## 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 #
# Itjust isn't fair #
# You must #
# Forgive #
# Thee way I stare #
# For never will these eyes behold #
# A sight that could replace #
# That face #
# That face... #
# 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 any angle #
# 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
Unfortunately, Miss Simpson...
...we are not writing a musical.
Mr Benson, you did all these pages last night? All by yourself?
While some of us were snug in our bed,
other more productive citizens were up
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 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...
How do you spell ingenuous?
L-N-G-E-N-U-O-U-S.
I was afraid of that.
In addition to the nine and a half yards of pages I wrote,
I discovered some errors in the earlier pages,
which I corrected, dealing basically with the character of Rick.
I found I had, in a moment of insecurity...
...underestimated the brilliance of the man.
No simple safe-cracker 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.
That brings us back to where we were.
Rick and Gabby have demolished a glorious lunch
and it's almost four o'clock, time for the car to arrive.
Page 14.
Sit down and brace yourself.
Here comes the switch on the switch.
In a minute and a half, you and the audience will gasp
as you realise you've been fooled.
Things are not as they seem. Not at all. In fact,
- the whole situation is reversed. - Mr Benson...
Miss Simpson, please don't sit there
gazing at me in mute adoration.
Read the script.
Rick and Gabby are sitting with brandy glasses before them.
Her big magic eyes are shiny...
I can't imagine a more marvellous lunch.
- I don't know how to thank you. - Please.
And now I'll tell you the plans for the rest of the afternoon.
The rest of the afternoon?
Exactly. My car and chauffeur will pick us up here at four,
for a tour of Paris to see how the celebration's progressing,
a brief stop at my office to pick something up,
and then on to a party in my honour
at the restaurant in the Eiffel Tower.
- Pardon. You are Monsieur Rick? - Oui.
Your chauffeur is here, sir. He has an important message for you.
Merci.
Pardon me for a moment.
It's almost four o'clock.
I know, I know.
What's the matter? Are you mad? Bringing a girl on a job like this!
Our arrangement, François. You do the driving and I do the planning.
But... 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 Gillette.
What is he doing in Paris?
Do you think he... suspects something?
Of course not. If so, I'm one step ahead.
Why do you think I picked up the girl?
Because she has big magic eyes.
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 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 Gillette, our paths cross again.
My dear Rick, what an extraordinary coincidence.
Monsieur Gillette is in a curious way a business associate of mine.
Enchanted. Any friend of Rick's is a friend of mine.
Please, enjoy your lunch. And I beg of you, watch the calories.
This, my friend, is a moment to savour.
For three years I've waited, and 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... Sir, it was flawless, brilliant.
I came in on a motorbike in wheat-coloured...
Now, please, don't get carried away.
I remind you, you are not the star of this drama
but merely a supporting player. A very minor one, at that.
If life, like the theatre, came equipped with programmes,
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.
Can we trust 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 chink in Rick's armour. 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. Rick is a master.
No policeman alive can stay on his trail if he wishes to elude him.
Yes...
- No. - No.
I shall have a glorious lunch, everything to be cooked, of course,
in this remarkable non-fattening safflower oil,
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.
To the studio, François, please.
Studio?
I said, I have to stop at my office and pick something up there.
Have you been inside a motion-picture studio?
No. Are you in the movie business?
In a way.
The studio is particularly marvellous 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.
Hmm, nice-ish.
Isn't it?
I don't understand. Are you an actor,
a writer, producer, director?
Nothing so creative, I'm afraid.
My interest in movies is purely financial.
Gracious.
I can't tell you how exciting this is...
This is for me. I just love movies.
Not those terrible New Wave pictures where nothing happens.
But I like...
...erm, Westerns.
Good old-fashioned pictures with switches
and switches on switches. Things like that.
Do you have an emery board on you? One of those things
- to file the nails? - I think so.
Thank you.
I particularly like movies with complicated robberies in, don't you?
Absolutely.
I know this sounds childish, but next to pictures about robberies,
I think I like horror pictures best. I always have.
As a little girl, I was madly 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. 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 half an hour.
Giraffes and movies... It's a small world, isn't it?
Let me see that!
No, no. Please, Rick, you're hurting me.
The lipstick. It's been written with.
The napkin! The napkin you gave Gillette. What was on it?
What was on it?
You...
Stop, Rick, stop. Or 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 we need another...
What would that be? A switch on a switch
on a switch on a switch. On a switch.
I thought I knew movies, but Roger Roussin was never like this.
I wonder if he knows about switches. And switches on switches.
And switches on switches on switches. I don't think so.
It would change his whole life.
Not only would they not play Scrabble they would also not play Parcheesi.
I must say, the mind reels.
Anyway, you know what I think?
Yes. You think she is not 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 Gabby happens to be that most reliable, steadfast,
and you-cannot-miss-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 secondmost. 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 realise
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.
You smell wonderful.
That's the bath oil. When I took my bath earlier, I put bath oil in.
Only a few drops, of course.
For which I am most grateful. For both our sakes.
Ahem. And now, erm, where were we?
Bang, bang, bang! That's where we were.
Or rather, where you were.
She was by the bed with a gun, 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 Eliza 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.
Ah-ha, yeah, well...
He's chased her through the jungle, all that. Blah, blah, blah.
Passed the bathtub. If you want 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...
My dear big magic-eyed,
bath-oil-scented Miss Simpson,
is where we are.
Slowly,
Rick continues toward her.
Go ahead. Pull the trigger.
Don't reach for your gun, I'm warning you.
- Cigarette? - Thanks. Light?
Well, Rick...
...d'you mind if I get out of these wet shoes?
And so my big magic-eyed Gabby,
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 Gillette.
Oh, how I hate him. He is relentless!
He'll stop at nothing until he tracks you down.
He'll never forgive himself for 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 long police record.
He had me paroled to be the luscious and irresistible bait
squirming on the hook he has prepared.
If I do not extract the plan you have been building
step by painful step for the last year,
my life, well, it's over.
Back I go behind the bars, matron in uniform once more,
no longer Gabrielle or Gabby 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.
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...
Their two bodies now moving as one
roll like turbulent breakers crashing on an undiscovered shore.
And now, now...
... we slowly...
... and lingeringly...
... dissolve...
Gracious.
Exactly, Miss Simpson. Well said.
You might even add heavens to Betsy.
What's wrong, don't you like it?
Oh, I like it, but can you get away with it?
Get away with it? Get away with what?
Well, that scene with them on the bed is 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 theatres,
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.
As much as I've enjoyed our little game, it's almost eight-thirty.
Time for the climax of our glorious day. We must be off.
Off? Where to?
You know perfectly well where.
The costume party at the Eiffel Tower, to finish the job.
You mustn't. You can't go through with the plan, whatever it is.
Gillette will be there and the place will be surrounded by police.
Gillette 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.
Quite alright. I always carry
a packet of bubble bath in my purse and I'm getting on swimmingly.
Howdy...
...stranger.
You must be the new schoolma'am.
I hate to rush you, ma'am, but it's getting late.
How long will it take to get out of that tub,
into this costume and out to the car?
Absolutely no time at all...
And now, according to my master plan,
the time has come 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, Gabby?
How can you ask, Rick? After our Parcheesi game this afternoon,
I am yours for ever and ever and ever.
Can I trust you, Gabby?
Can I really trust you?
In the back of this car are 28 cans of motion-picture film.
The Eiffel Tower party is being given by the picture's producer.
Tell me the plan in a minute, Rick. It's a long drive to the Eiffel Tower
and the traffic is heavy.
Mr Benson...
Rick.
Gabby, 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.
Exterior. Eiffel Tower. Night.
Rick and Gabby have been driving and driving and driving.
Through all that marvellous traffic.
The tower is ablaze.
Richard, how can I type if you're going to...?
Alright, alright...
The tower is ablaze
and chauffeur-driven limousines are pulling up.
Miss Simpson, how can I dictate if you're going to...? Hmm...
Trust me, darling.
I do. Here we go.
And now, darling, Rick and Gabby 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 summer time and the vita is dolce.
Breakfast is at Tiffany's and everybody is high.
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.
If you look left, just behind you, as casually as possible,
you will see that idiot Gillette
dressed appropriately enough as an executioner.
- Ready, darling? - Ready, darling.
Excuse me for a moment, darling.
You're late.
Untrue, Gillette. Everything is going precisely according to plan.
- And the plan, you have it? - Of course.
While not exactly highly paid, I'm at least... a professional.
Well?
If you will kindly 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 six-million-dollar 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 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. Whoo!
Absolutely beautiful.
Not only that, you've saved my life.
The Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower is frankly a disaster.
The title is symbolic. She doesn't actually steal it.
Or I don't think she does.
The end's so confusing it's hard to tell.
Anyway, the script is so ghastly 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 cheque was presented, I planned 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!
I can't believe it.
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.
50-50.
Oh, my darling, darling boy. If ever you consider going into
the motion-picture business, do not hesitate to call me.
I've searched for a partner like you all my life.
We understand each other perfectly.
You are so beautiful...!
It's a rugged but curiously sensitive face.
It's so beautiful...!
His plane is waiting for him at Le Bourget Airport.
His chauffeur's 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 Gillette.
And now, Gillette, if you could quite casually
dance me across the floor and over to the gentlemen's lounge.
You fool. You little fool. He's using you
like he did that poor unfortunate girl last year in Tangier.
Keep dancing, Gillette.
I should have known! I should. That man is irresistible to women.
He is, my dear Gillette.
Keep dancing.
You fool. You little fool.
I've worked the whole thing out with my analyst.
I don't really hate Inspector Gillette,
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? OK.
Got me saying lines like, "Brilliant, Inspector, brilliant,"
or, erm, "I have the car here, sir."
Maurice!
Inspector, I am Philippe!
It doesn't matter. Rick is making his escape at Bourget Airport.
Where is my car?
Erm, I have the car right here, sir.
You read that line beautifully, Maurice.
Inspector, please. I...
I am not Maurice. I am Philippe.
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. Aiii...
- Faster, Maurice, faster! - Faster, Philippe, faster.
I keep forgetting. My God, you are a dull character.
Even in the non-taxing role of second policeman.
Bourget Airport, quickly!
But if you are the inspector who was...?
You are third policeman and should have no lines. Shut up and drive.
- Do you know what this is? - The key!
The key to our future. One million dollars
in small unmarked bills' worth of happiness for the two of us.
Inspector Gillette of Interpol here. Calling all "voitures".
Faster! Faster!
Erm, the gate, sir, it is closed.
Go through it, you fool.
- Wait here. I'll take him alone. - Inspector, can I speak to you?
You're Rick.
- I don't understand... - No, you're not supposed to.
Can't you get it through your mind?
You're only a bit part. Nobody cares 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.
Stop, Rick!
Stop or I'll shoot!
Philippe.
Philippe!
Mauri... Philippe.
Darling...
It's alright. Perhaps it's better this way.
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...
...private zoo.
And will there be giraffes?
Of course...
Giraffes.
If this is what it means to be a cop...
You're...
...first policeman now.
Thus having proved once again that crime does not pay,
unless you happen to be me.
Fade out.
The end.
Well, there it is.
All 130-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.
He could explain that now that he's met Gabby
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 the switch.
Couldn't it?
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 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.
Or will be this October.
He's been married twice,
both times disastrously,
and there have been too many years of... too much dough,
too much bad writing
and too much whisky.
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...
...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,
relatively handsome stranger.
Me.
Smooth as silk, with a highly practised 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.
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.
Well, that's not true.
There is something I care about. Money.
And good whisky.
I am, as you've probably noticed,
rather fond of that.
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.
Long may you wave.
And may you... go on...
...fooling...
...the people.
Miss Simpson?
Miss Simpson!
Gabrielle?
- Pardon, Maurice. - Maurice? No, no. Philippe.
Oh, you don't even know when a joke is over.
Qui cet homme?
C'est mon patron. Ne t'en fais pas.
Why, Mr Benson, what are you doing here?
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 mean. - 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 up to the job, tell me now. I'll get someone else.
Oh, no, I'm perfectly capable.
Very well, then, I hold here in my hand
130-some-odd pages of contrived
and utterly preposterous, totally unmotivated...
Oh, if you could only say it in pictures.
Come on, we've got a screenplay to write.
Not starting from scratch, of course. We've got two great characters.
She's sweet and bright and very, very beautiful, and he, well...
...he's gone straight, rather dull. We need something to jazz him up.
Find something for him to do, some physical action.
Madame est avec moi...
To accentuate the masculine image.
There's something in American movies, a terrible cliché,
but you did use it in the script.
Oh, yes...
I think maybe we should... like, split.
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? He won't be shot running for a plane?
On the contrary, Miss Simpson.
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 happens 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, theatre-filling,
popcorn-selling...