The Mask of Dimitrios

Synopsis: A mystery writer named Leyden is intrigued by the tale of notorious criminal Dimitrios Makropolous, whose body was found washed up on the shore in Istanbul. He decides to follow the career of Dimitrios around Europe, to learn more about the man. Along the way, he is joined by mysterious Mr. Peters, who has his own motivation.
Director(s): Jean Negulesco
Production: Warner Bros. Pictures
 
IMDB:
7.2
APPROVED
Year:
1944
95 min
197 Views


turner entertainment group and u.s. Department of education

aah!

Man:
"dimitrios makropoulos."

The case of

dimitrios makropoulos

is now officially closed.

That is all, gentlemen.

Colonel haki,

could you tell me-

i'm sorry.

Gentlemen, there is

nothing i can add

to what you've

heard here.

I've known of this

dimitrios makropoulos for years,

and yet have known

so little about him,

so very little.

We'll probably never

know who killed him.

But whoever it was

did us all a favor.

Good night.

Good evening,

colonel haki.

Good evening.

Ooh, colonel haki,

how nice to see you.

Madame chavez.

This is such

a wonderful party,

so many beautiful women.

But none more beautiful

than yourself.

You flatterer.

I've got a surprise for you.

The dutch writer

cornelius leyden.

Cornelius latimer leyden

here? Wonderful.

You invited him for me?

You expressed such

a desire to meet him.

I must say i expected

a different sort.

Writers are writers.

Yes, but mr. Leyden

tells me he was professor of economics

at the university

of amsterdam before he became a writer.

He looks like it.

Ha ha.

Ah, there you are,

mr. Leyden.

I want you to meet

my good friend colonel haki,

who's

an ardent reader of your books.

How do you do?

Mr. Leyden,

i long wanted to talk

to the writer whose work

i so much admire.

Thank you

very much.

Well, i'll leave

you gentlemen to discuss literature.

It would bore you,

perhaps,

but long have i

admired mr. Leyden,

and you understand,

madame.

But of course.

You'll excuse me, please?

Madame.

I read nothing but

detective stories.

I get them sent

from paris.

All the best

are translated into french.

To you, mr. Leyden.

Thank you.

I've just added

your une pelle ensanglantee

to my library.

Formidable.

But i cannot quite

understand

the significance

of the title.

Well, "bloody shovel."

Exactly.

It is my ambition

to write

a good detective

story of my own.

I have often thought

i could do so,

if i had only

the time.

Oh, madame,

such a pleasure.

Colonel haki.

I've got to play

the fool like this.

It is expected

of me.

But don't think

i like it. A cigarette?

Yes, please.

Please follow me.

I should like very much

to talk to you,

but these women...

come, let us go

to the veranda

where we will not

be disturbed.

This is better.

Mm-hmm.

Thank you.

You must excuse me

if i am a little nervous.

All day i've been

involved in the affairs

of a murderer.

Are you interested

in real murderers, mr. Leyden?

Maybe. Why?

I find a murderer

in a detective story

much more sympathetic

than a real murderer.

Have you ever heard of

dimitrios makropoulos?

I don't think so.

I've known of

his existence for nearly 20 years.

A dirty, cowardly

type.

Murder, espionage,

assassination.

Assas-well, that argues

a certain courage,

doesn't it?

My dear leyden,

dimitrios would have

nothing to do with the actual shooting.

Their kind never

risk their skins for that.

They stay on the

fringe of the blood.

But to me the most

important thing to know about an assassination

is not who fired

the shot, but who paid for the bullet.

That's true.

As far as i know,

no government ever caught dimitrios,

and there is

no photograph in his dossier.

But we knew him,

all right-

and so did athens,

sofia, belgrade, paris.

He was a great traveler,

this dimitrios.

Was? Sounds as if

he were dead.

Yes, he's dead.

His bloated body

was washed ashore this morning.

It is believed he

had been knifed

and thrown in

the bosporus.

But then he died

by violence.

That's very much

like justice, isn't it?

There's the writer

speaking.

Everything must be

tight, artistic,

like a detective

story.

The case of

dimitrios has loose ends-

dozens of them.

In just one hour

his body will be disposed of,

and the loose ends

will still be loose ends.

You see?

It is not artistic.

Now tell me,

mr. Leyden,

is there anything

in this story that could be

of the slightest

interest to a writer?

L-i've always liked

police work.

Colonel haki,

i have a rather strange

request to make.

Anything.

I would very much like

to see the body

of that dimitrios,

if it's possible.

By all means,

but-

you know, i've never

seen a dead man.

Not even in a mortuary...

ugly devil, isn't he?

These eyes have seen

things i should like to see.

It is a pity that

the mouth can never speak about them.

For 20 years it was

my hope to get him.

Now-

not very

prepossessing,

is he, mr. Leyden?

L-it isn't quite what

a thought it would be.

Would you like

to see the wound?

No, uh...

see?

It's getting warm

in here.

Well, do you still

want to hear more of dimitrios?

If you have the time.

The evening

is young.

Shall we go to

my hotel?

It's a little better

there.

Splendid.

Well, all we know

of dimitrios

is that he was born

in 1889.

He was found abandoned,

parents unknown.

A poor family

adopted him.

A good deed they

had cause to regret.

1889...

you have an

exceptional memory.

That is my business.

The first time we heard

of him was in smyrna, in 1922.

The city was under martial law,

and i was the head of

the military police.

At that time,

dimitrios worked as a fig-packer

who already had

a criminal record...

abdul.

Abdul dhris.

Dimitrios.

Are you in trouble?

I must flee the country.

But i have no money,

and the shipmasters

are asking 1,000

piasters for passage.

Well, i'm a poor man,

you know.

But if you could wait

till saturday-

oh, i can't.

But, abdul, i know where

i can get the money.

1,000 piasters-

2,000,

and 2,000 for you.

What would

i have to do?

Very little.

It's dimitrios, konrad.

Open up.

I got the plate,

konrad.

I told you to come alone.

Abdul's my partner.

He shares with me.

Let me see the plate.

If it isn't gold,

i'm not interested.

It's gold.

I'll show you in back.

Come on.

Let me see it now.

They shoot looters.

I risked my life

for this plate.

Come on.

Now let me have

the plate.

First we'll see

what's in your safe.

Robber!

Now i'll show you

the plate.

You said we wouldn't

kill him.

He'd tell the police.

He's better dead.

I was willing to

rob him, but murder...

they'd hang us

for robbery alone, you fool.

There's martial law

here now.

But you killed him before

you opened his safe.

His safe's full of

worthless junk.

Oh, he was a clever one,

that konrad.

But not clever enough

for dimitrios.

Here it is! That's where

i saw him hide it.

His money?

Naturally.

Ali! Wine!

Fill them up again

for everybody!

Ali, bring the wine!

Ali, where-

we was only having

a little drink.

Would you have

a drink with us?

I do not drink.

You seem to have

a lot of money.

Perhaps you could

tell me where you got it.

Why, i...

dimitrios?

Wait, dimitrios!

I was only having

a little drink...

i did not kill konrad,

i tell you i did not

kill him.

He stabbed himself?

He robbed his own

money?

1,200 piasters

were found in your possession.

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Frank Gruber

Frank Gruber (born February 2, 1904, Elmer, Minnesota, died December 9, 1969, Santa Monica, California) was an American writer. He was an author of stories for pulp fiction magazines. He also wrote dozens of novels, mostly Westerns and detective stories. Gruber wrote many scripts for Hollywood movies and television shows, and was the creator of three TV series. He sometimes wrote under the pen names Stephen Acre, Charles K. Boston and John K. Vedder. Gruber said that as a 9-year-old newsboy, he read his first book, "Luke Walton, the Chicago Newsboy" by Horatio Alger. During the next seven years he read a hundred more Alger books and said they influenced him professionally more than anything else in his life. They told how poor boys became rich, but what they instilled in Gruber was an ambition at age nine or 10, to be an author. He had written his first book before age 11, using a pencil on wrapping paper. Age 13 or 14, his ambition died for a while but several years later it rose again and he started submitting stories to various magazines, like Smart Set and Atlantic Monthly. Getting rejected, he lowered his sights to The Saturday Evening Post and Colliers, with no more success. The pulps were getting noticed and Gruber tried those but with no success. As a story came back with a rejection slip, he would post it off again to someone else, so he could have as many as forty stories going back and forth at different times, costing him about a third of his earnings in postage. Erle Stanley Gardner called him the fighter who licked his weight in rejection slips. February 1927, he finally sold a story. It was bought by The United Brethren Publishing House of Dayton. It was called "The Two Dollar Raise" and he got a cheque through for three dollars and fifty cents. Answering an ad in the Chicago Tribune, he got a job editing a small farm paper. In September he got a better paid job in Iowa and soon found himself editing five farm papers. He had lots of money and even wrote some articles for the papers but found he had no time to write the stories he wanted to write. In 1932 the Depression hit, and he lost his job. 1932 to 1934 were his bad years. He wrote and wrote, many stories typed out on an old "Remington" but of the Sunday School stories, the spicy sex stories, the detective stories, the sports stories, the love stories, very few sold, with some companies paying him as little as a quarter of a cent per word. He had a few successes and remained in Mt. Morris, Illinois for 14 months before deciding to head to New York on July 1, 1934. There were numerous publishing houses in New York and he could save money on postage but this led to him walking miles to deliver manuscripts as he had so little money, not even enough for food most of the time. He stayed in a room in the Forty Fourth Street Hotel ($10.50 per week). In his book, The Pulp Jungle (1967), Gruber details the struggles (for a long time, at least once a day he had tomato soup, which was free hot water in a bowl, with free crackers crumbled in and half a bottle of tomato sauce added) he had for a few years and numerous fellow authors he became friendly with, many of whom were famous or later became famous. Early December 1934 and with endless rejection slips, he got a phone call from Rogers Terrill. Could he do a 5,500 word filler story for Operator #5 pulp magazine by next day? He did and got paid. Even better, they wanted another one next month, and another. He was then asked to do a filler for Ace Sports pulp, which sold. Gruber's income from writing in 1934 was under $400. In 1935, his stories were suddenly wanted and he earned $10,000 that year. His wife came to live with him (she had been living with relatives) and he lived the good life, moving into a big apartment and buying a Buick ($750). January 1942, Gruber decided to try Hollywood, having heard about the huge sums some stories sold for and stayed there till 1946. Gruber—who stated that only seven types of Westerns existed—wrote more than 300 stories for over 40 pulp magazines, as well as more than sixty novels, which had sold more than ninety million copies in 24 countries, sixty five screenplays, and a hundred television scripts. Twenty five of his books have sold to motion pictures, and he created three TV series: Tales of Wells Fargo, The Texan and Shotgun Slade. His first novel, The Peace Marshall, which was rejected by every agent in New York at the time, became a film called "The Kansan", starting Richard Dix. The book has been reprinted many times with total sales of over one million copies. He bragged that he could write a complete mystery novel in 16 days and then use the other 14 days of the month to knock out a historical serial for a magazine. His mystery novels included The French Key (for which he sold the motion picture rights for $14,000 in 1945) and The Laughing Fox. more…

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