Billy Wilder

You and your imagination! You think every girl's a dope. You think a girl goes to a party and there's some guy, a great big lunk in a fancy striped vest, strutting around like a tiger giving you that I'm-so-handsome-you-can't-resist-me look. And for this she's supposed to fall flat on her face. Well, she doesn't fall on her face. But there's another guy in the room, way over in the corner. Maybe he's kind of nervous and shy and perspiring a little. First, you look past him. But then you sort of sense that he's gentle and kind and worried. That he'll be tender with you. Nice and sweet. That's what's really exciting.

When it gets hot like this, you know what I do? I keep my undies in the icebox!

Hi. It's me, don't you remember? The tomato from upstairs.

Hey, did you ever try dunking a potato chip in champagne? It's real crazy!

I think it's just elegant to have an imagination. I just have no imagination at all. I have lots of other things, but I have no imagination.

Gee, no! It's just terrible up there. That's why I bought the electric fan. Ohh, this feels just elegant! I'm just not made for the heat. This is my first summer in New York and it's practically killing me. You know what I tried yesterday? I tried to sleep in the bathtub. Just lying there up to my neck in cold water.

But there was something wrong with the faucet. It kept dripping. It was keeping me awake. So you know what I did? I pushed my big toe up the faucet.

The only thing was, my toe got stuck and I couldn't get it back out again.

No, but thank goodness there was a phone in the bathroom, so I was able to call the plumber.

Oh, sure. He was very nice, even though it was Sunday, I explained the situation to him and he rushed right over.

Oh, sure! But it was sort of embarrassing.

Honestly, I almost died. There I was with a perfectly strange plumber and no polish on my toenails.

I had onions at lunch. I had garlic dressing at dinner. But he'll never know, because I stay kissing sweet, the new Dazzledent way.

Oh, that sounds cool! I think I'll have a glass of that. A big tall one!

It shakes me! It quakes me! It makes me feel goose-pimply all over!

I have a message for your wife.

Don't wipe it off. If she thinks it's cranberry sauce, tell her she's got cherry pits in her head.

I think it's wonderful that you're married. I think it's just elegant.

Of course. I mean, I wouldn't be lying on the floor in the middle of the night in some man's apartment drinking champagne if he wasn't married.

Maybe if I took the little fan, put it in the icebox, then left the icebox door open, then left the bedroom door open, and soak the sheets and pillowcase in ice water... no, that's too icky!

You're married. I KNEW it! You LOOK married.

So, he lured me down in his apartment. He made me sit on his piano bench. Then he made me play "Chopsticks"! Then suddenly he turned on me. His eyes bulging. He was frothing at the mouth - just like the Creature from the Black Lagoon!

It was so silly. I posed for this picture and when it was published in "U.S. Camera", they got all upset.

I was - it was one of these - 'artistic' pictures.

It was on a beach with some driftwood. It got Honorable Mention.

It was called 'Textures', because you could see three different kinds of texture: the driftwood, the sand and me. I got $25 dollars an hour, and it took hours and hours. You'd be surprised!

That's what's wonderful about a married man. No matter what, he can't ask you to marry him. He's married already. Right?

Thirty-eight? I was 22, day before yesterday. I didn't do anything about it though. I didn't even tell anyone. Oh, I did do one thing. I bought myself a bottle of champagne. I thought I'd just sit up there and drink it all by myself.

Oh, no! It would've been just elegant, lying there in a bath, drinking champagne. But I couldn't get the bottle open.

You think you could get it open?

I've got a wonderful idea. Why don't I go upstairs and get it. It's in the icebox with the potato chips and my underwear.

You get out of here. And you tell Helen if she sent you to get a divorce.

I absolutely refuse!

I'll fight it in every court in the country! Because I can explain everything: the stairs, the cinnamon toast, the blonde in the kitchen.

Oh, wouldn't you like to know! Maybe it's Marilyn Monroe!

Miss Morris, I'm perfectly capable of fixing my own breakfast. As a matter of fact, I had a peanut butter sandwich and two whiskey sours.

'What happened at the office today, darling?' 'What happened at the office? Well, I shot Mr. Brady in the head, made violent love to Miss Morris and set fire to three hundred thousand copies of Little Women. That's what happened at the office.' What *can* happen at the office?

I like this house. Why does Helen keep talking about moving into one of those big, enormous buildings that look like "Riot in Cell Block 11"?

It's so much nicer here. Just three apartments: ours, the Kaufmans upstairs, and then those two guys on the top floor - "interior decorators" or something.

I'm in big trouble. I know girls like this! They just can't keep their big mouths shut! This is gonna be *all* over New York. I bet, right this minute, she's telling somebody about it... yaddida yaddida yaddida yaddida...

I knew it. I knew it! That's how these stories get started. Big blabbermouth.

Let's see. Debussy, Ravel. Stravinsky. Stravinsky'd only scare her. Yeah! Here's the baby. Rachmaninoff! Give her the full treatment. Come in like gangbusters! Good old Rachmaninoff. The Second Piano Concerto. Never misses.

My wife. She found out about us and she shot me. Five times in the back and twice in the belly!

Right… You certainly don't have to worry about me. Am I ever a married man! I'm the most married man you'll ever know. And I promise… I will never ask you to marry me, come what may.

Here, Doctor. I brought this with me. I didn't want to leave it lying around the house. That's her. Her hair was a little longer then. It's called "Textures" because you can see the three different textures: The driftwood, the sand and her. It got "honorable mention."

You don't have to worry about me. Just remember, although I have tremendous personal magnetism, I also have strength of character.

Well, how about some music?

Let's see. Let's see what we've got here. Debussy, Ravel, Stravinsky. Hey, how about this one? Rachmaninoff, the "Second Piano Concerto." You look to me like a big Rachmaninoff girl.

"Nice"! You're not nice. You're crazy, that's what you are. You're running amok. Helen's gone for one day and you're running amok. Smoking, drinking, picking up girls, playing "Chopsticks." You're not gonna' live through this summer. Not like this, you're not.

Look at those bloodshot eyes. Look at that face, ravaged, dissipated, evil. One of these mornings you're gonna' look in the mirror and that's all, brother. "The Portrait of Dorian Gray."

Suppose this girl tells somebody about this? Oh, if she tells anybody about this, I'll kill her - I'll kill her with my bare hands!

It's peaceful with everybody gone. Sure is peaceful. No Howdy Doody. No Captain Video.

"Contains carbonated water, citric acid, corn syrup, artificial raspberry flavoring, pure vegetable colors and preservative." I'd like Dr. Summers to explain to me why this stuff should be better for you than a little scotch, plain water, and a twist of lemon? I'd really like to know.

You're going to Maine, not to Mars.

Oh, no, not me. Not me! And I'm not gonna smoke either. Some husbands think that because their wives are away for the summer they can just run wild! Do anything terrible they want. Like Charlie Lederer last summer. Annie hadn't been gone two days when Charlie went out and got himself tattooed. A green dragon on his chest, a butterfly on each shoulder. Not me. Oh, no. Work, work, work. I'm gonna work here till 6, then I'll have dinner at the saloon on the corner. No! No saloon, no drinking like Dr. Summers said. I know what I'll do. I'll try that vegetarian restaurant on 3rd Avenue. Health food, that's the stuff. The human body is a very delicate machine. A precision instrument. You can't run it on martinis and Hungarian goulash. Especially in this hot weather.

What you don't realize, Helen, is this thing about women and me: I walk into a room - and they sense it. I arouse something in 'em. I bother them. It's a kind of animal thing I've got. It's really quite extraordinary.

I bet she thinks I'm gonna have girls up here. You know, that's terrible thing. Seven years we've been married and not once I've done anything like that. Not once! Don't think I couldn't have either. Because I could have, plenty. But, plenty.

Take my secretary, for instance. To you, she's just nothing. A Miss Morris, a dictaphone, a piece of office furniture. Ten fingers to type my letters. Well, let me tell you… Well, let me tell you.

She probably figures she isn't as young as she used to be. She's 31 years old. One of these days she's gonna wake up and find her looks are gone. Then where will she be? Well, no wonder she's worried. Especially since I don't look a bit different than I did when I was 28. It's not my fault that I don't. It's just a simple biological fact. Women age quicker than men. Yeah, I probably won't look different when I'm 60. I have that kind of a face. Everybody'll think she's my mother.

Women have been throwing themselves at me for years. That's right, Helen. Beautiful ones, plenty of 'em. Acres and acres of 'em.

What am I doing anyway? Well, this is absolutely ridiculous. The first night Helen leaves and I'm bringing dames into the apartment.

She's probably getting all fixed up. And she'll probably wear some kind of an ice-cold evening dress.

I'm terribly sorry. Nothing like this ever happened to me before in all my life.

You're not leaving yet, are you? How about some more champagne?

Now, look, Doctor, don't you think it'd be much more effective to show a man terrorizing a young and beautiful girl? Sales-wise, I mean?

The word is spreading. It's spreading! It's like jungle drums. Everybody knows about it. Everybody's talking about it. Everybody's talking about it. Television! I forgot she's on television. Fifty million television sets in America - and now with the coaxial cable...

Tom MacKenzie's a writer. And he happens to be a lousy writer. That last book of his! Oh, that inwardly, downwardly, pulsating, backwards of hair spilled across the pillow malarkey. No woman is safe around a guy who writes stuff like that.

Well, it's very kind of you, Mr. Brady, but I don't think - well, I mean, I'm really not up - no hootenannies. No, no, no.

It's going to be quietsville around here tonight. I promise you that. Take a shower. Poach an egg. Rinse out a shirt. Hit the sack. And - that's all.

Oh, no, not tonight. This girl's a pistol. I got away with it once. Why press my luck.

We don't wanna rush blindly into something. Look, when I said we were savages, well, there are savages and savages. This may be a little too savage.

There's nothing to be ashamed of. Under this thin veneer of civilization we're all savages. Man, woman, hopelessly enmeshed. We're on a great toboggan, we can't stop! We can't steer it. It's too late to run! The beguine has begun.

Paddle, that's it! I've got to send the paddle. Little Ricky out there in the middle of the lake without a paddle. Wrap the paddle and send it off the first thing in the morning. Little Ricky needs the paddle. He's got to have his paddle. Going to get his paddle! How do you wrap a paddle, anyway? Paper and string, what else? Now, where can I get a piece of paper the shape of a paddle?

I just cannot understand people like the Kaufmans. A successful businessman, probably makes 15,000 a year. Spends a fortune collecting African sculptures. But, he will not put in air conditioning.

If Helen came in here and found you in the shower, you know what she'd probably think? She'd probably think you were the plumber.

Who's gonna walk in here? J. Edgar Hoover? Arthur Godfrey and His Friends?

Why should Helen be jealous of me? How can anybody be jealous of somebody with a briefcase, who's getting a little pot, and gets so sleepy by 9:30 he can't keep his eyes open?

Let's face it, no pretty girl in their right mind wants me. She wants Gregory Peck.

Just taking a shower, she'll be out in a minute, that's all. Maybe I should get one of those big, new towels and take it into her. Uh-huh. Oo-oo. That would very definitely - be another boo-boo.

It's just my imagination. Some people have flat feet. Some people have dandruff. I have this appalling imagination.

On November 1st, 1959, the population of New York City was 8,042,783. If you laid all these people end to end, figuring an average height of five feet six and a half inches, they would reach from Times Square to the outskirts of Karachi, Pakistan. I know facts like this because I work for an insurance company - Consolidated Life of New York. We're one of the top five companies in the country. Our home office has 31,259 employees, which is more than the entire population of uhh… Natchez, Mississippi. I work on the 19th floor. Ordinary Policy Department, Premium Accounting Division, Section W, desk number 861.

Mr. Sheldrake, I've got good news for you. All your troubles are over. I'm going to take Miss Kubelik off your hands. The plain fact is, Mr. Sheldrake, that I love her. I haven't told her yet, but I thought you should be the first to know. After all, you don't really want her, and I do, and although it may sound presumptuous, she needs somebody like me. So I think it would be the thing all around -- solution-wise.

For that matter, you were wrong about me, too. What you said about those who take and those who get took? Well, Mr. Sheldrake wasn't using me. I was using him. Last month I was at desk 861 on the 19th floor. Now I'm on the 27th floor, paneled office, three windows, so it all worked out fine. We're both getting what we want.

Yes, this is Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles, California. It's about 5 o'clock in the morning. That's the homicide squad, complete with detectives and newspaper men.

Well, this is where you came in, back at that pool again, the one I always wanted. It's dawn now and they must have photographed me a thousand times. Then they got a couple of pruning hooks from the garden and fished me out… ever so gently. Funny, how gentle people get with you once you're dead.

The poor dope - he always wanted a pool. Well, in the end, he got himself a pool.

So they were turning after all, those cameras. Life, which can be strangely merciful, had taken pity on Norma Desmond. The dream she had clung to so desperately had enfolded her.

The whole place seemed to have been stricken with a kind of creeping paralysis - out of beat with the rest of the world, crumbling apart in slow motion.

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.

Then I talked to a couple of Yes men at Metro. To me, they said No.

Sometimes it's interesting to see just how bad - bad writing can be. This promised to go the limit.

The plain fact was she was afraid of that world outside. Afraid it would remind her that time had passed.

Come think of it, the whole place seemed to have been stricken with the kind of 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 Norman and John Gilbert must have swum in it ten thousand midnights ago... It was empty now. Or was it?

It was a great big white elephant of a place. The kind crazy movie people built in the crazy 20s. A neglected house gets an unhappy look. This one had it in spades. It was like that old woman in "Great Expectations". That Miss Havisham in her rotting wedding dress and her torn veil, taking it out on the world, because she'd been given the go-by.

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 was bound to be a New Year's shindig going on in his apartment down in Los Palmas. Writers without a job. Composers without a publisher. Actresses so young they still believe the guys in the casting office. A bunch of kids who didn't give a hoot.

By this time, the whole joint was jumping. Cops. Reporters. Neighbors. Passers-by. As much hoop dee doo as we get in Los Angeles when they open a supermarket.

I was way ahead of the finance company. I knew they'd be becoming around and I wasn't taking any chances. So I kept it across the street in a parking lot behind Rudy's shoeshine parlour. Rudy never asked any questions about your finances... he'd just look at your heels and know the score.

After that, I drove down to headquarters. That's the way a lot of us think about Schwab's Drug Store. KInd of a combination office, coffee clutch, and waiting room. Waiting. Waiting for the gravy train.

Finally, I located that agent of mine - the big faker. Was he out digging up a job for poor Joe Gillis? Huh. He was hard at work at Bell-Air making with the golf sticks.

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. And the time had come to wrap up the whole Hollywood deal and go home.

She'd sit very close to me and she'd smell of tuberoses - which is not my favorite perfume. Not by a long shot. Sometimes as we'd watch, 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 guess I don't have to tell you who the star was. They were always her pictures. That's all she wanted to see.

The others around the table would be actor friends. Dim figures you may still remember from the silent days. I used to think of them as your wax works.

They're pretty hot about it over at Twentieth. Except, I think Zanuck's all wet. Can you see Ty Power as a shortstop? You got the best man for it right here in this lot - Alan Ladd. It'd be a good change a pace for Ladd.

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.