William Holden credited as playing...
Richard Benson • Rick
- Richard: [knock on door] Yes?
- Gabrielle: Mr. Benson?
- Richard: You are, I assume, the young lady from the typing bureau?
- Gabrielle: I am.
- Richard: In that case, if we are to have a happy and harmonious relationship, I beg of you, never answer a question with a question. Is that clear?
- Gabrielle: Did I?
- Richard: 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?
- Gabrielle: Isn't that a question?
- Richard: [pauses] Yes.
- Gabrielle: Well, you just answered my question with a question. To imply is to indicate without saying openly or directly, to infer is to conclude from something known or assumed.
- Gabrielle: 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.
- Richard: You can unpack -
- [surprised]
- Richard: in the bathtub?
- Gabrielle: Yes. On the second day, I gave him a packet of bubble bath and from then on we got along swimmingly.
- Richard: I see.
- [pointing to the name on the birdcage]
- Richard: Uh, does that imply that the bird's name is Richelieu?
- Gabrielle: Oh, it's inferred, I believe, rather than implied.
- Richard: [pause] "Swimmingly." Interesting figure of speech.
- Richard: Now then, the mysterious stranger. Who is he? 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 sort of useful trade?
- Richard: [showing Gabrielle the apartment] 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.
- Richard: And this guy you've got a date with on Bastille Day, is he part of the growth process?
- Gabrielle: Oh no, he's just a friend, a struggling young actor.
- Richard: [outraged] An actor!
- [disgusted]
- Richard: Eww. A tragic relation to begin with. I only hope he's not one of those method actors that who scratches and mumbles and pauses a lot, thereby destroying the impeccable rhythm of the author's prose.
- Richard: I've got an idea. I've got an idea! First good one I've had in four months. No, that's not true. A few weeks ago I had an idea to give up drinking, but it didn't photograph.
- Richard: Cut to the Eiffel Tower. The main title. The trumpets segue into the inevitable title song. Maybe we can get Sinatra to sing it.
- [Frank Sinatra begins sing, "The Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower, Also stole my heart..."]
- Richard: I've got it! Of course, it means we'll have to start all over again, but that's not too serious. We've only got eight pages.
- Richard: 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!
- Richard: 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. Two enormous, highly paid heads come together for that ultimately inevitable moment, the final, earth-moving, studio rent-paying, theater-filling, popcorn-selling kiss.
- Richard: 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.
- Gabrielle: What's the story about?
- Richard: lt's an action, suspense, romantic melodrama - with lots of comedy, of course. And deep down underneath a substrata of social comment.
- Gabrielle: Oh. Well, if l could see the pages you've written, l could estimate the size of the typing job.
- Richard: The pages, my dear girl, are right here. An Alexander Meyerheim production.
- [begins placing down blank sheets of paper]
- Richard: "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 - a boy and a girl meet.
- Gabrielle: But, Mr Benson...
- Richard: Now, after some chitchat, getting-to-know-you kind of stuff, the thing l do so brilliantly, we feel an unconscious attraction between the two. 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 realise they've been fooled. Things are not what they seem. Not at all. ln 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 realise 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! 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, theatre-filling, popcorn-selling - kiss. Fade out. The End.
- Richard: We've got to give the audience the taste and smell of the real Paris. Okay. Exterior. Christian Dior. The camera pans, and now we see a white Rolls-Royce pull up and come to a stop. No, wait a minute, 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 - Marlene Dietrich. And now she, eh - dot, dot, dot - she sweeps majestically into the store and - and that's the last we ever see of her.
- Gabrielle: May I ask what you have been doing?
- Richard: 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.
- Gabrielle: Greek?
- Richard: 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 l can't bear the sight of blood, had long since gone on to Seville. Weeks 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 l 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. lt doesn't work. And now l have to.
- Gabrielle: Last month l worked for Roger Roussin the young New Wave director. You've heard of him, of course.
- Richard: No, l'm more of an Old Wave man, myself.
- Gabrielle: 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. lt 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.
- Richard: [dictating] She seats herself at a table at this little café 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: Not at all. Philippe happens to be very handsome. In fact, he looks rather like, eh, 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.
- Richard: You and this "actor*, what do you plan to do on Bastille Day?
- Gabrielle: We're going to spend the whole day together. Starting with breakfast at this little café we go to, then we're going to dance from one end of Paris to the other, the opera at five, then to the guards and the singing of the "Marseillaise", then off to Montmartre for the fireworks, and then supper and champagne and, you know, *live*.