Auntie Mame Page #7

It's 10,000 feet up.

We only got another mile to go.

Why don't you stay here

and rest a while?

I'll go up and get some film of you.

- I'll finish Patrick's letter.

- All right.

"Have to dash.

Dinner at Uncle Dwight's.

That's Babcock,

the baboon-faced boy to you.

Old Babcock's introducing me

to all the blond heiresses...

...on the Eastern seaboard."

Blond heiresses? Dwight?

Beau? Beau!

I knew that letter was worrying you.

I already made reservations back.

Good. Well then, let's get back down.

Wait a minute,

I still got a little more film left.

Mame, would you mind

stepping back just a bit?

- I'd rather not.

- Never mind, I'll scale up higher.

Now, Beau, no higher!

Take this.

It keeps on getting in my way.

Take hold of the other end

for your balance.

Don't you worry.

Just be looking out at the view there.

Hold it now, will you?

Now, you hold on tight while I re-focus.

Heavens, this looks like

the main chapel of a funeral parlor.

- Haven't Norah and lto been alerted?

- They'll be here tomorrow.

- What's that thing supposed to be?

- A Dictaphone.

She'll never use it. Patrick's carried

all this junk up here for nothing.

Mame can't stay still long enough

to write a postcard, let alone a book.

No, he was right.

Mame can't go on living in a vacuum.

- She's always got to have a project.

- She's got one.

Now, she's the tragic queen.

She's having such fun being miserable.

All she's done for 10 months is revisit

the places she's been with Beau.

Eight times, she climbed the Matterhorn

to throw rose petals down the glacier.

I should have gone to meet her.

I haven't seen her since the funeral.

Wasn't it just like Mame

to keep him till I got there?

Listen, you cynic, she was in love

with him. She's changed, I tell you.

Look, I'll get some champagne.

I'll answer it.

Mame!

She can't have changed that much.

- I'm from Speed-O.

- You're what?

Patrick called a secretarial service.

Your name?

Agnes Gooch.

You'll be taking dictation from

Mrs. Burnside. She talks very fast.

Speed-O won't let anybody out

who can't do 180 words a minute.

- I'm over 200.

- No, you're not.

She may let loose

with a million words and ideas.

Soak them all up, like a sponge.

Speed-O better have symbols

for four-letter words.

Lindsay, Mame will never write a book.

But Patrick got a fella to help her.

He'll be here at 3:00.

What fella?

- That's the signal.

- What signal?

Patrick wants us to surprise Mame.

Come on, hide. In there, quick!

You too, Miss Gooch.

Why are you ringing?

Don't you have a key?

Oh, of course! What am I thinking of?

Welcome home.

Good old Beekman Place.

Always so loyal.

No matter how far I go, it waits

for me. I hope you used it weekends.

No, I didn't. I usually go from school

to Connecticut, to Uncle Dwight's.

I did rather expect Vera

to be down at the boat.

I wouldn't let her.

I wanted to be alone with you.

Patrick! My little Patrick.

Now, open your presents.

I can't get over it. Every time I see

you, you're taller and more grown-up.

Oh, golly, short pants! At last.

Can I try them on right now?

Right now.

Surprise! Welcome home, Mame!

Vera.

And dear, staunch, stalwart Lindsay.

How good of you both to rally

around this bereft old woman.

- Doesn't she look great?

- How can you tell?

Couldn't you have gone

to purple by now?

Come on, Auntie Mame,

champagne and fishberry jam.

No, Patrick. The bubbles

no longer tickle my nose.

I've given up alcohol,

along with everything else.

It's wonderful of you all.

Very touching, but... What's that?

It's your Dictaphone

and your typewriter.

- And what's that?

- I'm your sponge.

- This is your secretary.

- My secretary?

- Yes. You'll write your autobiography.

- Me? Write a book?

No one's had a more colorful life.

You've known fascinating people:

Winston Churchill, Gandhi, me.

You'll be so busy digging up the past,

you won't think of the present.

- And I promise to publish it.

- Oh, I see.

This is some sort of conspiracy.

Some trumped-up occupational therapy,

like basket weaving.

I swear, it'll be a bestseller.

And you'd be doing me a favor.

- My memoirs? Patrick, my drink.

- Champagne?

Anything, just make it double. I see

it in two volumes. Boxed, like Proust.

- Let me see. Chapter one, page one.

- She's supposed to start right now?

This isn't so difficult. Another drink.

Where was I? Chapter one, page one...

- What are you writing?

- "Chapter one, page one.

This isn't so difficult. Another drink.

Where was I? What are you writing?"

She is fast.

You're off and running.

Should I do this? lt'll take up all

my time. I came home to be with you.

After all, you can't be with me.

No women in the dorm.

I forgot, you're grown-up now.

You don't need me anymore.

Nobody needs me anymore. It's sad...

How do you turn her off?

The most important thing is

to have a good beginning.

- Wait for your collaborator.

- Collaborator?

Yes. My friend got a kind

of editor to work with you.

Fella named O'Bannion.

You don't trust me to write

my own life? He got me a ghost!

- It's not a ghost.

- I see it all now. A ghostwriter!

I won't expose my life

to some beer-drinking Irishman...

...who leads a low, common life

in some Third Avenue bar!

You don't trust me to write my life?

Who else could write it?

Whoever this creature is...

Mr. O'Bannion to see you.

I was asked to drop by to meet

the fabulous Mrs. Burnside.

You are she, of course.

I can sense the aura

of creative vitality about you.

Won't you come in, Mr. O'Bannion?

I thought by way

of introduction, Mrs. Burnside...

...l'd present you with a slim volume

of my poems, The Parched Garden.

What a lovely title. Thank you.

Do you mind if I sit down?

That long ride up in the elevator,

it's after getting me dizzy.

- I'll get you a bit of water.

- No, please don't bother.

Of course, a bit of champagne,

if it's handy.

Patrick.

It seems to help.

Thank you.

It's the other one.

Tell me, how did it happen?

Well, it was in 1922.

The Great Rebellion.

Even a lad of 15 can feel strongly

about his country's independence.

How nice.

Tell me, Mr. O'Bannion.

Do you think you and I

can ever get anyplace?

With the book, I mean.

Well, we've both known sorrow.

I feel that you and I are going

to create something.

Something beautiful.

Actually, my child, it was so sad.

Mother died in childbirth.

It was a dreadful thing.

And Father traveled all the time.

How difficult he was.

But I must be fair to Father.

Remind me to do a whole new chapter

about him. No, no, take that out.

And I had to start working

when I was 8.

I went next door and said,

"Can I baby-sit? Can I do something?"

After all, I was a child. I said,

"I need clothes. Parties. Pretties."

Please.

Please, Miss Gooch!

How can I court the muse

with all that clackety-clack?

I'm sorry. I'm only taking off

what Mrs. Burnside dictated.

Everything Mrs. Burnside

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