(POLICE SIREN WAILS)...
...(MAN) Yes, this is Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles, California.
It's about five o'clock in the morning.
That's the homicide squad, complete with detectives and newspapermen.
A murder's been reported from one of those houses in the 10000 block.
You'll read about it in the late editions.
You'll get it over your radio and on television,
because an old-time star is involved, one of the biggest.
But before you hear it all distorted and blown out of proportion,
before those Hollywood columnists get their hands on it,
maybe you'd like to hear the facts, the whole truth.
If so, you've come to the right party.
The body of a young man was found in the pool of her mansion,
with two shots in his back and one in his stomach. Nobody important.
Just a writer with a couple of B-pictures to his credit.
The poor dope. He always wanted a pool.
In the end, he got himself a pool, only the price turned out a little high.
Let's go back about six months and find the day when it all started.
I was living in an apartment house above Franklin and Ivar.
Things were tough at the moment.
I hadn't worked in a studio for a long time.
So I sat there grinding out original stories, two a week.
Only I seemed to have lost my touch.
Maybe they weren't original enough, maybe they were too original.
All I know is, they didn't sell.
(BUZZER)
Yep?
(BUZZER PERSISTS)...
Joseph C Gillis? - That's right.
We've come for the car. - What car?
1946 Plymouth convertible, California license 40 R 116.
Where are the keys? - Why should I give you them?
The company's played ball long enough, you're three payments behind.
And we've got a court order. The keys.
Or do you want us to haul it away? - The car isn't here.
Is that so? - I loaned it to a friend.
He took it to Palm Springs. - Gone away for his health?
If you don't believe me, look. - We believe you, now believe us.
That car better be here by noon tomorrow or there'll be fireworks.
You say the cutest things.
I needed about $290 and I needed it real quick, or I'd lose my car.
It wasn't in Palm Springs, and it wasn't in the garage.
I was way ahead of the finance company.
I knew they'd come and I wasn't taking chances.
So I kept it across the street behind Rudy's shoeshine parlor.
Rudy never asked any questions about your finances,
he'd just look at your heels and know the score.
I had an original story kicking around Paramount.
My agent said it was dead, but I knew a bigshot who liked me.
The time had come to take advantage of it. His name was Sheldrake.
He was a smart producer with a set of ulcers to prove it.
You've got five minutes. What's your story about?
A baseball player, a rookie shortstop that's batting 347, once did a hold-up,
but he's trying to go straight, except some gamblers won't let him.
They tell him he's got to throw the World Series?
More or less. I've got a gimmick.
Got a title? - 'Bases Loaded'. There's an outline.
Call readers department, find out what they have on 'Bases Loaded'.
They're pretty hot about it at Twentieth, except Zanuck's all wet.
Can you see Ty Power as the shortstop?
You've got the best man, Alan Ladd.
It'd be a change of pace for Ladd. And simple to shoot.
Lots of outdoors stuff. I bet you could make it for under a million.
(BURPS) Excuse me. - There's a great part for Bill Demarest.
An old trainer got beaned, goes out of his head sometimes.
Hello, Mr. Sheldrake.'Bases Loaded', I covered it with a two-page synopsis.
Thanks. - But I wouldn't bother.
What's wrong? - It's from hunger.
Nothing for Ladd?
It's a rehash of something not very good.
You'll be glad to meet Mr. Gillis, he wrote it. This is Miss Kramer.
The name's Schaefer, Betty Schaefer. I wish I could crawl in a hole with it.
If I could be of any help. - Sorry, I just didn't think it was good.
I found it flat and trite.
What kind of material do you recommend? Joyce, Dostoyevsky?
I think pictures should say something.
Just a story won't do. You'd have turned down 'Gone with the Wind'.
No, that was me. I said, 'Who wants to see a Civil War picture?'
I hated 'Bases Loaded' because I knew your name. I'd heard you had talent.
This year, I'm trying to earn a living.
So you take plot 27 A, make it glossy and slick...?
Those are dirty words. You sound like New York critics.
That'll be all, Miss Kramer... Schaefer. - Goodbye, Mr. Gillis.
Next time, I'll write you 'The Naked and the Dead'.
Well, seems like Zanuck has got himself a baseball picture.
Don't think I thought this would win an Academy Award.
We're looking for a Betty Hutton. Do you see it as a Betty Hutton?
Frankly, no. - Wait a minute.
If we made it a girls' softball team, put in a few numbers,
might be a musical: 'It Happened in the Bullpen: The Story of a Woman'.
Are you trying to be funny, because I'm out of laughs. I need a job.
I haven't got a thing. - Any assignment, additional dialogue.
Nothing, honest.
Mr. Sheldrake, could you let me have 300 bucks as a personal loan?
Could I? Gillis...
Last year, somebody talked me into buying a ranch,
so I borrowed the money.
This year, I had to mortgage the ranch to keep up my life insurance...
After that, I drove down to headquarters.
That's how a lot of us think about Schwab's drugstore.
Kind of a combination office, Kaffeeklatsch and waiting room.
Waiting... Waiting for the gravy train.
I got myself ten nickels and started sending out a general SOS.
I couldn't get hold of my agent, naturally.
So I called a pal of mine, Artie Green.
An awful nice guy, an assistant director.
He could let me have twenty, but twenty wouldn't do.
Then I talked to a couple of yes-men at Metro. To me, they said no.
Finally, I located that agent of mine. The big faker.
Was he out digging up a job for poor Joe Gillis?
He was hard at work in Bel Air, making with the golf sticks.
You need $300? Of course I could give you $300, only I'm not going to.
No? - I'm not just your agent.
It's not the 10%. I'm your friend. - You are?
The finest things have been written on an empty stomach.
Once your talent gets into that Mocambo-Romanov rut, you're through.
Forget that. It's a car I'm talking about. Losing it is like losing my legs.
Greatest thing that could happen. Now you'll have to sit down and write.
What do you think I've been doing? I need $300.
Sweetheart, maybe what you need is another agent.
As I drove back towards town, I took inventory of my prospects.
They now added up to exactly zero.
Apparently, I just didn't have what it takes.
The time had come to wrap up the Hollywood deal and go home.
Maybe if I hocked all my junk, there'd be enough for a ticket back to Ohio,
to that $35-a-week job at the copy desk of the 'Dayton Evening Post',
if it was still open, back to the smirking delight of the office.
All right, why don't you take a crack at Hollywood?
Maybe you think you could...
Uh-oh.
(TIRE BLOWS OUT)
I'd landed in the driveway of some big mansion...
...that looked rundown and deserted.
At the end of the drive was a lovely sight.
A great big empty garage, just standing there going to waste.
If ever there was a place to stash a car with a hot license number.
There was another occupant in that garage.
An enormous foreign-built automobile.
It must've burned up ten gallons to a mile.
It had a 1932 license. I figured that's when the owners had moved out.
I couldn't go back to my apartment now those bloodhounds were on to me.
The idea was to stay at Artie Green's until I could make that bus for Ohio.
Once in Dayton, I'd drop the credit boys a postcard...
...telling them where to pick up the jalopy.
It was a great big white elephant of a place.
The kind crazy movie people built in the crazy twenties.
A neglected house gets an unhappy look.
This one had it in spades.
It was like that old woman in 'Great Expectations',
that Miss Haversham in her rotting wedding dress and her torn veil,
taking it out on the world because she'd been given the go-by.
(WOMAN) You there, why are you so late?
Why have you kept me waiting so long?
In here.
I just put my car in the garage. I had a blowout. I thought...
Go on in. - Maybe I'd better take my car...
Wipe your feet.
Go on.
You're not properly dressed for the occasion.
What's the occasion? - Have him come up, Max.
Up the stairs. - Listen for a minute...
Madame is waiting. - For me?
OK.
If you need help with the coffin, call me.
This way.
In here.
I put him on my massage table by the fire.
He always liked fires and poking at them with a stick.
We'll bury him in the garden. Any city laws against that?
I wouldn't know. - I don't care, anyway.
I want the coffin to be white and specially lined with satin,
white or deep pink.
Maybe red, bright, flaming red. Let's make it gay.
How much? Don't give me a fancy price just because I'm rich.
Lady, you've got the wrong man. I had some trouble with a flat tire.
I pulled in till I could get a spare. I thought the house was empty.
It is not. Get out. - I'm sorry.
I'm sorry you lost your friend. I don't think red is the right color.
Haven't I seen you before? - Get out, or shall I call my servant?
You're Norma Desmond. You were big in silent pictures.
I am big. It's the pictures that got small.
I knew there was something wrong with them.
They're dead, they're finished.
There was a time when they had the eyes of the world.
But that wasn't good enough. They had to have the ears, too.
So they opened their big mouths and out came talk, talk, talk.
That's where the popcorn business comes in. Buy it to plug your ears.
Look at them in the front offices, the masterminds.
They smashed the idols.
The Fairbankses, the Gilberts, the Valentinos.
Who've we got now? Some nobody.
Don't blame me. I'm just a writer.
You are? Writing words, words, more words.
You've made a rope of words and strangled this business.
But there's a microphone to catch the last gurgles,
and Technicolor to photograph the swollen tongue.
Sh. You'll wake up the monkey. - Get out. Max.
Next time I'll bring my autograph album.
Or maybe some cement and ask for your footprint.
It's OK, OK. I'm going.
Just a minute, you. You're a writer, you said.
Why? - Are you or not?
That's what's on my Guild card. - And you have written pictures?
I sure have. Want a list of my credits?
I want to ask you something. Come in here.
Last one was about Okies in the Dust Bowl.
You'd never know because on screen...
...the whole thing played on a torpedo boat.
(AN ORGAN NOTE PLAYS)
Intimate, isn't it?
The wind gets in that pipe organ. I ought to take it out.
I'd teach it a better tune.
Young man, tell me something.
How long is a movie script these days? How many pages?
Depends whether it's 'Donald Duck' or 'Joan of Arc'.
This is to be a very important picture. I've written it myself. Took me years.
Looks like enough for six important pictures.
It's Salome's story. I'll have DeMille direct.
DeMille? - We made a lot of pictures together.
And you'll play Salome. - Who else?
I didn't know you were planning a comeback.
I hate that word. It's a return.
A return to the millions who've never forgiven me for deserting the screen.
Fair enough. - Salome. What a woman.
What a part. The princess in love with a holy man.
She dances the dance of the seven veils.
He rejects her, so she demands his head on a golden tray.
Kissing his cold, dead lips.
They'll love it in Pomona. - They'll love it everyplace.
Read the scene just before she has him killed.
Another writer may steal your material.
I'm not afraid. Read it.
Bring something to drink. Sit down. Is there enough light?
I've got 20-20 vision. - I said sit down.
Well, I had no pressing engagement.
Except with those boys from the finance office.
And she'd mentioned something to drink. Why not?
Sometimes it's interesting to see just how bad bad writing can be.
This promised to go the limit.
What would a handwriting expert make of her childish scrawl?
Max wheeled in some champagne and caviar.
Later I found out Max was the only other person in that grim castle.
And I found out a few other things about him.
As for her, she sat coiled up like a watch-spring,
her cigarette clamped in a curious holder.
I could sense her watching me through those dark glasses,
defying me not to like what I read,
or maybe begging me in her own proud way to like it.
It meant so much to her.
It sure was a cozy set-up.
That bundle of raw nerves and Max and a dead monkey upstairs,
and the wind wheezing through that organ once in a while.
(DOORBELL)
Later on, just for comedy relief,
the real guy arrived with the baby coffin.
It was all done with great dignity.
He must have been a very important chimp.
The great-grandson of King Kong maybe.
It got to be eleven, and I felt a little sick at my stomach,
what with that sweet champagne and that tripe I'd been reading,
that silly hodgepodge of melodramatic plots.
However, by then, I'd started concocting a little plot of my own.
Well? - This is fascinating.
Of course it is.
Maybe it's a little long and repetitious, but you're not a professional writer.
I wrote that with my heart. - Sure you did.
That's what makes it great.
But it needs a little more dialogue. - What for?
My eyes can say anything I want. - It could use some shears.
I will not have it butchered. - Of course not.
But it ought to be organized, edited. You can find somebody.
Who? I'd have to have somebody I could trust.
When were you born? What zodiac sign?
I don't know. - What month?
December, 21st.
Sagittarius. I like Sagittarians, you can trust them.
Thank you. - I want you to do this work.
Me? I'm busy. I just finished a script and I'm doing another assignment.
I don't care.
You know, I'm pretty expensive. I get $500 a week.
I wouldn't worry about money. I'll make it worth your while.
I'll read the rest at home. - I couldn't let it out of my house.
Finish it here. - It's getting kind of late.
Are you married, Mr...? - Gillis. Single.
Where do you live? - Hollywood. Alto Nido apartments.
Something's wrong with your car? - There sure is.
Why not stay here? - I'll come back early tomorrow.
Nonsense. There's a room over the garage.
Max will take you there. Max.
I felt kind of pleased with the way I'd handled the situation.
I dropped the hook, and she snapped at it.
My car would be safe down below while I patched up the script.
And there should be plenty of money in it.
This room hasn't been used for a long time.
It'll never make 'House Beautiful', but it's OK for one night.
I made your bed this afternoon. - How did you know I'd stay?
The bathroom's there. I put in some towels, soap and a toothbrush.
Say, she's quite a character that Norma Desmond.
She was the greatest. You wouldn't know, you're too young.
In one week, she received 17,000 fan letters.
Men bribed the hairdresser for a lock of her hair.
There was an Indian maharajah who came to beg one of her stockings.
Later he strangled himself with it.
Well, I sure turned into an interesting driveway.
You did, sir. Goodnight, sir.
I pegged him as slightly cuckoo, too.
A stroke maybe.
The whole place seemed stricken with a creeping paralysis,
out of beat with the rest of the world, crumbling apart in slow motion.
There was a tennis court, or rather the ghost of a tennis court,
with faded markings and a sagging net.
And, of course, she had a pool. Who didn't then?
Mabel Normand and John Gilbert swam in it 10,000 midnights ago.
And Vilma Banky and Rod La Rocque.
It was empty now. Or was it?
(SQUEAKING)
There was something else going on: the last rites for that hairy old chimp,
performed with the utmost seriousness,
as if she were laying to rest an only child.
Was her life really as empty as that?
It was all very queer, but queerer things were yet to come.
That night I had a mixed-up dream. In it there was an organ grinder.
I couldn't see his face, but the organ was draped in black.
And a chimp was dancing for pennies.
When I opened my eyes, the music was still there.
Where was I?
Oh, yes, in that empty room over her garage.
Only it wasn't empty any more. I'd had a visitor.
Someone had brought in my belongings, my books, typewriter and clothes.
What was going on?
(ORGAN MUSIC)
Hey, you. Max, whatever your name is, what are my things doing here?
I'm talking to you. My clothes and things are up in the room.
Naturally. I brought them myself.
Is that so? - What's the matter? Anything missing?
Who asked you to? - I did.
I don't know why you're so upset. Stop that playing, Max.
It seemed like a good idea if we are to work together.
I'm to fix your script. There's nothing in the deal about staying here.
You'll like it here. - I've my own apartment.
You owe three months' rent.
I'll take care of that. - It's all taken care of, all paid for.
We'll deduct it from my salary.
Let's not be small about such matters. We won't keep books.
Unpack Mr. Gillis's things. - It is done, Madame.
Pack 'em up again. I'm not staying. - Make up your mind.
Do you want this job or don't you?
I wanted the job and the dough and to get out of there quickly.
I thought if I got going I could finish it in a couple of weeks.
But it wasn't so simple getting coherence into her wild hallucinations.
It was made tougher with her around all the time, hovering over me,
afraid I'd do injury to that precious brainchild of hers.
What's that?
Just a scene I threw out. - Which scene?
The slave market. It's better to cut directly to...
Cut away from me?
It's too much of you. They don't want you in every scene.
Then why do they still write me fan letters and beg for my photographs?
Because they want to see me - me, Norma Desmond.
Put it back.
OK.
I didn't argue with her.
You don't yell at a sleepwalker. He may fall and break his neck.
That's it. She was still sleepwalking along the giddy heights of a lost career.
Plain crazy when it came to that one subject: her celluloid self.
The great Norma Desmond.
How could she breathe in that house so crowded with Norma Desmonds?
More Norma Desmonds and still more Norma Desmonds.
It wasn't all work, of course.
Two or three times a week, Max hauled up that painting...
...presented to her by some Nevada chamber of commerce.
And we'd see a movie, right in her living room.
So much nicer than going out, she'd say.
The plain fact was she was afraid of that world outside,
afraid it would remind her that time had passed.
They were silent movies, and Max would run the projection machine.
Just as well.
It kept him from giving us an accompaniment on that organ.
She'd sit very close to me, and she'd smell of tuberoses.
Not my favorite perfume, not by a long shot.
Sometimes as we watched, she'd clutch my arm or my hand,
forgetting she was my employer,
just becoming a fan, excited about that actress up there on the screen.
I don't have to tell you who the star was.
They were always her pictures. That's all she wanted to see.
Still wonderful, isn't it? And no dialogue.
We didn't need dialogue. We had faces.
There just aren't any faces like that any more. Maybe one, Garbo.
Those idiot producers, those imbeciles. Haven't they got eyes?
Have they forgotten what a star looks like?
I'll be up there again, so help me.
Sometimes there'd be a little bridge game.
With a twentieth of a cent a point. I'd get half her winnings.
Once they ran up to 70 cents, which was about the only cash I ever got.
The other players would be actor friends,
dim figures you may still remember from the silent days.
I thought of them as her waxworks.
One diamond. - One heart.
A spade. - Pass.
Three no trump. - Pass.
Pass. - Empty the ashtray, Joe, dear.
Some men outside ask for you. - I'm not here.
That's what I said. - Good.
But they found your car and they're going to tow it away.
Where's the ashtray? Joe, can't we have the ashtray?
I want to talk to you. - Not now, I'm playing three no trump.
They've come for my car.
I've forgotten how many spades are out.
I need money now. - Can't you wait until I'm dummy?
No. - Please.
(WINCH CRANKING)...
Now, what is it? Where's the fire? - I've lost my car.
I thought it was a matter of life and death.
It is, to me. That's why I came to this house and took this job, ghost-writing.
You're being silly. We don't need two cars, we have one.
Not a cheap thing made of chromium and spit: an Isotta Fraschini.
Ever heard of Isotta Fraschinis?
All handmade. Cost me $28,000.
So Max got that old bus off its blocks and polished it up.
She'd take me for rides in the hills above Sunset.
The whole thing was upholstered in leopard skin,
and had one of those car phones, all gold-plated.
That's a dreadful shirt. - What's wrong with it?
Nothing, for work in a filling station. I'm bored with that jacket and pants.
Max, what's the very best man's shop in town?
I don't need any clothes and I don't want you buying them for me.
Why begrudge me a little fun? I just want you to look nice.
And must you chew gum?
There's nothing like blue flannel for a man.
This one, single-breasted.
Now we need a topcoat. Show me your camel's hair.
Evening clothes? - I don't need a tuxedo.
Of course you do. A tuxedo, tails and, if you aren't careful, a cut-away.
Tails, that's ridiculous. - For parties and New Year's Eve.
Where are your evening clothes? - This way, madam.
Here are some camel's hair, but feel this, it's vicuņa.
It's a little more expensive. - The camel's hair will do.
Well, as long as the lady's paying for it, why not take the vicuņa?
The last week in December, the rains came.
A great package of rain. Oversized like everything else in California.
It came right through the old roof of my room above the garage.
She had Max move me to the main house.
I didn't much like the idea.
The only time I had to myself was in that room,
but it was better than sleeping in a raincoat and galoshes.
Whose room was this? - The room of the husband.
The husbands, I should say. Madame's been married three times.
I guess that's the one you can see Catalina from, only this isn't the day.
What's with the door? There's no lock.
There are no locks anywhere in this house, sir.
How come? There must be a reason.
The doctor suggested it. - What doctor?
Madame's doctor. Madame has moments of melancholy.
There have been some attempts at suicide.
We have to be very careful. No sleeping pills, no razor blades.
We shut off the gas in Madame's bedroom.
Why? Her career? She got enough out of it. She's not forgotten.
She still gets those fan letters. - Don't look closely at the postmarks.
You send them. Is that it, Max?
I'd better press your evening clothes, sir.
Mr. Gillis has not forgotten Madame's New Year's party?
No, I haven't. I suppose all the waxworks are coming?
I wouldn't know, sir. Madame made the arrangements.
There it was again.
That room of hers. All satin and ruffles.
And that bed like a gilded rowboat.
The perfect setting for a silent movie queen. Poor devil.
Still waving proudly to a parade which had long since passed her by.
It was at her New Year's party that I found out how she felt about me.
Maybe I'd been an idiot not to have sensed it was coming.
That sad, embarrassing revelation.
(BAND PLAYS A TANGO)
Joe.
You look absolutely divine. Turn around.
Please. - Come on.
Perfect. Wonderful shoulders, and I love that line.
It's padding, don't be fooled. - Here.
Dressing up was always just wearing my dark blue suit.
I don't like the stud. I want you to have a luscious pearl.
I'm not going to wear earrings.
Let's have a drink. - Shouldn't we wait for the others?
Max, champagne.
Careful, it's slippery. I had it waxed.
Here's to us. This floor used to be wood, but I had it changed.
Valentino said, 'There's nothing like tile for a tango.' Come on.
Not on the same floor with Valentino. - Just follow me.
Don't bend back like that. - It's that thing, it tickles.
It does?
It's 10.15. What time will they arrive? - Who?
The other guests. - There aren't any.
We don't want to share this night with others. This is for you and me.
Oh? - Hold me tighter.
OK.
Come midnight, how about smashing glasses over Max's head?
You think this is funny. - A little.
An hour dragged by.
I felt caught like the cigarette in that contraption on her finger.
What a wonderful next year it's going to be. What fun we'll have.
I'll fill the pool or open my Malibu house and you can have the ocean.
When our picture's finished, I'll buy you a boat and we'll sail to Hawaii...
You won't buy me anything more.
Don't be silly. Here. I was going to give it to you at midnight.
I can't take it. You've bought me enough.
Shut up. I'm rich, richer than all this new Hollywood trash.
I've got $1 million.
I own three blocks downtown, I've got oil in Bakersfield pumping, pumping.
It's for buying us anything we want.
Cut out that 'us' business. - What's the matter with you?
What right do you have to take me for granted?
What right? You want me to tell you?
Have you thought I may have a life of my own, a girl I'm crazy about?
Who? Some car-hop or dress extra?
I'm all wrong for you.
You want a Valentino, somebody with polo ponies, a big shot.
What you're trying to say is you don't want me to love you. Say it.
I didn't know where I was going. I just had to get out of there.
I had to be with people my own age. I had to hear somebody laugh again.
I thought of Artie Green.
There had to be a New Year's shindig in his apartment.
Writers without a job, composers without a publisher,
actresses so young they still believed the guys in the casting office.
A bunch of kids who didn't give a hoot, so long as they had a yuck to share.
# Hollywood for us ain't been so good Got no swimming pool...
...# Very few clothes All we earn are buttons and bows #...
Hello, Joe. - Tom.
How are you? - Hi, Joe.
Whaddya know, Joe Gillis. - Hi, Artie.
Where you been keeping that gorgeous face? I almost reported you missing.
You all know Joe Gillis, the famous screenwriter, uranium smuggler,
and Black Dahlia suspect.
Give me your coat. - Let it ride.
You are going to stay? - Yes.
Then come on. What is this, mink?
Judas H Priest, who'd you borrow that from? Adolphe Menjou?
Close, but no cigar. - You're not really a smuggler?
Where's the bar? - Come on.
Good party. - The greatest.
They call me the Elsa Maxwell of the assistant directors.
Go easy on that punchbowl. Budget only calls for three drinks per extra.
Fake the rest. - Can I stick around a while?
Sure. This'll go on all night. - No, I mean a couple of weeks?
We've a vacancy on the couch. - I'll take it.
I'll have the bellhop take care of your luggage. Just register it here.
Hello, Mr. Gillis. - Hello.
You know each other? - Betty Schaefer, Sheldrake's office.
Sure, 'Bases Loaded'. - Wait.
This is the woman I love. What's going on?
She's a fan for my literary output.
Hurt feelings department. - Where's the phone?
Over by the rainbow room.
(UNCONTROLLED LAUGHTER)
When you're through with that thing, can I have it?
Hey, you forgot this. - Thanks.
I've been hoping to run into you. - To recover your knife in my back?
I felt guilty, so I got out some of your old stories.
You sweet kid. - One's called something 'Window'.
'Dark Windows'. How'd you like it? - I didn't, except for about six pages.
You've got a flashback there...
Is there someplace we can talk?
How about the rainbow room?
Joe, I said you could have my couch, not my girl.
This is shop talk.
There's a short stretch of my fiction you found worthy of notice?
The flashback scene when she tells about being a schoolteacher.
I had a teacher like that. - Maybe that's why it's good.
It's true and moving. Why not...? - Who wants true and moving?
Drop that attitude. It's something worthwhile.
Shall I start now? - Seriously. I've got ideas.
I've got some, too. This is New Year's Eve, let's live it up.
For instance? We could make some paper boats and have a regatta.
Or turn on the shower full blast. - Or capture the kitchen.
Are you hungry? - Hungry?
After twelve years in the Burmese jungle, I'm starving, Lady Agatha...
...starving for a white shoulder. - Phillip, you're mad.
Thirsting for the coolness of your lips.
You can have the phone now.
No, Phillip, we must be strong.
You're still wearing the Coldstream Guards uniform.
Furthermore, you can have the phone now.
OK.
Suddenly I'm terribly afraid of losing you.
You won't. I'll get us a refill of this horrible liquid.
You'll be waiting for me? - With a wildly beating heart.
Life can be beautiful.
(NOISY CHATTER AND MUSIC)
Hello, Max. I need a favor.
I'm sorry, I cannot talk now.
Yes, you can. Put my old clothes and my typewriter in my suitcase.
I'll have somebody pick them up. - I've no time. The doctor is here.
What doctor? What's going on?
Madame got the razor from your room and cut her wrists.
What? Max. Max.
I got the recipe.
Two packages of cough drops dissolved in warm grape juice...
Hey, Joe.
Happy New Year.
(BAND PLAYS A WALTZ)...
How is she? - She's in her room.
Be careful, don't race upstairs. The musicians mustn't know.
Go away.
What silly thing was that to do?
To fall in love with you was the idiotic thing.
Sure would've made attractive headlines.
'Great star kills herself for unknown writer.'
Great stars have great pride.
Go away. Go to that girl of yours.
Look, I was making that up,
because I thought the whole thing was a mistake.
I didn't want to hurt you. You've been good to me.
You're the only person in this stinking town that has.
Just say thank you and go. Go, go.
Not until you promise to act like a sensible human being.
I'll do it again. I'll do it again.
I'll do it again.
(SHE SOBS)...
...(BAND PLAYS 'AULD LANG SYNE')...
...(BAND STOPS PLAYING)
Happy New Year, Norma.
Happy New Year, darling.
(PHONE RINGS)...
Hello. - Is this Crest View 51733?
I'm sorry to bother you again, but I must speak to Mr. Gillis.
He's not here. - Where can I reach him?
Maybe somebody else could tell me. - Nobody can give you any information.
And you will please not call again.
Max.
Who was it, Max? What is it?
Nothing, Madame. Somebody enquiring about a stray dog.
Our number must be similar to the number of the pound.