr...

Was anything wrong?

Some nut?

Hello, operator, was that an outside call?

Pardon me, Mr. Luke?

I said, was that...

Never mind.

All right, sir, have a nice day now.

If we can get these over to the

mayor's office today, we could get two or

three paragraphs tomorrow.

Child!

Child!

What care we for odd paragraphs?

We are a television celebrity, Joni.

We are unamused by grubby little journalists.

Or by cranked telephone calls.

Now, tell me about yourself.

I expect you're a lovely American, more than

average girl, who is searching for a meaningful,

ongoing relationship, and meanwhile, fantasises rather a lot,

am I right?

Oh, gosh, Mr. Luke, you really do understand

women.

Call me Sam, or Sammy Dearest, and drink

up.

Drink up, my pet.

Well, after that, I just couldn't get it

together.

I mean, that so-and-so really messed

me up.

My head was like one of those glass

balls with a snowstorm going on inside it,

you know what I mean?

And every time I thought what a sucker

I'd been.

How dumb.

I mean, how dumb can you get?

After that, I just wasn't into men.

Not even when I fantasised.

Fantasise?

Fantasise?

On to his thighs.

But here's the strange thing.

Though I hated him, for all the hurt

he'd caused me, I sort of missed it

in a way.

It was like there was an empty space

where the pain used to be.

Oh, my God.

How you see these things.

It's like you've got x-ray eyes, Sam.

Well, that's enough about me.

I'm not very interesting.

Just sort of normal, I guess.

Let's talk about you, Sammy.

Sammy?

Sam!

You sexist p- Yeah,

yeah.

Who is it?

You gotta pay for it, Luke.

You're done on us.

Hello, who's that?

Hello?

God almighty, who the hell was that?

Sounded like a man imitating a woman.

The city is full of nutcases.

Have a nice night.

Mr. Luke,

sir.

Mr. Luke, sir.

All right, all right, I'm coming.

Hey, morning, Mr. Luke.

Got something for your special delivery.

Marked urges.

What time is it?

Uh, just after 11, sir.

Oh, Lord.

I've missed something, I'm sure.

Hey, would you believe it?

My grandmother saw you on TV last night.

She's 83, but sharp as a tack.

Oh, say, open it for me, will you?

Oh, yeah, sure, Mr. Luke.

Anyway, she thinks you're number one, sir.

I'm gonna buy her a copy of your

book.

Why bother?

I'll just have one of these.

Oh, hey, that's great.

Hey, could you write something in it?

You could just sign it, to Grandma Ethel

from a friend, Sam.

It'll tickle her to death.

There's never been an ambition of mine to

tickle old ladies to death.

I'll try anything once.

A copy of your book, Mr. Luke.

And a letter.

It's marked personal.

I don't know.

Should I put it with the others?

Keep it.

Oh, hey, thanks a lot.

Could you write something in it?

Are you all right?

I think so.

What the hell's going on?

I wish I knew.

Who would want to do a thing like

that to you?

Just about any unliberated lady in New York,

I'd say.

Oh, my God, Mr. Luke, look.

Have a nice death.

What do you know?

But, baby, give this introspective a joke book.

That's all it was.

No one got hurt.

You, my dear Claudia, went on the receiving

end.

What about the message?

Have a nice death.

And those obscene folks, I tell you, it

is no joke.

I do not find it funny.

I wish you hadn't cleaned up the mess.

Bob could have taken pictures.

It would have made a great storey.

Why, and I hang myself in the lavatory,

Claudia dear, and Bob can take pictures of

that, too.

That's it.

Of course.

I'm not serious.

Don't be silly.

No.

I mean, you can never tell what these

jokers will do.

But we can protect you with publicity.

I'm calling a press conference tomorrow.

We're going to make this work for us.

You're going over big now, but a storey

like this, properly handled, everybody will want to

read Women Weeping.

I want to go home.

Dollface, you've got to look at this with

a cool professional eye.

Just remember, every time some crazy liberated broad

attacks you, you're going to collect the royalties

on another thousand copies of Women Weeping.

You're going to make Time, Newsweek, maybe even

60 Minutes, and that's the biggest hype there

is.

We're going through the roof, baby.

Claudia, dear, my life is being threatened.

I take that very seriously indeed.

Sure.

Thank you.

Everybody gets assassinated in this heathen country.

Well, I don't intend being a martyr to

my art.

The circus is concluded.

Clodagh, I'm staying in this hotel only long

enough for things to quieten down so I

can slip out of the back door and

run now.

Get me London.

England.

2589299.

We'll hire guards for you, and we'll search

anyone who comes near you, and I will

give you an increased royalty deal on your

next novel.

Really?

Yeah.

But you've got to stick with it, kid.

Just a few more days, and Women Weeping

will be number one.

I guarantee it.

Now, I must fly.

Give me no reply.

There must be.

Please give me a ring.

No problem.

Bye, Boobie, and stop worrying.

All this is worth a fortune.

Zara!

Give her my love.

Now, I must run.

Zara, look, you've got to come over right

away.

I'm getting all sorts of unpleasant threats.

Keep that whimpering, you happy do whatever you

have to.

Oh, no problem.

I think I'm beginning to relate to Sam.

Doesn't anybody just do it anymore?

Have fun.

You don't understand, Zara.

I'm being threatened.

My life is being threatened, Zara.

I see.

You think it's a joke, do you?

Well, in that case, have a nice day.

Sometimes I have this vision that women are

an alien species.

They're probably from some black planet on the

outer edges of the galactic system.

Centuries ago, they sprayed the Earth with amnesia

gas and infiltrated our planet, and we woke

up believing they had always been here.

Now we're witnessing their final victory as they

take over our professions, our clothes, our potency,

our sexual positions, and most of our worst

habits.

When they're alone, they communicate with one another

in a disgusting secret language which sounds like

Japanese mixed with the cries of small birds.

Is it too late to confront and announce

them?

Perhaps it is.

And yet, despised man must make one final,

if hopeless, effort.

Well, Sam, what can I say after that?

Except that Stag, the magazine for real men,

is right behind you.

Thanks for a great piece, Sam.

Oh, that was so neat, Sam.

I just loved it.

Fill me up, my pet.

So, we wrap up.

Thanks again, Sam.

Our readers are gonna love it, and I

guess it won't do Weeping Women any harm

either.

Women weeping.

Whatever.

Thanks a million, Bob.

You've just gotta be the greatest interviewer in

the business.

Well, I think you're cute too, honey.

Let me get you that drink.

Or maybe...

Or maybe what?

Well, I had this boyfriend once who was

terrific at pressure points and massage.

What really does release all your tension, Sammy?

I could, you know, massage your neck or

something?

Well, that is if you like.

I mean, it is better for you than

a lot of toxic alcohol.

A little light massage?

Why not?

And a drink.

Sometimes I feel like my whole body is

just one terrific erogenous zone, you know?

I know, dear.

I know.

Stop talking.

Oh, Sam.

We really are relating so well.

Oh, no.

That'll be Clodagh screaming.

Yes?

Mr. Sam Luke.

Mr. Luke is busy right now.

Can I help?

Uh-uh.

This is personal.

Okay.

Is it a man or a woman?

Couldn't really tell.

You take it.

Mr. Luke is real busy.

I'll take your message.

The message for Mr. Luke is have a

nice death.

He just said have a nice death.

Okay, Clodagh, tell her I'm going back to

London straight away.

Miss Jansen, please, right away.

Well, cut in.

Hello, Clodagh?

He's just had another call.

No, I took it.

Terrifying.

Look, he's packing.

Straight back to a little old country where

a man may still express a civilised opinion

without being picketed or threatened with assassination.

Zahra was right.

I should never have come here.

Never, never.

I'll tell him.

Okay.

Sam?

Little old lovely bankrupt Britain, here I come.

Sam, Clodagh called Zahra.

She'll be here tomorrow.

Zahra?

She's coming after all.

Oh, thank God.

Mr. Luke, sir.

What do you want?

Your people sent over your fan mail, Mr.

Luke.

God, you look awful, Mr. Luke.

You okay?

Don't ask.

Just don't ask.

I started to read your book.

I just love it where she asks him

to...

Thank you very much.

God, you really do look sick, Mr. Luke.

Should I call a doctor?

No.

Well, have a nice day anyway.

Day's over.

It's evening.

Yeah, sure.

Thanks a lot, Mr. Luke.

Have a nice day now.

It's evening?

Do you understand?

Do you agree that it's evening here?

Yeah.

Well, yeah.

Sure.

Evening.

You take care of yourself, huh?

My sign is Sagittarius and I'm sure that

you are a Scorpio and very dominant like

Richard in your book.

I think he is the most truly male

character since Red Butler.

I'm sure that if we could meet, we

would find that we related to one another

really well.

It's the best thread I've had all day.

Sammy?

Sammy darling?

Zara?

Where's Zara?

I need Zara, not you, Liz Jansen.

Zara can't help you now, you drunken, sexist

pig.

What the hell is

happening?

You're about to have a horrible accident.

You?

Nice dance, Sammy.

Look, I just want to tell you how

sorry I am.

I keep remembering the last time I brought

him his letters when he got so upset.

I mean, my God, he looked awful, but

I never thought he'd do a thing like

that.

I should have stopped.

I should have made an excuse to come

back in and clear up the glasses or

something.

I might have talked him out of it.

The girl in switchboard two, she said he

sounded desperate.

Yes, thank you.

That's very kind of you.

Oh, I can't believe we're free at last,

my darling.

After all these years.

Well, we are, my love.

Free and very, very rich.

It's lovely, but I must try to stop

thinking about poor Sammy's awful accident.

Oh, well, let me help you, angel.