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Yes, this is Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles, California.
It; s about five o; clock in the morning.
That; s the homicide squad, complete with detectives and newspapermen.
A murder; s been reported from one of those houses in the 10000 block.
You; ll read about it in the late editions.
You; ll get it over your radio and on television,
because an old-time star is involved, one of the biggest.
But before you hear it all distorted and blown out of proportion,
before those Hollywood columnists get their hands on it,
maybe you; d like to hear the facts, the whole truth.
If so, you; ve come to the right party.
The body of a young man was found in the pool of her mansion,
with two shots in his back and one in his stomach. Nobody important.
Just a writer with a couple of B-pictures to his credit.
The poor dope! He always wanted a pool.
In the end, he got himself a pool, only the price turned out a little high.
Let; s go back about six months and find the day when it all started.
I was living in an apartment house above Franklin and lvar.
Things were tough at the moment.
I hadn; t worked in a studio for a long time.
So I sat there grinding out original stories, two a week.
Only I seemed to have lost my touch.
Maybe they weren; t original enough, maybe they were too original.
All I know is, they didn; t sell.
Yep?
- Joseph C Gillis? - That's right.
- We've come for the car. - What car?
1946 Plymouth convertible, California licence 40 R 116.
- Where are the keys? - Why should I give you them?
The company's played ball long enough, you're three payments behind.
And we've got a court order. The keys.
- Or do you want us to haul it away? - The car isn't here.
- Is that so? - I loaned it to a friend.
- He took it to Palm Springs. - Gone away for his health?
- If you don't believe me, look. - We believe you, now believe us.
That car better be here by noon tomorrow or there'll be fireworks.
You say the cutest things.
I needed about $290 and I needed it real quick, or l; d lose my car.
It wasn; t in Palm Springs, and it wasn; t in the garage.
I was way ahead of the finance company.
I knew they; d come and I wasn; t taking chances.
So I kept it across the street behind Rudy; s shoeshine parlour.
Rudy never asked any questions about your finances,
he; d just look at your heels and know the score.
I had an original story kicking around Paramount.
My agent said it was dead, but I knew a bigshot who liked me.
The time had come to take advantage of it. His name was Sheldrake.
He was a smart producer with a set of ulcers to prove it.
You've got five minutes. What's your story about?
A baseball player, a rookie shortstop that's batting 347, once did a hold-up,
but he's trying to go straight, except some gamblers won't let him.
They tell him he's got to throw the World Series?
More or less. I've got a gimmick.
- Got a title? - "Bases Loaded". There's an outline.
Call readers department, find out what they have on "Bases Loaded".
They're pretty hot about it at Twentieth, except Zanuck's all wet.
Can you see Ty Power as the shortstop?
You've got the best man, Alan Ladd.
It'd be a change of pace for Ladd. And simple to shoot.
Lots of outdoors stuff. I bet you could make it for under a million.
- Excuse me. - There's a great part for Bill Demarest.
An old trainer got beaned, goes out of his head sometimes.
Hello, Mr Sheldrake. "Bases Loaded", I covered it with a two-page synopsis.
- Thanks. - But I wouldn't bother.
- What's wrong? - It's from hunger.
Nothing for Ladd?
It's a rehash of something not very good.
You'll be glad to meet Mr Gillis, he wrote it. This is Miss Kramer.
The name's Schaefer, Betty Schaefer. I wish I could crawl in a hole with it.
- If I could be of any help. - Sorry, I just didn't think it was good.
I found it flat and trite.
What kind of material do you recommend? Joyce, Dostoyevsky?
I think pictures should say something.
Just a story won't do. You'd have turned down "Gone with the Wind".
No, that was me. I said, "Who wants to see a Civil War picture?"
I hated "Bases Loaded" because I knew your name. I'd heard you had talent.
This year, I'm trying to earn a living.
So you take plot 27 A, make it glossy and slick?
Those are dirty words. You sound like New York critics.
- That'll be all Miss Kramer... Schaefer. - Goodbye, Mr Gillis.
Next time, I'll write you "The Naked and the Dead".
Well, seems like Zanuck has got himself a baseball picture.
Don't think I thought this would win an Academy Award.
We're looking for a Betty Hutton. Do you see it as a Betty Hutton?
- Frankly, no. - Wait a minute.
If we made it a girls' softball team, put in a few numbers,
might be a musical: "It Happened in the Bullpen: The Story of a Woman".
Are you trying to be funny, because I'm out of laughs. I need a job.
- I haven't got a thing. - Any assignment, additional dialogue.
Nothing, honest.
Mr Sheldrake, could you let me have 300 bucks as a personal loan?
Could I? Gillis...
Last year, somebody talked me into buying a ranch,
so I borrowed the money.
This year, I had to mortgage the ranch to keep up my life insurance...
After that, I drove down to headquarters.
That; s how a lot of us think about Schwab; s drugstore.
Kind of a combination office, Kaffeeklatsch and waiting room.
Waiting... Waiting for the gravy train.
I got myself ten nickels and started sending out a general SOS.
I couldn; t get hold of my agent, naturally.
So I called a pal of mine, Artie Green.
An awful nice guy, an assistant director.
He could let me have twenty, but twenty wouldn; t do.
Then I talked to a couple of yes-men at Metro. To me, they said no.
Finally, I located that agent of mine. The big faker!
Was he out digging up a job for poor Joe Gillis?
He was hard at work in Bel Air, making with the golf sticks.
You need $300? Of course I could give you $300, only I'm not going to.
- No? - I'm not just your agent.
- It's not the 10%. I'm your friend. - You are?
The finest things have been written on an empty stomach.
Once your talent gets into that Mocambo-Romanoff rut, you're through.
Forget that! It's a car I'm talking about. Losing it is like losing my legs.
Greatest thing that could happen. Now you'll have to sit down and write.
What do you think I've been doing? I need $300.
Sweetheart, maybe what you need is another agent.
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.
The time had come to wrap up the Hollywood deal and go home.
Maybe if I hocked all my junk, there; d be enough for a ticket back to Ohio,
to that $35-a-week job at the copy desk of the; ; Dayton Evening Post; ;,
if it was still open, back to the smirking delight of the office.
All right, why don; t you take a crack at Hollywood?
Maybe you think you could...
Uh-oh!
l; d landed in the driveway of some big mansion
that looked rundown and deserted.
At the end of the drive was a lovely sight.
A great big empty garage, just standing there going to waste.
If ever there was a place to stash a car with a hot licence number.
There was another occupant in that garage.
An enormous foreign-built automobile.
It must; ve burned up ten gallons to a mile.
It had a 1932 licence. I figured that; s when the owners had moved out.
I couldn; t go back to my apartment now those bloodhounds were on to me.
The idea was to stay at Artie Green; s until I could make that bus for Ohio.
Once in Dayton, l; d drop the credit boys a postcard
telling them where to pick up the jalopy.
It was a great big white elephant of a place.
The kind crazy movie people built in the crazy twenties.
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.
You there, why are you so late?
Why have you kept me waiting so long?
In here.
I just put my car in the garage. I had a blowout. I thought...
- Go on in. - Maybe I'd better take my car...
Wipe your feet.
Go on.
You're not properly dressed for the occasion.
- What's the occasion? - Have him come up, Max.
- Up the stairs. - Listen for a minute...
- Madame is waiting. - For me?
OK.
If you need help with the coffin, call me.
This way.
In here.
I put him on my massage table by the fire.
He always liked fires and poking at them with a stick.
We'll bury him in the garden. Any city laws against that?
- I wouldn't know. - I don't care, anyway.
I want the coffin to be white and specially lined with satin,
white or deep pink.
Maybe red, bright, flaming red. Let's make it gay.
How much? Don't give me a fancy price just because I'm rich.
Lady, you've got the wrong man. I had some trouble with a flat tyre.
I pulled in till I could get a spare. I thought the house was empty.
- It is not. Get out. - I'm sorry.
I'm sorry you lost your friend. I don't think red is the right colour.
- Haven't I seen you before? - Get out, or shall I call my servant?
You're Norma Desmond. You were big in silent pictures.
I am big. It's the pictures that got small.
I knew there was something wrong with them.
They're dead, they're finished.
There was a time when they had the eyes of the world.
But that wasn't good enough. They had to have the ears, too.
So they opened their big mouths and out came talk, talk, talk!
That's where the popcorn business comes in. Buy it to plug your ears.
Look at them in the front offices, the masterminds!
They smashed the idols!
The Fairbankses, the Gilberts, the Valentinos!
Who've we got now? Some nobody.
Don't blame me. I'm just a writer.
You are? Writing words, words, more words.
You've made a rope of words and strangled this business.
But there's a microphone to catch the last gurgles,
and Technicolor to photograph the swollen tongue.
- Sh! You'll wake up the monkey. - Get out! Max.
Next time I'll bring my autograph album.
Or maybe some cement and ask for your footprint.
It's OK, OK. I'm going.
Just a minute, you. You're a writer, you said.
- Why? - Are you or not?
- That's what's on my Guild card. - And you have written pictures?
I sure have. Want a list of my credits?
I want to ask you something. Come in here.
Last one was about Okies in the Dust Bowl.
You'd never know because on screen
the whole thing played on a torpedo boat.
Intimate, isn't it?
The wind gets in that pipe organ. I ought to take it out.
I'd teach it a better tune.
Young man, tell me something.
How long is a movie script these days? How many pages?
Depends whether it's "Donald Duck" or "Joan of Arc".
This is to be a very important picture. I've written it myself. Took me years.
Looks like enough for six important pictures.
It's Salome's story. I'll have DeMille direct.
- DeMille? - We made a lot of pictures together.
- And you'll play Salome. - Who else?
I didn't know you were planning a comeback.
I hate that word. It's a return.
A return to the millions who've never forgiven me for deserting the screen.
- Fair enough. - Salome. What a woman.
What a part. The princess in love with a holy man.
She dances the dance of the seven veils.
He rejects her, so she demands his head on a golden tray.
Kissing his cold, dead lips.
- They'll love it in Pomona. - They'll love it everyplace.
Read the scene just before she has him killed.
Another writer may steal your material.
I'm not afraid. Read it.
Bring something to drink. Sit down. Is there enough light?
- I've got 20-20 vision. - I said sit down.
Well, I had no pressing engagement.
Except with those boys from the finance office.
And she; d mentioned something to drink. Why not?
Sometimes it; s interesting to see just how bad bad writing can be.
This promised to go the limit.
What would a handwriting expert make of her childish scrawl?
Max wheeled in some champagne and caviar.
Later I found out Max was the only other person in that grim castle.
And I found out a few other things about him.
As for her, she sat coiled up like a watch-spring,
her cigarette clamped in a curious holder.
I could sense her watching me through those dark glasses,
defying me not to like what I read,
or maybe begging me in her own proud way to like it.
It meant so much to her.
It sure was a cosy set-up.
That bundle of raw nerves and Max and a dead monkey upstairs,
and the wind wheezing through that organ once in a while.
Later on, just for comedy relief,
the real guy arrived with the baby coffin.
It was all done with great dignity.
He must have been a very important chimp.
The great-grandson of King Kong maybe.
It got to be eleven, and I felt a little sick at my stomach,
what with that sweet champagne and that tripe l; d been reading,
that silly hodgepodge of melodramatic plots.
However, by then, l; d started concocting a little plot of my own.
- Well? - This is fascinating.
Of course it is.
Maybe it's a little long and repetitious, but you're not a professional writer.
- I wrote that with my heart. - Sure you did.
That's what makes it great.
- But it needs a little more dialogue. - What for?
- My eyes can say anything I want. - It could use some shears.
- I will not have it butchered. - Of course not.
But it ought to be organised, edited. You can find somebody.
Who? I'd have to have somebody I could trust.
When were you born? What zodiac sign?
- I don't know. - What month?
December, 21 st.
Sagittarius. I like Sagittarians, you can trust them.
- Thank you. - I want you to do this work.
Me? I'm busy. I just finished a script and I'm doing another assignment.
I don't care.
You know, I'm pretty expensive. I get $500 a week.
I wouldn't worry about money. I'll make it worth your while.
- I'll read the rest at home. - I couldn't let it out of my house.
- Finish it here. - It's getting kind of late.
- Are you married, Mr? - Gillis. Single.
- Where do you live? - Hollywood. Alto Nido apartments.
- Something's wrong with your car? - There sure is.
- Why not stay here? - I'll come back early tomorrow.
Nonsense. There's a room over the garage.
Max will take you there. Max!
I felt kind of pleased with the way l; d handled the situation.
I dropped the hook, and she snapped at it.
My car would be safe down below while I patched up the script.
And there should be plenty of money in it.
This room hasn't been used for a long time.
It'll never make "House Beautiful", but it's OK for one night.
- I made your bed this afternoon. - How did you know I'd stay?
The bathroom's there. I put in some towels, soap and a toothbrush.
Say, she's quite a character that Norma Desmond.
She was the greatest. You wouldn't know, you're too young.
In one week, she received 17,000 fan letters.
Men bribed the hairdresser for a lock of her hair.
There was an Indian maharajah who came to beg one of her stockings.
Later he strangled himself with it.
Well, I sure turned into an interesting driveway.
You did, sir. Goodnight, sir.
I pegged him as slightly cuckoo, too.
A stroke maybe.
The whole place seemed stricken with a 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 Normand and John Gilbert swam in it 10,000 midnights ago.
And Vilma Banky and Rod La Rocque.
It was empty now. Or was it?
There was something else going on: the last rites for that hairy old chimp,
performed with the utmost seriousness,
as if she were laying to rest an only child.
Was her life really as empty as that?
It was all very queer, but queerer things were yet to come.
That night I had a mixed-up dream. In it there was an organ grinder.
I couldn; t see his face, but the organ was draped in black.
And a chimp was dancing for pennies.
When I opened my eyes, the music was still there.
Where was I?
Oh, yes, in that empty room over her garage.
Only it wasn; t empty any more. l; d had a visitor.
Someone had brought in my belongings, my books, typewriter and clothes.
What was going on?
Hey, you! Max, whatever your name is, what are my things doing here?
I'm talking to you. My clothes and things are up in the room.
Naturally. I brought them myself.
- Is that so? - What's the matter? Anything missing?
- Who asked you to? - I did.
I don't know why you're so upset. Stop that playing, Max.
It seemed like a good idea if we are to work together.
I'm to fix your script. There's nothing in the deal about staying here.
- You'll like it here. - I've my own apartment.
You owe three months' rent.
- I'll take care of that. - It's all taken care of, all paid for.
We'll deduct it from my salary.
Let's not be small about such matters. We won't keep books.
- Unpack Mr Gillis's things. - It is done, Madame.
- Pack 'em up again. I'm not staying! - Make up your mind.
Do you want this job or don't you?
I wanted the job and the dough and to get out of there quickly.
I thought if I got going I could finish it in a couple of weeks.
But it wasn; t so simple getting coherence into her wild hallucinations.
It was made tougher with her around all the time, hovering over me,
afraid l; d do injury to that precious brainchild of hers.
What's that?
- Just a scene I threw out. - Which scene?
The slave market. It's better to cut directly to...
Cut away from me?
It's too much of you. They don't want you in every scene.
Then why do they still write me fan letters and beg for my photographs?
Because they want to see me - me, Norma Desmond.
Put it back.
OK.
I didn; t argue with her.
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.
Plain crazy when it came to that one subject: her celluloid self.
The great Norma Desmond.
How could she breathe in that house so crowded with Norma Desmonds?
More Norma Desmonds and still more Norma Desmonds.
It wasn; t all work, of course.
Three times a week, Max hauled up that painting
presented to her by some Nevada chamber of commerce.
And we; d see a movie, right in her living room.
So much nicer than going out, she; d say.
The plain fact was she was afraid of that world outside,
afraid it would remind her that time had passed.
They were silent movies, and Max would run the projection machine.
Just as well.
It kept him from giving us an accompaniment on that organ.
She; d sit very close to me, and she; d smell of tuberoses.
Not my favourite perfume, not by a long shot.
Sometimes as we watched, 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 don; t have to tell you who the star was.
They were always her pictures. That; s all she wanted to see.
Still wonderful, isn't it? And no dialogue.
We didn't need dialogue. We had faces.
There just aren't any faces like that any more. Maybe one, Garbo.
Those idiot producers, those imbeciles! Haven't they got eyes?
Have they forgotten what a star looks like?
I'll be up there again, so help me!
Sometimes there; d be a little bridge game.
With a twentieth of a cent a point. l; d get half her winnings.
Once they ran up to 70 cents, which was about the only cash I ever got.
The other players would be actor friends,
dim figures you may still remember from the silent days.
I thought of them as her waxworks.
- One diamond. - One heart.
- A spade. - Pass.
- Three no trump. - Pass.
- Empty the ashtray, Joe, dear.
- Some men outside ask for you. - I'm not here.
- That's what I said. - Good.
But they found your car and they're going to tow it away.
Where's the ashtray? Joe, can't we have the ashtray?
- I want to talk to you. - Not now, I'm playing three no trump.
They've come for my car.
I've forgotten how many spades are out!
- I need money now. - Can't you wait until I'm dummy?
- No. - Please.
- Now, what is it? Where's the fire? - I've lost my car.
I thought it was a matter of life and death.
It is, to me. That's why I came to this house and took this job, ghost-writing.
You're being silly. We don't need two cars, we have one.
Not a cheap thing made of chromium and spit: an Isotta Fraschini.
Ever heard of Isotta Fraschinis?
All handmade. Cost me $28,000.
So Max got that old bus off its blocks and polished it up.
She; d take me for rides in the hills above Sunset.
The whole thing was upholstered in leopard skin,
and had one of those car phones, all gold-plated.
- That's a dreadful shirt. - What's wrong with it?
Nothing, for work in a filling station. I'm bored with that jacket and pants.
Max, what's the very best man's shop in town?
I don't need any clothes and I don't want you buying them for me.
Why begrudge me a little fun? I just want you to look nice.
And must you chew gum?
There's nothing like blue flannel for a man.
This one, single-breasted.
Now we need a topcoat. Show me your camel's hair.
- Evening clothes? - I don't need a tuxedo.
Of course you do. A tuxedo, tails and, if you aren't careful, a cut-away.
- Tails, that's ridiculous! - For parties and New Year's Eve.
- Where are your evening clothes? - This way, madam.
Here are some camel's hair, but feel this, it's vicuņa.
- It's a little more expensive. - The camel's hair will do.
Well, as long as the lady's paying for it, why not take the vicuņa?
The last week in December, the rains came.
A great package of rain. Oversized like everything else in California.
It came right through the old roof of my room above the garage.
She had Max move me to the main house.
I didn; t much like the idea.
The only time I had to myself was in that room.
But, it was better than sleeping in a raincoat and galoshes.
- Whose room was this? - The room of the husband.
The husbands, I should say. Madame's been married three times.
I guess that's the one you can see Catalina from, only this isn't the day.
What's with the door? There's no lock.
There are no locks anywhere in this house, sir.
How come? There must be a reason.
- The doctor suggested it. - What doctor?
Madame's doctor. Madame has moments of melancholy.
There have been some attempts at suicide.
We have to be very careful. No sleeping pills, no razor blades.
We shut off the gas in Madame's bedroom.
Why? Her career? She got enough out of it. She's not forgotten.
- She still gets those fan letters. - Don't look closely at the postmarks.
You send them. Is that it, Max?
I'd better press your evening clothes, sir.
Mr Gillis has not forgotten Madame's New Year's party?
No, I haven't. I suppose all the waxworks are coming?
I wouldn't know, sir. Madame made the arrangements.
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.
It was at her New Year; s party that I found out how she felt about me.
Maybe l; d been an idiot not to have sensed it was coming.
That sad, embarrassing revelation.
Joe!
You look absolutely divine. Turn around.
- Please! - Come on.
Perfect! Wonderful shoulders, and I love that line.
- It's padding, don't be fooled. - Here.
Dressing up was always just wearing my dark blue suit.
I don't like the stud. I want you to have a luscious pearl.
I'm not going to wear earrings.
- Let's have a drink. - Shouldn't we wait for the others?
Max, champagne.
Careful, it's slippery. I had it waxed.
Here's to us! This floor used to be wood, but I had it changed.
Valentino said, "There's nothing like tile for a tango." Come on.
- Not on the same floor with Valentino. - Just follow me.
- Don't bend back like that. - It's that thing, it tickles.
It does?
- It's 10.15. What time will they arrive? - Who?
- The other guests. - There aren't any.
We don't want to share this night with others. This is for you and me.
- Oh? - Hold me tighter.
OK.
Come midnight, how about smashing glasses over Max's head?
- You think this is funny. - A little.
An hour dragged by.
I felt caught like the cigarette in that contraption on her finger.
What a wonderful next year it's going to be. What fun we'll have.
I'll fill the pool or open my Malibu house and you can have the ocean.
When our picture's finished, I'll buy you a boat and we'll sail to Hawaii...
You won't buy me anything more.
Don't be silly. Here. I was going to give it to you at midnight.
I can't take it. You've bought me enough.
Shut up! I'm rich, richer than all this new Hollywood trash.
I've got $1 million.
I own three blocks downtown, I've got oil in Bakersfield pumping, pumping.
It's for buying us anything we want.
- Cut out that "us" business. - What's the matter with you?
What right do you have to take me for granted?
What right? You want me to tell you?
Have you thought I may have a life of my own, a girl I'm crazy about?
Who? Some car-hop or dress extra?
I'm all wrong for you.
You want a Valentino, somebody with polo ponies, a big shot.
What you're trying to say is you don't want me to love you. Say it.
I didn; t know where I was going. 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 had to be a New Year; s shindig in his apartment.
Writers without a job, composers without a publisher,
actresses so young they still believed the guys in the casting office.
A bunch of kids who didn; t give a hoot, so long as they had a yuck to share.
Hollywood for us ain; t been so good Got no swimming pool
Very few clothes All we earn are buttons and bows
- Hello, Joe. - Tom.
- How are you? - Hi, Joe.
- Whaddya know, Joe Gillis! - Hi, Artie.
Where you been keeping that gorgeous face? I almost reported you missing.
You all know Joe Gillis, the famous screenwriter, uranium smuggler,
and Black Dahlia suspect.
- Give me your coat. - Let it ride.
- You are going to stay? - Yes.
Then come on. What is this, mink?
Judas H Priest, who'd you borrow that from? Adolphe Menjou?
- Close, but no cigar. - You're not really a smuggler?
- Where's the bar? - Come on.
- Good party. - The greatest.
They call me the Elsa Maxwell of the assistant directors.
Go easy on that punchbowl. Budget only calls for three drinks per extra.
- Fake the rest. - Can I stick around a while?
- Sure. This'll go on all night. - No, I mean a couple of weeks?
- We've a vacancy on the couch. - I'll take it.
I'll have the bellhop take care of your luggage. Just register it here.
- Hello, Mr Gillis. - Hello.
- You know each other? - Betty Schaefer, Sheldrake's office.
- Sure, "Bases Loaded". - Wait.
This is the woman I love. What's going on?
She's a fan for my literary output.
- Hurt feelings department. - Where's the phone?
Over by the rainbow room.
When you're through with that thing, can I have it?
- Hey, you forgot this. - Thanks.
- I've been hoping to run into you. - To recover your knife in my back?
I felt guilty, so I got out some of your old stories.
- You sweet kid. - One's called something "Window".
- "Dark Windows". How'd you like it? - I didn't, except for about six pages.
You've got a flashback there...
Is there someplace we can talk?
How about the rainbow room?
Joe, I said you could have my couch, not my girl.
This is shop talk.
There's a short stretch of my fiction you found worthy of notice?
The flashback scene when she tells about being a schoolteacher.
- I had a teacher like that. - Maybe that's why it's good.
- It's true and moving. Why not? - Who wants true and moving?
Drop that attitude. It's something worthwhile.
- Shall I start now? - Seriously. I've got ideas.
I've got some, too. This is New Year's Eve, let's live it up.
For instance? We could make some paper boats and have a regatta.
- Or turn on the shower full blast. - Or capture the kitchen.
- Are you hungry? - Hungry?
After twelve years in the Burmese jungle, I'm starving, Lady Agatha...
...starving for a white shoulder. - Phillip, you're mad.
Thirsting for the coolness of your lips.
You can have the phone now.
No, Phillip, we must be strong.
You're still wearing the Coldstream Guards uniform,
furthermore, you can have the phone now.
OK.
Suddenly I'm terribly afraid of losing you.
You won't. I'll get us a refill of this horrible liquid.
- You'll be waiting for me? - With a wildly beating heart.
Life can be beautiful.
Hello, Max. I need a favour.
I'm sorry, I cannot talk now.
Yes, you can. Put my old clothes and my typewriter in my suitcase.
- I'll have somebody pick them up. - I've no time. The doctor is here.
What doctor? What's going on?
Madame got the razor from your room and cut her wrists.
What? Max! Max!
I got the recipe.
Two packages of cough drops dissolved in warm grape juice...
Hey, Joe!
Happy New Year!
- How is she? - She's in her room.
Be careful, don't race upstairs. The musicians mustn't know.
Go away.
What silly thing was that to do?
To fall in love with you was the idiotic thing.
Sure would've made attractive headlines.
"Great star kills herself for unknown writer."
Great stars have great pride.
Go away. Go to that girl of yours.
Look, I was making that up,
because I thought the whole thing was a mistake.
I didn't want to hurt you. You've been good to me.
You're the only person in this stinking town that has.
Just say thank you and go. Go, go!
Not until you promise to act like a sensible human being.
I'll do it again. I'll do it again!
I'll do it again.
Happy New Year, Norma.
Happy New Year, darling.
- Hello. - Is this Crest View 51733?
I'm sorry to bother you again, but I must speak to Mr Gillis.
- He's not here. - Where can I reach him?
- Maybe somebody else could tell me. - Nobody can give you any information.
And you will please not call again.
Max!
Who was it, Max? What is it?
Nothing, Madame. Somebody enquiring about a stray dog.
Our number must be similar to the number of the pound.
Wait. Get the car out and take the script to Paramount.
- Deliver it to Mr DeMille in person. - Very good.
- You're sending it to DeMille? - Yes. This is the day.
My astrologer read DeMille's horoscope and mine.
- She read the script? - DeMille's Leo, I'm Scorpio.
Mars has been transiting Jupiter for weeks.
Today is the day of the greatest conjunction.
Turn around, darling. Let me dry you.
I hope you realise scripts don't sell on astrologers' charts.
It's not the script, I'm selling me.
DeMille always said I was his greatest star.
When did he say it, Norma?
All right, it was quite a few years ago. But I've never looked better in my life.
You know why? Because I've never been as happy in my life.
A few evenings later, we were visiting one of the waxworks for bridge.
She; d taught me bridge by then, just as she; d taught me fancy tango steps,
and what wine to drink with what fish.
That idiot! He forgot to fill my cigarette case.
- Have one of mine. - They're dreadful and make me cough.
Pull up at the drugstore. I'll get you some.
You're a darling.
Give me a package of those Turkish cigarettes... Abdullas.
Stick 'em up, Gillis, or I'll let you have it.
Hi, Artie. Evening, Miss Schaefer.
- I'm so glad to see you. - You walked out on the mob?
Sorry about New Year's. Would you believe I stayed with a sick friend?
Someone in the formal set, with a ten-carat kidney stone?
Stop it. Where've you been keeping yourself?
- I've got wonderful news for you. - I haven't been keeping myself at all.
I called your agent, the Screenwriters' Guild.
Your apartment gave me a Crest View number.
There was someone with an accent growling: you weren't there,
they never heard of you.
Is that so? What's the wonderful news?
- Sheldrake likes the teacher angle. - What teacher?
"Dark Windows". He thinks it could be made into something.
- Where's the cash? - Where's the story?
I bluffed it out with a few notions.
- But it needs work. - I feared so.
I've got 20 pages and a good male character.
Write plenty of background so they'll need an extra director.
Shut up. If we could get a story...
I've given up writing on spec.
- But this is half sold. - In fact, I've given up writing.
- Mr Gillis, if you please? - I'll be right there.
The accent! This guy's in the pay of a foreign government.
- Check those studs and cufflinks. - I must go.
- Thanks for the interest in my career. - It's not yours, it's mine.
I'd hoped to get in on this deal.
I don't want to be a reader. I want to write.
- I'm sorry if I crossed you up. - You sure have.
So long.
- It took you hours. - I ran into some people I know.
- Where are my cigarettes? - Where are your?
Norma, you're smoking too much.
Whenever she suspected I was getting bored,
she; d put on a live show for me.
The Norma Desmond Follies.
Her first number was always the Mack Sennett Bathing Beauty.
I can still see myself in the line: Marie Prevost, Mabel Normand.
Mabel was always stepping on my feet.
What's the matter? Why are you so glum?
Nothing's the matter. I'm having a great time. Show me some more.
All right. Give me this. I need it for a moustache. Now, close your eyes.
Something was the matter all right.
I was thinking about that girl of Artie; s, that Miss Schaefer.
She was like all writers when we first hit Hollywood,
itching with ambition, planning to get your names up there:
; ; Screenplay by; ;, ; ; Original story by;; .
Audiences don; t know somebody sits down and writes a picture.
They think the actors make it up as they go.
Open your eyes.
- Madame's wanted on the telephone. - Don't interrupt me.
- Paramount's calling. - Who?
Paramount Studios.
Now do you believe me? I told you DeMille would jump at it.
It is not Mr DeMille in person, it's someone named Gordon Cole.
- He says it's very important. - Certainly it is.
Important enough for Mr DeMille to call me personally.
The idea of having some assistant call me! Say I'm busy and hang up.
Very good, Madame.
How do you like that? We've made 12 pictures together.
His greatest successes!
- Maybe he's busy shooting. - I know that trick!
He's trying to belittle me, to get my price down.
I've waited 20 years for this. DeMille can wait till I'm good and ready.
About three days later, she was good and ready.
Incredibly, there; d been some more
of those urgent calls from Paramount.
So she put on about half a pound of make-up, fixed it up with a veil,
and set forth to see DeMille in person.
Madame will pardon me, the shadow over the left eye is not quite balanced.
Thank you, Max.
Hold that noise!
- Hey! - To see Mr DeMille, open the gate.
He's shooting. Got an appointment?
No appointment necessary.
- I'm bringing Norma Desmond. - Norma who?
- Norma Desmond. - Jonesy, hey, Jonesy.
Yeah? Why, if it isn't Miss Desmond!
- How've you been, Miss Desmond? - Open the gate.
- Sure, Miss Desmond. Come on. - They can't enter without a pass.
Miss Desmond can. Come on.
- Where's Mr DeMille shooting? - Stage 18.
Thank you, Jonesy. And teach your friend some manners.
Without me he'd have no job, because there'd be no Paramount.
- You're right, Miss Desmond. - Go on, Max.
Stage 18.
All right, notify Henry Wilcoxon. Spread that out so I can see it.
Keep quiet back there!
Norma Desmond's coming to see Mr DeMille.
Hit that with a light, somebody, so I can get a look at that scape.
Back up a little. Get out of the way! You fellow at the back.
Norma Desmond's coming to see Mr DeMille.
Norma Desmond?
- Wait a minute. - Harry Wilcoxon?
Draw your sword and raise that drape with it. Samson's lying over here.
Norma Desmond's coming in to see you, Mr DeMille.
- Norma Desmond? - She must be a million years old.
Where does that put me? I could be her father.
- Sorry, Mr DeMille. - It must be about her awful script.
What can I tell her?
I can tell her you're in the projection room, give her the brush.
Thirty million fans gave her the brush. Isn't that enough?
- I didn't mean... - Of course not.
You didn't know Norma Desmond as a lovely girl of 17,
with more courage and wit and heart than ever in one youngster.
- I hear she was a terror to work with. - Only toward the end.
A dozen press agents working overtime
can do terrible things to the human spirit.
Hold it.
- Don't you want to come along? - It's your script, your show.
- Good luck. - Thank you, dearest.
Well, hello, young fellow.
- Hello, Mr DeMille. - Good to see you.
I saw you last someplace very gay.
I remember I was dancing on a table.
A lot of people were. Lindbergh had just landed in Paris. Come on in.
Norma, I must apologise for not calling you.
You'd better, I'm very angry.
- You can see I'm terribly busy. - That's no excuse.
- You read the script, of course? - Yes.
You could've called me yourself, instead of leaving it to an assistant.
- What assistant? - Don't play innocent. Gordon Cole.
Gordon Cole?
If you hadn't been pretty interested,
he wouldn't have tried to get me on the telephone ten times.
I'm in the middle of a rehearsal.
Why don't you sit in my chair and make yourself comfortable?
- Thank you. - That's the girl. I won't be a moment.
Bring me a telephone and get me Gordon Cole.
Hey, Miss Desmond.
- Miss Desmond, it's me, Hog-eye. - Hello, Hog-eye.
Let's get a good look at you.
Look, there's Norma Desmond.
Norma Desmond!
- Norma Desmond! - I thought she was dead.
- How nice to see you! - Welcome home. Remember me?
Of course I do. Hello, Patsy.
- Have you met Miss Desmond? - It's a great pleasure.
Gordon, this is C B DeMille. Have you been calling Norma Desmond?
Yes, Mr DeMille. It's that car of hers, an old Isotta Fraschini.
Her chauffeur drove it here the other day. It's perfect for the Crosby picture.
- We want to rent it for two weeks. - Oh, I see.
Well, thank you very much, thank you.
Hog-eye, turn that light back where it belongs.
Well, I got hold of Gordon Cole.
Did you see how they came?
You know, some crazy things happen in this business, Norma.
I hope you haven't lost your sense of humour.
- What's the matter? - Nothing.
I didn't realise what it would be like coming back to the studio.
- I'd no idea how much I missed it. - We've missed you, too.
We'll be working again. We'll make our greatest picture.
- I want to talk to you about that. - Isn't it a good script?
It has some good things in it, but it would be a very expensive picture.
I don't care.
I want to work again. You don't know what it means knowing you want me.
Nothing would please me more if it were possible.
Remember, I don't work before 10 a.m. and never after 4.30 p.m.
- We're ready, Mr DeMille. - All right.
Why don't you sit here and watch? Pictures have changed quite a bit.
All right, let's go.
Hit 'em all.
Roll 'em. Speed.
You see those offices there, Mr Gillis?
They used to be Madame's dressing-room. The whole row.
That didn't leave much for Wallace Reid.
He had a great big bungalow on wheels.
I had the upstairs. You see where it says "Readers Department"?
I remember my walls were covered with black patent leather.
I'll be with you in a minute.
Here's that funny car Cole was talking about. Can we look it over?
What's so funny about it?
If there's anything in "Dark Windows" you can use, take it, it's all yours.
For heaven's sakes! Come in, have a chair.
- I mean it. Help yourself. - Why should you do that?
You get $100,000, buy me chocolates; an Oscar, I get the left foot.
I would do that, but I'm not good enough to do it alone.
- What about those ideas you had? - See if they make sense.
First, throw out all that psychological mess, exploring the killer's sick mind.
Psychopaths sell like hot cakes.
This is a story about teachers, their threadbare lives.
She teaches day classes while he teaches night school.
The first time they meet...
- I haven't time to listen. - I'll make it short.
- It's your baby. - Couldn't we work evenings?
Six in the morning? This month I'm completely at your disposal.
- Artie's out of town. - What's Artie to do with it?
- We're engaged. - Good for you.
- You couldn't find a nicer guy. - I agree.
They're on location in Arizona making a Western.
I'm free every evening and weekend. We could work at your place.
It can't be done. Stop being chicken-hearted and write that story.
- I hate you. - Don't make it too dreary.
How about this? She teaches daytimes, he teaches at night.
They don't know each other but share a room. It's cheaper.
They sleep in the same bed. In shifts, of course.
Are you kidding? I think it's good.
- So do I. - Let me show you where it fits in.
- So long. - Oh, you...
What?
I found out the reason for those telephone calls from Paramount.
It's not Madame they want, it's her car they want to rent.
What?
Goodbye, Norma. We'll see what we can do.
I'm not worried. The old team together again. Nothing can stop us.
The old team? Yeah.
- Goodbye, dear. - Goodbye, Mr DeMille.
- How'd it go? - It couldn't have gone better.
He has to finish this picture first. Mine will be next.
Get Gordon Cole. Tell him to forget about her car.
Say he can get another old car someplace.
I'll buy him five old cars if necessary.
After that, an army of beauty experts
invaded her house on Sunset Boulevard.
She went through a merciless series of treatments.
Like an athlete training for the Olympics, she counted every calorie,
went to bed every night at nine.
She was absolutely determined to be ready,
ready for those cameras that would never turn.
- Darling, are you there? - Yes.
Don't turn around. Keep your eyes on the book.
I just came to say goodnight. You mustn't see me.
- I'm not very attractive. - Goodnight.
- I've lost half a pound. - Good.
I was worried about my throat. This woman's done wonders.
- Good. - You'd better get to bed yourself.
- I think I'll read a little longer. - You went out last night, didn't you?
- Why do you say that? - I know.
I had a nightmare and screamed for you. Where were you?
- I went for a walk. - No, you didn't. You took the car.
I drove to the beach. You don't want me to feel I'm locked up here?
Of course not. I just don't want to be left alone.
Not while I'm under this strain. My nerves are torn to shreds.
All I ask is for you to be a little patient and a little kind.
- I haven't done anything. - Of course you haven't.
I wouldn't let you. Goodnight, darling.
Yes, I was playing hookey every evening along in there.
It reminded me of being twelve, sneaking out to see a gangster film.
This time, it wasn; t to see a picture, it was to try and write one.
That story Betty Schaefer dug up
kept going through my head like a dozen locomotives.
So we started working on it, nights when the studio was deserted,
up in her little cubby-hole of an office.
I got the funniest letter from Artie.
It's rained every day since they got there.
They rewrote the whole picture for rain and shot half.
Now the sun's out, nobody knows when they'll get back.
- Good. - Why good? I miss him terribly.
- I mean this good dialogue will play. - It will?
Sure, especially with lots of music drowning it out.
- Don't you sometimes hate yourself? - Constantly.
In all seriousness, this is really good.
- It's fun writing with you. - Oh, thanks.
- Who's Norma? - Who's who?
I'm sorry, I don't usually read private cigarette cases.
Oh, that. It's from a friend of mine.
A middle-aged lady, very foolish and very generous.
I'll say, this is solid gold.
I gave her advice on an idiotic script.
The old familiar story. You help a timid soul across a crowded street.
She turns out to be a multi-millionaire and leaves you all her money.
That's the trouble with you readers. You know all the plots.
Now suppose you proofread page ten while the water boils, OK?
OK.
Sometimes when we got stuck,
we; d make a little tour of the drowsing lot.
Not talking much, just wandering down alleys between the stages,
or through the sets they were getting ready for the next day; s shooting.
In fact, it was on one of those walks when she told me about her nose.
Look at this street.
All cardboard, all hollow, all phoney, all done with mirrors.
I like it better than any street in the world.
Maybe because I used to play here when I was a kid.
Were you a child actress?
No, I was born two blocks from the studio, Lemon Grove Avenue.
My father was head electrician here. Mother still works in wardrobe.
- Second generation, huh? - Third.
Grandma did stunt work for Pearl White. I'm from a picture family.
They expected me to become a star.
So I had ten years of dramatic lessons, diction, dancing.
Then the studio made a test. They didn't like my nose.
Slanted this way a little. So I had it fixed.
Then they loved my nose, only they didn't like my acting.
- Nice job. - It should be, it cost $300.
- That's sad. - Not at all.
It taught me sense. I worked up from the mail room to being reader.
Come clean. At night you weep for the lost close-ups, those galas.
Not once. What's wrong with being the other side of the cameras?
- It's really more fun. - Three cheers for Betty Schaefer.
- I will now kiss that nose of yours. - If you please.
May I say that you smell real special?
- Must be my new shampoo. - That's no shampoo.
It's more like freshly laundered linen handkerchiefs,
like a brand-new automobile.
- How old are you? - 22.
Smart girl. Nothing like being 22.
May I suggest, if we're ever to finish this story, stay at least two feet away.
The first time you see me coming any closer,
clunk me on the head with a shoe.
Now, back to the typewriters, by way of Washington Square.
What is it, Max? Want to wash the car?
Or are you spying in your off hours?
Be careful as you cross the patio. Madame may be watching.
How about going up the kitchen stairs and undressing in the dark?
I'm not enquiring where Mr Gillis goes every night.
Why don't you? I'm writing a script and I'm going to finish it!
It's just that I am greatly worried about Madame.
Sure you are. And we're not helping her any.
Feeding her lies and more lies, getting herself ready for a picture.
- What happens when she finds out? - She never will.
That is my job and it has been for a long time.
Understand, I discovered her when she was sixteen. I made her a star.
I cannot let her be destroyed.
- You made her a star? - Yes, I directed all her early films.
There were three young directors who showed promise in those days.
D W Griffith, Cecil B DeMille and Max Von Mayerling.
And she's turned you into a servant.
It was I who asked to come back, humiliating as it may seem.
I could've continued my career,
only I found everything unendurable after she'd left me.
You see, I was her first husband.
You're here, Joe.
When did you come home?
Oh, Joe, where were you? Is it a woman?
I know it's a woman. Who is she? Why can't I ask you?
I must know.
What's the matter?
Betty, wake up. Why are you staring at me like that?
Oh, was I? I'm sorry.
What's wrong with you tonight?
- What is it? - Something came up.
- I don't want to talk about it. - Why not?
I just don't.
What have you heard? Come on, let's have it.
Is it about me?
Betty, there's no use running out on it. Let's face it, whatever it is.
- I got a telegram from Artie. - From Artie? What's wrong?
He wants me to come on to Arizona.
He says it only costs two dollars to get married there.
It would save us a honeymoon.
Why don't you? We can finish the script by Thursday.
Stop crying. You're getting married. That's what you wanted.
I don't want it now.
- Why not, don't you love Artie? - Course I love him. I always will.
I'm not in love with him any more, that's all.
What happened?
You did.
It wasn; t until I got back to my peculiar prison
that I started facing the facts.
There it was. Betty Schaefer; s future right in the palm of my hand.
Betty Schaefer engaged to Artie Green, as nice a guy as ever lived,
and she was in love with me - me.
She was a fool not to sense there was something phoney in my set-up.
I was a heel not to have told her.
But you just can; t say those things to somebody you; re crazy about.
Maybe I could get away with it, get away from Norma.
Maybe I could wipe the whole nasty mess out of my life.
Hello, is this Gladstone 9281?
May I speak to Miss Betty Schaefer? She must be home by now.
Hey, Betty, here's that weird-sounding woman again.
Well, what is this anyway? This is Betty Schaefer.
Forgive me for calling so late, but I feel it's my duty.
It's about Mr Gillis. You do know Mr Gillis?
Exactly how much do you know about him?
Do you know where he lives, how he lives, what he lives on?
Who are you? What do you want? What business is it of yours?
Miss Schaefer, I'm trying to do you a favour
and spare you a great deal of misery.
You may be too young to even suspect there are men of his sort.
I don't know what he's said, but he does not live with relatives,
nor with friends in the usual sense of the word.
Ask him. Ask him again.
That's right, Betty, ask me again. This is Joe.
Joe, where are you? What is this all about?
Better yet, come out and see for yourself.
The address is 10086 Sunset Boulevard.
Don't hate me, Joe. I did it because I need you.
I need you as I've never needed you before. Look at me.
Look at my hands, my face, under my eyes.
How can I work if I'm wasting away under this torment?
You don't know what I've been through these last weeks.
I bought a revolver. I stood in front of that mirror, but I couldn't do it.
Don't just stand there hating me.
Shout at me, strike me, but don't hate me.
Say you don't hate me, Joe.
Here's 10079, Connie. It must be over there.
- Betty, let me come with you. - No, I'll be all right.
I love you, Joe. I love you, Joe.
I love you.
What are you going to do, Joe? What are you going to do?
It's all right, Max. I'll take it. Hello, Betty.
I'm so scared. Is there something awful?
Come on in.
Ever been in one of these old Hollywood palazzos?
That's from when they were making $18,000 a week tax-free.
Careful of these tiles, they're slippery. Valentino used to dance here.
- Is this where you live? - You bet.
- Whose house is it? - Hers.
- Whose? - Look around, there's a lot of her.
If you don't remember the face, you've heard the name. Norma Desmond?
- That was her on the phone? - Drink?
There's always champagne, plenty of caviar.
- Why did she call me? - Jealous.
Ever see so much junk? She had the ceiling brought from Portugal.
And look at this.
Her own movie theatre.
I didn't come to see a house. What about Norma Desmond?
That's what I'm trying to tell you. This is an enormous place.
Eight master bedrooms. A sunken tub in every bathroom.
There's a bowling alley in the cellar.
It's lonely here, so she got herself a companion.
Very simple set-up.
Older woman who's well-to-do.
A younger man who's not doing too well.
- Can you figure it out? - No.
- I'll give you a few more clues. - No, I haven't heard any of this.
I never got those telephone calls and I've never been in this house.
Get your things and let's go.
All my things?
My 18 suits, my custom-made shoes, the six dozen shirts,
the cufflinks, the platinum key-chains and the cigarette cases?
- Come on, Joe. - Come on where?
To a one-room apartment I can't pay for,
to a story that may sell and very possibly won't?
- If you love me, Joe. - Look, sweetie, be practical.
I've got a good deal here. A long-term contract with no options.
I like it that way. Maybe it's not very admirable.
Well, you and Artie can be admirable.
I can't look at you any more, Joe.
How about looking for the exit? This way, Betty.
Good luck, Betty. You can finish that script on the way to Arizona.
When you and Artie get back, if you ever want a swim...
...here's the pool.
Thank you, darling. Thank you, Joe.
Joe.
May I come in, Joe? I've stopped crying.
I'm all right again. Tell me you're not cross.
Tell me everything is just as it was, Joe.
Joe.
What are you doing, Joe?
- What are you doing? - I'm packing.
- You're leaving me? - Yes, I am, Norma.
No, you're not. Max! Max!
Thanks for the handsome wardrobe and for the use of all the trinkets.
- The rest's in the drawer. - It's yours.
I'd take it, only it's too dressy for a copy desk in Dayton, Ohio.
These are nothing. You can have anything. What do you want?
Money?
You'd be throwing it away. I don't qualify for the job any more.
You can't go. Max! I can't face life without you.
- You know I'm not afraid to die. - That's between you and yourself.
You think I made that up about the gun, don't you? All right.
See? You didn't believe me. You don't think I have the courage?
- Sure, if it makes a good scene. - You don't care.
Hundreds of thousands will!
You'd be killing yourself to an empty house. The audience left years ago.
- That's a lie. They still want me. - No, they don't.
- What about DeMille? - He was sparing your feelings.
- The studio only wanted your car. - What?
DeMille didn't have the heart to say. None of us has.
That's a lie. They want me. I get letters every day.
You tell her, Max. Do her that favour. Tell her there'll be no picture.
The only fan letters are the ones you write.
That isn't true. Max!
Madame is the greatest star of them all.
I will take Mr Gillis's bags to the car.
You heard him. I'm a star.
You're a woman of 50. Grow up.
There's nothing tragic about being 50, unless you try to be 25.
The greatest star of them all.
Goodbye, Norma.
No one ever leaves a star. That's what makes one a star.
Joe! Joe!
Joe!
The stars are ageless, aren't they?
Well, this is where you came in.
Back at that pool again. The one I always wanted.
It; s dawn now and they must; ve photographed me a thousand times.
Then they got a couple of pruning hooks and fished me out
ever so gently.
Funny how gentle people get with you once you; re dead.
They beached me like a harpooned baby whale.
And started to check the damage, just for the record.
The whole joint was jumping, cops, reporters, neighbours, passers-by.
As much whoop-de-do as we get when they open a supermarket.
Even the newsreel guys came roaring in.
Here was an item everybody could have some fun with.
The heartless so-and-sos. What would they do to Norma?
Even if she got away with it in court, crime of passion, temporary insanity,
those headlines would kill her.
; ; Forgotten star a slayer. ; ;
; ; Ageing actress. ; ; ; ; Yesterday; s glamour queen. ; ;
Coroner's office. I want to speak to the coroner.
- Who's on this phone? - I am. Get off!
This is more important.
"Times" city desk? Hedda Hopper speaking.
I'm talking from Norma Desmond's bedroom.
Don't bother with a rewrite. Take it direct. Ready?
As day breaks over the murder house, Norma Desmond,
famous star of yesteryear, is in a state of complete mental shock.
A curtain of silence surrounds her
in the boudoir of her house on Sunset Boulevard...
Was it a sudden quarrel? Had you had any trouble before?
How come this gun was right there?
This guy, where did you meet him? Where did he come from?
Had you thought of doing something like this before?
Was theft involved? Did you catch him trying to steal something?
- The newsreel cameras are here. - Tell them to go.
This is no time for cameras.
Now, Miss Desmond, is there anything you want to tell us?
Cameras? What is it, Max?
- The cameras have arrived. - They have?
- Tell Mr DeMille I'll be right on set. - What is this?
It's one way to get her downstairs.
Let's have the car right outside. OK.
- Everything will be ready, Madame. - Thank you, Max.
Pardon me, gentlemen, but I must get ready for my scene.
- What's happening? - Any statement?
Is there a confession?
- Everything set up? - Just about.
- Lights ready? - All set.
OK, fellas, hold it, hold it!
Quiet, everybody!
Lights.
Ready, Norma?
What is the scene? Where am I?
This is the palace staircase.
Oh, yes, yes.
Down below they're waiting for the princess.
I'm ready.
All right. Cameras. Action!
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.
I can't go on with this scene, I'm too happy.
Mr DeMille, do you mind if I say a few words? Thank you.
I want to say how happy I am to be in the studio making a picture again.
You don't know how I've missed you. I'll never desert you again.
Because after "Salome" we'll make another picture and another.
You see, this is my life. It always will be. There's nothing else.
Just us and the cameras
and those wonderful people out there in the dark.
All right, Mr DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up.
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