All language subtitles for The Twilight Zone s02e04 A Thing About Machines.eng

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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.

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 back of it,

and you 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 because
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...

all right.

That will be enough of that.

Do you hear me?

I said that will
be enough of that!

Stop!

Stop!

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?

Anyplace 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.

Good-bye, 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...
yousee a doctor.

I am a logical, rational,
intelligent man.

I know what i see.

I know what i hear.

And for the past three months,
i've been seeing and hearing

a collection of mechanical
frankensteinian 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.

Get out!

"Get out of here, finchley."

Getoutof 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.

Get out of
here, finchley.

Whydon'tyou get
out of here, finchley?

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!

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...

hmm. 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?

Whydon'tyou get
out of here, finchley?

Whydon't you get out of here, finchley?

Whydon'tyou get
out of here, finchley?

Get out of here, finchley!

Get out of here, finchley!

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.

And you ought to check
that emergency brake

the first chance you get,
understand, mister?

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 underpaidgendarme

to forcibly eject you.

Idiots.

"Get out of here, finchley."

No.

Get out of here, finchley.

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

Whydon'tyou get out of here,
finchley?

Get out of here, finchley!

Get out of here.

Get out of here, finchley.

No, i won't!

I won't!

Get out of here!

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.

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.

Captioned by media access
group at wgbh access. Wgbh. Org

rod serling, the creator
oftwilight 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,

and next week
onthe 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 bowman.

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.

Come to the aid of your party.

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