Paris - When It Sizzles Page #3

Maybe, but Maurice

would never behave that way.

Besides, his name is not Maurice,

it's Philippe.

So, having successfully disposed of

her date for Bastille Day,

we move on to important matters.

Conflict.

Conflict?

The other man.

The third corner

of the obligatory triangle.

Didn't Roger whatshisname,

the No Scrabble director,

teach you anything

about writing movies?

No...

- For a moment, Gabby sits there...

- Gabby?

We've got to call her something.

For a moment, Gabby sits there.

A lonely and pathetic figure.

But unbeknownst to her,

this heart-breaking little scene

has been witnessed by...

..dot, dot, dot,...

..a mysterious stranger.

A mysterious stranger. How exciting.

Miss Simpson,

before you escape the confines

of this unpretentious hotel room,

it's my intention to show you

just how exciting

a mysterious stranger can be.

l suppose we'll have to describe him.

Yes, l suppose so.

He's American, of course.

l can write him better that way.

Now let's see, what else?

l see him as rather tall,

rather suntanned,

rather handsome, athletic looking,

with a rugged but...

curiously sensitive face.

Poor sad creature.

Little does she realise

that in a moment

she and the audience

will have totally forgotten

that dull clod Maurice,

or Philippe

or whatever his name is.

At this magic moment

her life has indeed begun.

Tenderly he folds her into his arms,

and moving with the nimble grace

of a Fred Astaire,

he dances her off into the crowd.

ln exactly ten seconds l want you

to slap me as hard as you can.

What?

There is unfortunately

no time to explain.

And no reason to trust me.

But l trust you.

There's something about

your big magic eyes, and l am...

Well, the name doesn't matter.

Just think of me as...

1331, American lntelligence.

This must be some kind of ajoke.

lf you will look

slightly to your left...

Without moving your head, please.

You will see in that window...

ln the bouquet l handed you

is a piece of microfilm.

l can't tell you what it is, but

should it fall into the wrong hands,

it may mean the end of civilisation

as we know it.

The time has come for you

to slap me as hard as you can.

Stop!

Spies in trench coats?

I'm afraid I got carried away.

We'll have to go back.

OK. That brings us back

to where we were.

We're alright through getting rid

of her date for Bastille Day.

The boy and the girl meet and...

..and they dance, and they dance...

And they dance, and they dance...

Mr Benson?

Now then. The mysterious stranger.

Who is he...?

There's someone at the door.

What does he do?

What suffering, what torment

caused the sadness

that lurks behind his eyes?

And why,

while we're asking questions,

didn't l listen to my father

and learn a useful trade?

Merci.

lt's a telegram.

Well, aren't you going to open it?

No, l'm not going to open it.

The reason l won't open it

is l'm fully aware what it says.

The reason for that is because

in the last 19 and a fraction weeks

l have received 134 telegrams

from Mr Alexander Meyerheim,

all saying exactly the same thing.

When will the script be finished?

When will the script be finished?

How can l write

with him badgering me this way?

Day and night, wires, messages,

telephone calls.

How was it today? Did you work well?

When will it be finished?

Talk about men in trench coats!

He spies on me constantly.

His people are everywhere.

For all l know, you might be one.

Mr Benson!

l'm sorry. Some days l just feel like

whatshisname in Les Misrables.

- Jean Valjean.

- l guess so.

Only last night... Last night

l swore to him on the telephone

that l had 138 pages in front of me.

l said, ''Alex,

any man who takes your money

and tells you he's got 138 pages

in front of him and doesn't

is nothing but a liar and a thief!''

Sometimes l get the feeling

he doesn't trust me.

l know

who the mysterious stranger is.

He's a liar and a thief.

Sure. A latterday Franois Villon,

who lives by his wits

and what he steals.

Ajewel thief, maybe.

Expert safe-cracker.

There isn't a safe in the world

he can't open with his bare hands.

l've got it!

We have to start all over again

but that's not too serious.

We've only got eight pages.

Let's see. We're alright through

Alexander Meyerheim production,

Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower,

story and screenplay, Richard Benson.

We keep the Bastille Dayjazz, only

this time we don't start on Gabby,

we start on... Rick.

Rick. That's a wonderful name

for the mysterious stranger.

Don't editorialise.

Just start typing.

Exterior, day. A picturesque square.

Amidst the throng of merrymakers,

the camera picks up a rather tall,

rather suntanned American...

We'd better change his wardrobe

for a liar-and-a-thief suit.

You know, various shades of black.

Moving with the grace of ajungle

cat, Rick approaches the table

where Gabby is getting

the brush-off from her actor.

His almost super-human intelligence

takes in the situation at once.

He hesitates. If there's

a single chink in Rick's armour,

it's a pretty face.

He comes to a decision

and moves to another table,

where two denizens

of the underworld await him.

Call them first gangster

and second gangster.

Well, Rick?

- Have you thought it over?

- l'm considering the proposition.

lt is a plan of simplicity and beauty

yet highly original, very daring.

- Voil, monsieur.

- We need you for two things only.

To open the safe

and deliver the note.

A few hours' work.

And for this, a million dollars.

Which we will, of course,

split three ways.

Half for me. The other half to be

divided between you two.

But you already agreed.

Gentlemen, it's a well-known fact

that l am not only a brilliant

safe-cracker, but a liar and a thief.

Half for me, the other half

divided between you two.

Very well. l will pick you up

with a car at four.

Until four, then.

And, Rick, resist at all costs

your continuous and overwhelming

impulse to perform the double-cross.

We will not this time be so...

understanding

as we were last year in Tangier.

Now, Miss Simpson, having

established a climate of suspense,

intrigue and romance, we've arrived

once more at that magic moment.

The boy and the girl meet.

OK. Now we need more conflict.

A new character, maybe.

I've got it! Seated nearby

is Rick's deadly enemy,

Inspector, erm, Gillette

of the international police force.

It is apparent he knows something

the audience does not know.

And now, Miss Simpson, we have set

the wheels of our plot in motion

and inflamed the audience

with a passionate desire

to find out what happens next.

And l don't blame them.

l'm dying to find out myself.

We can pause

for a few pages of chitchat,

getting-to-know-you stuff,

which l do so brilliantly.

The question is, where should

this charming little scene be played?

At lunch!

Yes, he takes her to a beautiful

restaurant for lunch in the Bois.

Ridiculous. She wouldn't go off with

a man who picked her up in a square.

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