Paris - When It Sizzles Page #2

lying in the sun in Antibes,

studying Greek.

Greek?

There was this starlet

representing the Greek film industry

at the Cannes Festival.

Then, of course,

a few weeks 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 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 money. lt doesn't work.

And now l have to. Shall we begin?

An Alexander Meyerheim production.

Caps, quotes. The Girl Who Stole

the Eiffel Tower.

You do like the title?

Oh, yes,

it certainly sounds intriguing.

lt intrigued Meyerheim, too.

He bought the title, script unseen.

Original story and screenplay

by Richard Benson.

Page one. Fade in. Exterior.

Paris, naturally.

Let's see, night or day?

Day.

Begin... with a shot of...

of the Eiffel Tower.

The camera zooms in. Standing

windswept and alone on a platform

is a mysterious woman in black.

She glances at her watch.

And we see...

How the hell do l know?

Mysterious woman in black.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

Mustn't be obvious. Don't give the

whole story too early. OK. Fade in.

Exterior, le Sacr Coeur. Day.

No...

Make that, erm,...

..the Grand Palais.

We've got to give the audience

the taste and smell

of the real Paris.

OK.

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...

Dot, dot, dot.

She sweeps majestically

into the store and...

That's all we see of her. Makes no

sense but Alex would have loved it.

He could have stolen the Bentley and

afterwards charged it to the picture.

- What d'you say your name was?

- Gabrielle Simpson.

- How long have you lived in Paris?

- Two years.

And you came here to write.

Well, that, too, but mostly to...

l don't know how to say it exactly.

Live.

Live?

Would you mind...?

You were saying

you came here to live.

Yes. For the first six months l made

a comprehensive study of depravity.

No kidding?

Seriously. Never got to bed

before eight in the morning.

Who knows how many cups of

poisonous black coffee l consumed?

l didn't drink then, so it was hard

to get totally into the spirit.

Depravity can be terribly boring

if you don't smoke or drink.

But a person must try to grow.

And the guy you're dating on Bastille

Day, is he part of the process?

No, he's just a friend.

A struggling young actor.

An actor?!

A tragic relationship to begin with.

l hope he's not a method actor

who scratches and mumbles and pauses,

thereby destroying the impeccable

rhythm of the author's prose.

No, he's a little intense

but lots of fun.

Uh-huh? Yeah, well...

And you and this... actor, what

do you plan to do on Bastille Day?

We'll spend the whole day together.

First, breakfast at a little caf,

then we'll dance

from one end of Paris to the other,

opera at five, then the guards

and the singing of the Marseillaise,

off to Montmartre for the fireworks,

then supper and champagne

and, you know, live.

- You really like it, don't you?

- What?

Life.

Every morning when l wake up

and see a whole new other day,

l just go absolutely ape.

l've got an idea.

l got an idea!

The first good one in four months.

No, l had an idea to give up

drinking - it didn't photograph.

Now this could be good.

Very good indeed.

A simple story

of a simple Parisian working girl

and how she spends July 14th.

The whole picture plays in one day.

And l've got two days to write it.

Fade in. Exterior, Paris.

As our story begins,

it's early Bastille Day morning.

And all the trumpets of Paris

are sounding reveille.

Over a shot of the Arch of Triumph,

superimpose

''An Alexander Meyerheim production''.

Cut to the Eiffel Tower.

The main title.

The trumpets segue

into the inevitable title song.

Maybe we can get

Sinatra to sing it.

There follows an interminable list

of other credits

acknowledging the efforts of

all the quote little people unquote,

whom I shall graciously thank

in my acceptance speech

at the Academy Awards.

As the cymbals crash,

''Original Story and Screenplay

by Richard Benson''.

OK.

Fade out.

And fade in.

A picturesque Parisian square,

where the holiday festivities

are in progress.

A simple Parisian working girl,

who looks remarkably like you,

Miss Simpson,

emerges from

her simple Parisian dwelling

and makes her way through the crowd

and across the square.

She seats herself at a table

at this little caf 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.

Not at all. Philippe happens to be

very handsome.

In fact, he looks rather like,

erm, Tony Curtis.

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.

Maurice!

Like, er, bonjour, baby.

- Bonjour, Maurice!

- Hey.

Oh, l'm so excited. l didn't sleep

a wink. Do you like my dress?

Yeah, very groovy.

Would it be too wicked

if instead of breakfast

we had a glass of champagne

right here?

Thanks.

- Look, baby...

- Yes, Maurice?

This Bastille Day gig?

Like, erm,

we're gonna have to cool it.

But, Maurice, l don't understand.

Well, see, baby, l'm going to

have to cut. See, last night,

while l was making the scene

at le drug store,

l was tearing an expresso

with a couple of local citizens

when, erm, all of a sudden

this New Wave-looking stud comes in

and says his name is Roger Roussin

and, like, he's making a film

about Bastille Day.

No Dancing in the Streets.

No Dancing in the Streets?

ln Roger's flick it, like,

erm,... rains.

Anyway, he offers me the lead.

Oh, Maurice,

l'm, like, so happy for you.

See, l have to split. We're gonna be

shooting all day. ln the sewers.

l see.

Hey, baby, l got wheels,

can l drop you?

No thanks, l prefer to walk.

Crazy.

Erm, tout l'heure.

With the almost lunatic narcissism

peculiar to his curious calling,

Maurice rather preciously mounts

his motor scooter.

Our heroine is left grief-stricken,

not realising how much better off

she really is.

They were going to spend

the whole day together!

My dear, you just witnessed

the first switch.

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