All about Eve

The Sarah Siddons Award for Distinguished Achievement is perhaps unknown to you.

It has been spared the sensational and commercial publicity

of such questionable honours as the Pulitzer Prize

and those awards presented annually by that film society.

The distinguished-looking gentleman is an extremely old actor.

Being an actor, he will go on speaking for some time.

It is not important that you hear what he says.

However, it is important that you know where you are

and why you are here.

This is the dining hall of the Sarah Siddons Society.

The occasion is the annual banquet and presentation

of the highest honour our theatre knows,

the Sarah Siddons Award for Distinguished Achievement.

These hallowed walls, indeed many of these faces,

have looked upon Modjeska, Ada Rehan and Minnie Fiske.

Mansfield's voice filled this room.

It is unlikely that the windows have been opened since his death.

The minor awards, as you can see, have already been presented.

Minor awards are for such as the writer and director,

since their function is merely to construct a tower

so that the world can applaud a light which flashes on top of it.

And no brighter light has ever dazzled the eye than Eve Harrington.

Eve... But more of Eve later.

All about Eve, in fact.

To those of you who do not read,

attend the theatre, listen to unsponsored radio programmes

or know anything of the world in which you live,

it is perhaps necessary to introduce myself.

My name is Addison DeWitt.

My native habitat is the theatre.

In it, I toil not. Neither do I spin.

I am a critic and commentator.

I am essential to the theatre.

This is Karen Richards.

She is the wife of a playwright,

therefore of the theatre by marriage.

Nothing in her background or breeding should have brought her

any closer to the stage than Row E.

However, during her senior year at Radcliffe,

Lloyd Richards lectured on the drama.

The following year, Karen became Mrs Lloyd Richards.

There are, in general, two types of theatrical producers.

One has a great many wealthy friends who will risk a tax-deductible loss.

This type is interested in art.

The other is one to whom each production means potential ruin or fortune.

This type is out to make a buck.

Meet Max Fabian.

He is the producer of the play

which has won for Eve Harrington the Sarah Siddons Award.

Margo Channing is a star of the theatre.

She made her first stage appearance at the age of four

in Midsummer Night's Dream.

She played a fairy and entered, quite unexpectedly, stark naked.

She has been a star ever since.

Margo is a great star. A true star.

She never was or will be anything less or anything else.

Having covered in tedious detail

not only the history of the Sarah Siddons Society,

but also the history of acting

since Thespis first stepped out of the chorus line,

our distinguished chairman has finally arrived at our reason for being here.

I have been proud and privileged

to have spent my life in the theatre,

a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

and I've been honoured to be, for 40 years,

chief prompter of the Sarah Siddons Society.

39 times have I placed in deserving hands

this highest honour the theatre knows.

Surely no actor is older than I.

I've earned my place out of the sun.

LAUGHTER

And never before has this award gone to anyone younger than its recipient tonight.

How fitting that it should pass from my hands to hers.

Such young hands. Such a young lady.

Young in years, but whose heart is as old as the theatre.

Some of us are privileged to know her.

We have seen beyond the beauty and artistry

that have made her name resound through the nation.

We know her humility, her devotion,

her loyalty to her art,

her love, her deep and abiding love for us,

for what we are and what we do, the theatre.

She has had one wish,

one prayer, one dream,

to belong to us.

Tonight her dream has come true,

and henceforth we shall dream the same of her.

Honoured members, ladies and gentlemen,

for distinguished achievement in the theatre,

the Sarah Siddons Award to Miss Eve Harrington.

APPLAUSE

Bravo!

Eve. Eve, the golden girl. The cover girl.

The girl next door, the girl on the moon. Time has been good to Eve.

Life goes where she goes.

She's been profiled, covered, revealed, reported,

what she eats and what she wears and whom she knows

and where she was and when and where she's going.

Eve.

You all know all about Eve.

What can there be to know that you don't know?

When was it? How long?

It seems a lifetime ago.

Lloyd always said that in the theatre a lifetime was a season

and a season a lifetime.

It's June now. That was early October.

Only last October.

It was a drizzly night. I remember I asked the taxi to wait.

Where was she?

Strange. I'd become so accustomed to seeing her there night after night,

I found myself looking for a girl I'd never spoken to,

wondering where she was.

Mrs Richards?

There you are.

It seemed odd, suddenly, your not being here.

-Why should you think I wouldn't be?

-Why should you be?

Six nights a week for weeks

of watching even Margo Channing enter and leave a theatre.

-I hope you don't mind my speaking to you?

-Not at all.

I've seen you so often. It took every bit of courage I could raise.

To speak to just a playwright's wife?

I'm the lowest form of celebrity.

You're Margo Channing's best friend.

You and your husband are always with her.

And Mr Sampson. What's he like?

Bill Sampson? He's a director.

-He's the best.

-He'll agree with you.

Tell me. What do you do in between the time Margo goes in and comes out?

Just huddle in that doorway and wait?

Oh, no. I see the play.

You see the play? You've seen every performance of this play?

Yes.

But don't you find it...

Apart from everything else, don't you find it expensive?

Standing room doesn't cost much. I manage.

-I'm gonna take you to Margo.

-Oh, no!

-Oh, yes. She's got to meet you.

-No! No, I'd be imposing on her.

I'd be just another tongue-tied fan.

There isn't another like you. There couldn't be.

If I'd known... Some other time. Looking like this.

You look just fine. By the way, what's your name?

Eve. Eve Harrington.

-Good evening, Gus.

-Good evening, Mrs Richards.

-Good night.

-Good night, Gus.

You can breathe it, can't you?

Like some magic perfume.

LAUGHTER FROM BEHIND THE DOOR

Wait right here. Don't run away.

"If the South had won, you could write plays about the North."

-Hi.

-Hello!

"I don't think you can rightly say we lost the war."

"We was more starved out, you might say."

"I don't understand all these plays about love-starved Southern women."

"Love is one thing we were never starved for in the South."

Margo's interview with a reporter from the South.

The minute it gets printed, they're gonna fire on Gettysburg again.

-It was Fort Sumter they fired on.

-I never played Fort Sumter.

Honeychild had a point. Lloyd, honey, be a playwright with guts.

Write me one about a nice, normal woman who just shoots her husband.

-You need new girdles.

-Buy some.

-Same size?

-Of course.

I find these wisecracks increasingly less funny.

-Aged in Wood happens to be a fine play.

-That's my loyal little woman.

The critics thought so. The audiences certainly think so.

Packed houses, tickets four months in advance.

I can't see that Lloyd's plays have hurt you any.

-Easy now.

-Relax, kid, it's just me and my big mouth.

It's just you get me so mad sometimes.

Of all the women with nothing to complain about...

-Ain't it the truth?

-Yes, it is.

You're talented, famous, wealthy.

People waiting around night after night just to see you.

Even in the wind and the rain.

Autograph fiends. They're not people.

Those little beasts that run around in packs like coyotes.

-They're your fans.

-They're nobody's fans.

They're juvenile delinquents. They're nobody's audience.

They never see a play or a movie. They're never indoors long enough.

Well, there's one indoors right now.

I've brought her back to see you.

You've what?

She's just outside the door.

The heave-ho.

But you can't put her out. I promised.

Margo, you've got to see her.

She worships you. It's like something out of a book.

That book is out of print. Those days are gone.

But if you'd only see her. You're her whole life.

You must have spotted her by now. She's always there.

Oh, the mousy one with the trench coat and the funny hat.

How could I miss her? Every night, every matinee.

Come in, Eve.

-I thought you'd forgotten about me.

-Not at all.

Margo, this is Eve Harrington.

-How do you do, my dear?

-Oh, brother.

-Hello, Miss Channing.

-My husband.

-Hello, Miss Harrington.

-How do you do?

And this is my dear friend and companion, Miss Birdie Coonan.

-Oh, brother.

-Miss Coonan.

-Oh, brother, what?

-When she gets like this,

she starts playing Hamlet's mother.

I'm sure you must have things to do in the bathroom, Birdie, dear.

If I haven't, I'll find something till you get normal.

Won't you sit down, Miss Worthington?

Harrington.

I'm so sorry, Harrington. Won't you sit down?

Thank you.

-Would you like a drink?

-I was saying how often you've seen the play.

No, thank you.

Yes, I've seen every performance.

Every performance? Then am I safe in assuming you like it?

I'd like anything Miss Channing played in.

Would you really? How sweet.

I doubt very much that you'd like her in The Hairy Ape.

Please don't misunderstand me, Mr Richards.

I think part of Miss Channing's greatness lies in her ability to pick the best plays.

Your new play is for Miss Channing, isn't it?

Of course it is.

-How did you hear about it?

-There was an item in The Times.

I like the title, Footsteps on the Ceiling.

Yes, but let's get back to this one.

-Have you really seen every performance?

-Yes.

Why? I'm curious.

Well, if I didn't come to see the play,

I wouldn't have anywhere else to go.

There are other plays.

Not with you in them. Not by Mr Richards.

But you must have friends, a home, family?

Tell us about it, Eve.

If I only knew how.

Try.

-Well...

-DOOR OPENS

Well, it started with the play before this one.

-Remembrance.

-Remembrance.

-Did you see it here in New York?

-San Francisco.

It was the last week. I went one night.

The most important night of my life, until now.

I found myself going the next night and the next and the next.

Every performance.

Then, when the show went East, I went East.

Eve, why don't you start at the beginning?

Oh, it couldn't possibly interest you.

Please.

I guess it started back home. Wisconsin, that is.

It was just Mom and Dad and me.

I was an only child.

I used to make believe a lot when I was a kid.

Acted out all sorts of things. What they were isn't important.

But, somehow, acting and make-believe

began to fill up my life more and more.

It got so I couldn't tell the real from the unreal.

Except that the unreal seemed more real to me...

-I'm talking a lot of gibberish, aren't I?

-Not at all.

Farmers were poor in those days.

That's what Dad was, a farmer.

I had to help out.

So I quit school, went to Milwaukee, became a secretary in a brewery.

When you're a secretary in a brewery,

it's hard to make believe you're anything else.

Everything is beer.

It wasn't much fun, but it helped at home.

And there was a little theatre group there,

like a drop of rain on the desert.

That's where I met Eddie.

He was a radio technician.

We played Liliom for three performances.

I was awful.

Then the war came and we got married.

Eddie was in the air force.

They sent him to the South Pacific.

You were with the OWI, weren't you, Mr Richards?

That's what Who's Who says.

Well, with Eddie gone, my life went back to beer.

Except for a letter a week.

One week he wrote me he had leave coming up.

I'd saved my money and vacation time

and went to San Francisco to meet him.

But Eddie wasn't there.

They forwarded the telegram from Milwaukee.

The one that came from Washington.

To say that Eddie wasn't coming at all.

That Eddie was dead.

I figured I'd stay in San Francisco.

I was alone. I couldn't go back without Eddie.

I found a job, and his insurance helped.

And there were theatres in San Francisco.

And then, one night, Margo Channing came to play in Remembrance,

and I went to see it.

Well...

Here I am.

What a story.

Everything but the bloodhounds snapping at her rear end.

There are some human experiences that do not take place in a vaudeville house!

And that even a fifth-rate vaudevillian should understand and respect.

I want to apologize for Birdie.

You don't have to apologise for me.

I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings.

It's just my way of talking.

You didn't hurt my feelings, Miss Coonan.

Call me Birdie.

And as for being fifth-rate,

I closed the first half for 11 years, and you know it.

47 minutes from now my plane takes off and how do I find you?

-Not ready, looking like a junkyard.

-Thank you so much.

Is it sabotage? Does my career mean nothing to you?

-Have you no human consideration?

-Show me a human and I might have.

Airlines have clocks, even if you don't.

I start shooting a week from Monday. Zanuck is impatient.

Zanuck, Zanuck! What are you two? Lovers?

-Only in some ways. You're prettier.

-I'm a junkyard.

-Bill. This is Eve Harrington.

-Hi.

My wonderful junkyard. The mystery and dreams you find in a junkyard.

Heaven help me.

I love a psychotic.

-Hello. What's your name?

-Eve. Eve Harrington.

-You've already met.

-Huh? Where?

-Right here, just a minute ago.

-That's nice.

-You're not going, are you?

-I think I'd better.

It's been... I can hardly find the words to say how it's been.

No, don't go.

The four of you must have so much to say to each other with Mr Sampson leaving.

No, stick around, please.

Tell you what. We'll put Stanislavsky on his plane,

then go somewhere and talk.

Well, if I'm not in the way...

I won't be a minute.

Lloyd, we've got to go.

Good night, Margo.

-I'll call you tomorrow.

-Not too early.

-Good luck, genius.

-Geniuses don't need good luck. I do.

-I'm not worried about you.

-Keep the thought.

Good night, Eve. I hope I see you again soon.

I'll be at the old stand tomorrow matinee.

Not just that way. As a friend.

I'd like that.

It's been a real pleasure, Eve.

I hope so, Mr Richards. Good night.

Good night.

Mrs Richards?

I'll never forget this night as long as I live.

And I'll never forget you for making it possible.

And I'll never forget you, Eve.

Where were we going that night, Lloyd and I?

Funny, the things you remember

and the things you don't.

-So you're going to Hollywood?

-Mm-hm.

-Why?

-I just wondered.

Just wondered what?

Why?

Why what?

Why you have to go out there.

-I don't have to. I want to.

-Is it the money?

80% of it'll go for taxes.

Then why? Why, if you're the most successful young director in the theatre...

The theatre. The theatre.

What rules say the theatre exists only within some ugly buildings

crowded into one square mile of New York City?

Or London, Paris or Vienna?

Listen, Junior, and learn.

Do you wanna know what the theatre is? A flea circus. Also opera.

Also rodeos, carnivals, ballets,

Indian tribal dances, Punch and Judy, a one-man band, all theatre.

Wherever there's magic and make-believe

and an audience, there's theatre.

Donald Duck, Ibsen and The Lone Ranger.

Sarah Bernhardt and Poodles Hanneford.

Lunt and Fontanne, Betty Grable.

Rex the Wild Horse, Eleonora Duse, all theatre.

You don't understand them all. You don't like them all.

Why should you?

The theatre's for everybody, you included, but not exclusively.

So, don't approve or disapprove.

It may not be your theatre, but it's theatre for somebody, somewhere.

I just asked a simple question.

And I shot my mouth off.

Nothing personal, Junior. No offence.

It's just that there's so much bushwa in this ivory greenroom they call the theatre,

sometimes it gets up around my chin.

But Hollywood. You mustn't stay out there.

-It's only a one-picture deal.

-So few come back.

I read George Jean Nathan every week.

Also Addison DeWitt.

Every day.

-You didn't have to tell me.

-DOOR OPENS

It's the latest thing, one earring.

If it isn't, it's going to be. I can't find the other one.

Throw that dreary letter away. It bores me.

-Where do you suppose it could be?

-It'll show up.

Oh, I give up. Look in the wigs. Maybe it got caught in one.

Real diamonds in a wig. The world we live in.

-Where's my coat?

-Right where you left it.

The seams.

He can't take his eyes off my legs.

Like a nylon lemon peel.

Byron couldn't have said it more graciously.

Here we go.

Got any messages?

What do you want me to tell Tyrone Power?

Just give him my phone number. I'll tell him myself.

Kill the people.

-You got your key?

-See you at home.

I have a suggestion. There's really not very much time left.

I mean, you haven't had a minute alone yet.

And I could take care of everything here and meet you at the gate with the ticket,

if you'd like.

I think we'd like very much.

-Sure you won't mind?

-Of course not.

She's quite a girl, this whatshername.

Eve. I'd forgotten they grew that way.

That lack of pretence, that strange directness and understanding.

Did she tell you about the theatre and what it meant?

No, I told her. I sounded off.

All the religions in the world rolled into one,

and we're gods and goddesses.

Isn't it silly? Suddenly I've developed a big, protective feeling toward her.

A lamb loose in our big stone jungle.

Take care of yourself out there.

I understand they have the Indians pretty well in hand.

-Bill. Don't get stuck on some glamour puss.

-I'll try.

You're not much of a bargain. You're conceited, thoughtless and messy.

Everybody can't be Gregory Peck.

You're a setup for some gorgeous, wide-eyed, young babe.

How childish are you gonna get before you stop it?

I don't wanna be childish. I'd settle for a few years.

And cut that out right now.

Am I going to lose you, Bill? Am I?

As of this moment, you're six years old.

All ready.

Thanks for your help. Good luck.

Goodbye, Mr Sampson.

-Knit me a muffler?

-Call me when you get in.

Hey, Junior!

Keep your eye on her. Don't let her get lonely.

She's a loose lamb in a jungle.

Don't worry.

That same night, we sent for Eve's things, her few pitiful possessions.

She moved into the little guest room on the top floor.

The next three weeks were out of a fairy tale,

and I was Cinderella in the last act.

Eve became my sister, lawyer, mother, friend,

psychiatrist and cop.

The honeymoon was on.

APPLAUSE

CHEERING

One more?

From now on it isn't applause,

just something to do till the aisles get cleared.

What, again?

I could watch you play that last scene a thousand times,

cry every time.

Performance number 1,000 of this one, if I play it that long,

will take place in a well-padded booby hatch.

I must say, you can certainly tell Mr Sampson's been gone a month.

You certainly can.

Especially if you're me between now and tomorrow morning.

You bought the new girdles a size smaller. I can feel it.

Something maybe grew a size larger.

You can get into one of those girdles and act for two and a half hours.

I couldn't get into the girdle in two and a half hours.

You haven't noticed my latest bit of interior decorating.

But you've done so much. What's new?

The curtains. I made them myself.

They're lovely. Aren't they lovely, Birdie?

Adorable.

We now got everything a dressing room needs except a basketball hoop.

Just because you can't even work a zipper!

It was very thoughtful of you, Eve. I appreciate it.

I'll just take this to the wardrobe mistress.

Don't bother. Mrs Brown will be along soon.

No trouble at all.

May I be so bold as to say something?

Have you ever heard of the word "union"?

Behind in your dues? How much?

-I haven't got a union. I'm slave labour.

-Well?

But the wardrobe women have got one and, next to a tenor,

a wardrobe woman is the touchiest thing in show business.

Oh, oh.

She's got two things to do - carry clothes and press 'em wrong.

And don't let anybody try to muscle in.

Eve.

We'd better let Mrs Brown pick up the wardrobe.

PHONE RINGS

Hello.

We are ready with your call to Beverly Hills.

-Call? What call?

-Is this Templeton 89970? Miss Channing?

Yes, it is, but I don't understand.

We are ready with the call you placed for 12 midnight,

California time, to Mr William Sampson.

-I placed?

-Go ahead, please.

Margo, what a wonderful surprise.

What a thoughtful, ever-lovin' thing to do.

Bill. Have I gone crazy, Bill?

-You're my girl, aren't you?

-That I am.

Then you're crazy.

-When are you coming back?

-I leave in a week.

The picture's wrapped up. We previewed last night.

Oh, those previews.

Like opening out of town, but terrifying.

There's nothing you can do.

You're trapped. You're in a tin can.

In a tin can, cellophane or wrapped in a Navajo blanket, I want you home.

-You in a hurry?

-In a big hurry, so be quick about it.

Goodbye, darling. Sleep tight.

Hey, wait a minute. You haven't even said it.

Oh, now, Bill. You know how much I do, but over a phone...

Now, really. That's kids' stuff.

Kids' stuff or not. It doesn't happen every day and I wanna hear it.

-And if you won't say it, you can sing it.

-Sing it?

Sure, like the Western Union boys used to do.

Bill...

it's your birthday.

And who remembered it? Who was there on the dot at 12 midnight?

Happy birthday, darling.

The reading could've been better, but you said it.

Now, "Many happy returns of the day."

Many happy returns of the day.

-I get a party, don't I?

-Of course. Birthday and coming home.

-Who will I ask?

-It's no secret. I know all about the party.

Eve wrote me.

-She did?

-She hasn't missed a week since I left.

But you know all about that. You probably tell her what to write.

I sent her a list of people to ask, so check with her.

Yeah, I will.

-How is Eve? OK?

-OK.

-I love you.

-I'll check with Eve.

Hm?

I love you, too.

Good night, darling.

See ya.

-Birdie.

-Hm?

You don't like Eve, do you?

You want an argument or an answer?

-An answer.

-No.

-Why not?

-Now you want an argument.

She works hard.

Night and day.

She's loyal and efficient.

Like an agent with only one client.

She thinks only of me,

doesn't she?

Well, let's say she thinks only about ya, anyway.

-How do you mean that?

-I'll tell ya how.

Like...

Like she's studying you.

Like you was a play, or a book, or a set of blueprints.

How you walk, talk, eat, think...

I'm sure that's flattering. There's nothing wrong with it.

KNOCK ON DOOR

Good morning. Well, what do you think of my elegant new suit?

It looks much better on you than it did on me.

I can imagine. All it needed was a little taking in here and letting out there.

Are you sure you won't want it yourself?

Quite sure. I find it too seventeenish for me.

Come now, as though you were an old lady.

I'm on my way. Is there anything more you thought of?

-That script to take to the Guild.

-I've got it.

And those checks for the income-tax man.

Right here.

It seems I can't think of a thing you haven't thought of.

That's my job. See you at teatime.

Eve?

By chance, did you place a call from me to Bill

for midnight California time?

Golly, I forgot to tell you!

Yes, dear, you forgot all about it.

I was sure you'd want to, being his birthday.

You've been so busy lately.

Last night I meant to tell you before you went out.

I guess I was asleep when you got home.

Yes, I guess you were. It was very thoughtful of you, Eve.

Mr Sampson's birthday, I couldn't forget that.

You'd never forgive me.

As a matter of fact, I sent him a telegram myself.

Bill's welcome-home birthday party, a night to go down in history.

Even before the party started, I could smell disaster in the air.

I knew it. I sensed it even as I finished dressing

for that blasted party.

You all put together?

My back's open.

Extra help get here?

There's some loose characters dressed as maids and butlers.

Did you call the William Morris Agency?

You're not funny. Actors would cost less. How about the food?

The caterer had to go back for the hors d'oeuvres.

Voila!

That French ventriloquist taught you a lot.

There was nothing he didn't know.

There's a message from the bartender.

"Does Miss Channing know that she ordered domestic gin by mistake?"

The only thing I ordered by mistake is the guests.

They don't care what they drink as long as it burns.

-Where's Bill? He's late.

-Late for what?

Don't be dense. The party.

I ain't dense. He's been here for 20 minutes.

Well, I certainly think it's odd he hasn't even come up to...

-LAUGHTER

-The cameraman said,

"Even DeMille couldn't see anything looking through the wrong end!" So...

Don't let me kill the point. Or isn't it a story for grown-ups?

You've heard it. I looked through the wrong end of the camera.

Remind me to tell you about the time I looked into the heart of an artichoke.

-I'd like to hear it.

-Some snowy night in front of the fire.

Meanwhile, would you check about the hors d'oeuvres, Eve?

The caterer forgot them. The varnish wasn't dry or something.

Of course.

Looks like I'm going to have a very fancy party.

-I thought you were going to be late.

-Well, I'm guest of honour.

I had no idea you were even here.

I ran into Eve and she told me you were dressing.

That's never stopped you before.

She wanted to know about Hollywood. She seemed so interested...

She's a girl of so many interests.

It's a pretty rare quality these days.

-A girl of so many rare qualities.

-So she seems.

So you've pointed out so often.

So many qualities so often.

Her loyalty, efficiency, devotion, warmth and affection, and so young.

So young and so fair.

I can't believe you're making this up.

It sounds like something out of an old Clyde Fitch play.

Clyde Fitch, though you may not think so, was well before my time.

I've always denied the legend that you were in Our American Cousin

the night Lincoln was shot.

I don't think that's funny.

Of course it's funny.

This is all too laughable to be anything else.

You know what I feel about your age obsession.

And this getting into a jealous froth

because I spent ten minutes with a stage-struck kid.

-20!

-30 minutes, 40 minutes. What of it?

Stage-struck kid, she's a young lady of qualities.

And I'm fed up with both the young lady and her qualities.

Studying me as if I were a play or a blueprint.

How I walk, talk, think, act, sleep.

How can you take offence at a kid trying to be like her ideal?

Stop calling her a kid.

As it happens, there are particular aspects of my life

to which I would like to maintain sole and exclusive rights and privileges.

For instance, what?

For instance, you.

This is my cue to take you in my arms and reassure you.

But I'm not going to. I'm too mad.

-Guilty!

-Mad!

There are certain characteristics for which you are famous,

on stage and off.

I love you for some and in spite of others.

I haven't let those become too important.

They're part of your equipment for getting along in what is called "our environment".

You have to keep your teeth sharp, all right.

But I will not have you sharpen them on me, or on Eve.

What about her teeth? Her fangs?

She hasn't cut them yet and you know it!

So when you start judging an idealistic, dreamy-eyed kid

by the bar-room, Benzedrine standards

of this megalomaniac society, I won't have it!

Eve Harrington has never by word, look, thought or suggestion

indicated anything to me but adoration for you

and happiness at our being in love.

To intimate anything else doesn't spell jealousy,

it spells a paranoiac insecurity that you should be ashamed of.

Cut. Print it. What happens in the next reel?

Do I get dragged off screaming to the snake pits?

Miss Channing?

The hors d'oeuvres are here. Is there anything else I can do?

Thank you, Eve. I'd like a martini, very dry.

I'll get it.

-What'll you have?

-A milk shake?

A martini, very dry, please.

LAUGHTER AND CHATTER

-The party's on the first floor.

-Hi, Bill.

-Hello, Mrs

-Richards.

-How are you, dear?

-Hello, Eve.

Good evening, Mr Richards. Mr Fabian.

-Hello, Eve. Hello.

-May I have your coat?

Don't bother, I'll take it up.

-Please.

-Thank you.

-Hi.

-Hi, Margo.

-The house looks lovely.

-Thank you.

-I like that girl.

That quality of quiet graciousness.

Among so many quiet qualities.

Shall we?

-It's made me so happy your taking Eve in.

-I'm so happy you're happy.

Look, you haven't been running a settlement house exactly.

The kid has earned her way.

You had a pretty mixed-up inventory when she took over.

Merchandise laying all over the shop.

You got Margo mixed up with a five-and-ten cents store.

Make it Bergdorf Goodman.

Everything on its proper shelf, eh, Max? All done up in little ribbons.

I could die right now and nobody'd be confused.

How about you, Max?

How about me what?

Suppose you dropped dead. What about your inventory?

I ain't going to drop dead. Not with the heat.

This is the most ghoulish conversation.

-Thank you.

-Nothing.

Max! Mon vieux!

Fife!

"The kid" will be down in a minute,

unless you'd like to take her drink up to her.

I can get a fresh one... Karen, you're a Gibson girl.

The general atmosphere is very Macbethish.

-What has or is about to happen?

-What is he talking about?

-Macbeth.

-We've seen you like this before.

Is it over or is it just beginning?

Fasten your seat belts. It's going to be a bumpy night.

-Margo, darling!

-How are you?

Mademoiselle, je vous remercie pour l'invitation.

Enchantee to you too.

I distinctly remember, Addison, crossing you off my guest list.

What are you doing here?

Dear Margo, you were an unforgettable Peter Pan.

You must play it again soon.

-Remember Miss Casswell?

-I do not. How do you do?

-We've never met. Maybe that's why.

-Miss Casswell is an actress.

A graduate of the Copacabana School of Dramatic Art.

Ah... Eve.

-Good evening, Mr DeWitt.

-I had no idea you knew each other.

This must be, at long last, our formal introduction.

Until now, we've only met in passing.

That's how you met me. In passing.

Eve, this is an old friend of Mr DeWitt's mother.

-Miss Casswell, Miss Harrington.

-Miss Casswell.

-How do you do?

I've been wanting you to meet Eve for the longest time.

Your natural timidity must have kept you from mentioning it.

-You know of her interest in the theatre?

-We have that in common.

Then you two must have a long talk.

I'm afraid Mr DeWitt would find me boring before too long.

You won't bore him, honey. You won't even get a chance to talk.

Claudia, come here.

You see that man? That's Max Fabian, the producer.

Now, go and do yourself some good.

Why do they always look like unhappy rabbits?

Cos that's what they are. Now go and make him happier.

Now, don't worry about your little charge. She'll be in safe hands.

Amen!

MUSIC: Liebestraum by Franz Liszt

MUSIC CHANGES TO A JAUNTY TUNE

-Liebestraum.

-I just played it.

-Play it again.

-But that was the fourth straight time.

Then this will be five.

Many of your guests are wondering when they may be permitted to view the body.

Where has it been laid out?

It hasn't been laid out.

We haven't finished with the embalming.

As a matter of fact, you're looking at it.

The remains of Margo Channing

sitting up.

It is my last wish to be buried sitting up.

Wouldn't you feel more natural taking a bow?

You know nothing about feelings, natural or unnatural.

Your guests were also wondering whether the music couldn't be

a shade more on the, shall we say, happier side?

If my guests do not like it here,

I suggest they accompany you to the nursery

where I'm sure you will all feel more at home.

Margo, you by any chance haven't got any bicarbonate of soda in the house?

Poor Max. Heartburn?

It's that Miss Casswell.

I don't see why she hasn't given Addison heartburn.

No heart to burn.

Everybody has a heart, except some people.

Of course I've got bicarb.

I've got a box in the pantry.

We'll put your name on it. "Max Fabian."

It will stay there always, just for you.

Let the rest of the world beat their brains out for a buck.

It's friends that count.

-And I have friends.

-I love you, Max. I really mean it.

I love you.

Come to the pantry.

She loves me like a father. Also, she's loaded.

There you are, Maxie dear.

One good burp and you'll be rid of that Miss Casswell.

The situation I'm in ain't the kind you can belch your way out of.

-I made a promise.

-To Miss Casswell? What?

For an audition for this part we are replacing.

What's her name? Your sister?

-One?

-No, two, please.

If she can act, she might not be bad.

She looks like she might burn down a plantation.

Right now, I feel like there is one burning in me.

-When's the audition?

-A couple of weeks.

Tell you what. Why don't I read with her?

-Would you?

-Anything to help you out, Max.

Now that's cooperation. I appreciate it.

Not at all. And now you can do me a great favour.

Just name it.

Give Eve Harrington a job in your office.

HE BELCHES

You get quick action, don't you?

I wouldn't think of taking that girl away from you.

You said yourself my inventory was in shape,

all my merchandise put away.

To keep her here with nothing to do, I'd be standing in her way.

-And you need her, Max.

-What will she do?

She'd be a great help. She'd read scripts,

interview people you have to see, get rid of those you don't have to.

You'd be a man of leisure, Maxie.

-Well...

-Think of your health.

More time to relax in the fresh air at a racetrack.

-I don't think it's such a good idea.

-Promise?

-Promise.

-That's my Max.

Oh, there you are, both of you.

Max, Karen's decided it's time to go.

-Where is she now?

-Up in your room.

If you'll excuse me, I'll go and tell Miss Casswell.

-Who's left out there?

-Too many.

And, besides, you got a new guest. A movie star from Hollywood.

Shucks! And I sent my autograph book to the cleaners.

You disapprove of me when I'm like this, don't you?

Not exactly. Sometimes, though, I wish I understood you better.

-When you do, let me in on it.

-I will.

-How's the new one coming?

-The play? Oh, all right, I guess.

Cora. Still a girl of 20?

20-ish. It's not important.

Don't you think it's about time it became important?

-How do you mean?

-Don't be evasive.

Margo, you haven't got any age.

Miss Channing is ageless. Spoken like a press agent.

I know what I'm talking about. They're my plays.

Spoken like an author.

Lloyd, I'm not 20-ish. I'm not 30-ish.

Three months ago I was 40 years old.

40! 4-0.

That slipped out.

I hadn't quite made up my mind to admit it.

Now I suddenly feel as if I've taken all my clothes off.

To thousands of people you're as young as you want.

As young as they want, you mean.

I'm not interested whether thousands of people think I'm six or 600.

Just one person, isn't that so?

You know what this is all about.

It has little to do with whether you should play Cora.

It has everything to do with you having a fight with Bill.

Bill's 32. He looks 32.

He looked it five years ago. He'll look it 20 years from now.

I hate men.

Don't worry, Lloyd. I'll play your play.

I'll wear rompers and come in rolling a hoop, if you like.

Who'd show up at this hour? It's time people went home.

Hold that coat up.

SHE WOLF WHISTLES

-Whose is it?

-Some Hollywood movie star.

-Her plane got in late.

-Discouraging, isn't it?

Women with furs like that where it never even gets cold.

Hollywood.

Tell me, Eve. How are things going with you? Happy?

There should be a new word for happiness.

Being here with Miss Channing has been a... I just can't say.

She's been so wonderful, done so much for me.

Lloyd says Margo compensates for underplaying on stage

by overplaying reality.

Next to that sable, my new mink seems like an old bed jacket.

You've done your share, Eve.

You've worked wonders with Margo. Good night.

-Mrs Richards?

-Karen.

Karen.

Isn't it awful? I'm about to ask you for another favour,

after all you've done already.

Nobody's done so much.

Stop thinking of yourself as one of the hundred neediest cases.

-What is it?

-Miss Channing's affairs are in good shape,

so there isn't enough to keep me as busy as I should be.

Not that I'd consider anything that would take me away from her.

But the other day when Mr Fabian told Miss Channing

that her understudy was going to have a baby and they'd have to replace her...

You want to be Margo's new understudy?

I don't let myself think about it even.

But I do know the part so well, and every bit of the staging,

there'd be no need to break in a new girl.

Suppose I had to go on one night

to an audience that came to see Margo Channing.

Oh, no, I couldn't possibly!

I wouldn't worry too much about that.

Margo just doesn't miss performances.

If she can walk, crawl or roll, she plays.

The show must go on.

No, dear. Margo must go on.

I don't see any reason why you shouldn't be her understudy.

-You think Miss Channing would approve?

-I think she'd cheer.

But Mr Richards and Mr Sampson?

They'll do as they're told.

Then would you speak to Mr Fabian about it?

-Of course.

-You won't forget?

I won't forget.

I seem to be forever thanking you for something, don't I?

The bed looks like a dead animal act.

-Which one is sable?

-But she just got here.

Well, she's on her way with half the men in the joint.

-It's only a fur coat.

-What do you expect? Live sable?

Diamond collar, gold sleeves. You know, picture people.

Every now and then, some elder statesmen of the theatre or cinema

assures the public that actors and actresses are just plain folks,

ignoring the fact that their greatest attraction to the public

is their complete lack of resemblance to normal human beings.

Now there's something a girl could make sacrifices for.

-And probably has.

-Sable.

-Sable? Did she say sable or Gable?

-Either one.

We all have abnormality in common.

We're a breed apart from the rest of humanity, we theatre folk.

We are the original displaced personalities.

You won't have to read his column tomorrow, Eve. You just heard it.

-I don't agree, Addison.

-That's your particular abnormality.

I admit there's a screwball element in the theatre.

It sticks out, it's got spotlights on it and a brass band.

But it isn't basic. It isn't standard.

If it were, the theatre couldn't survive.

Oh, waiter.

That isn't a waiter, my dear. That's a butler.

Well, I can't yell out "butler", can I?

Maybe somebody's name is Butler.

You have a point. An idiotic one, but a point.

I don't want to make trouble. All I want is a drink.

-Leave it to me.

-I'll get you one.

-Thank you, Mr Fabian.

Well done. I can see your career rising in the east like the sun.

-You were saying?

-The theatre is nine-tenths hard work.

Work done the hard way, by sweat, application and craftsmanship.

To be a good actor or actress, or anything in the theatre,

means wanting to be that more than anything else.

Yes. Yes, it does.

It means a concentration of desire or ambition and sacrifice

such as no other profession demands.

And the man or woman who accepts those terms can't be ordinary,

can't be just someone.

To give so much for almost always so little.

"So little?"

"So little," did you say?

Why, if there's nothing else, there's applause.

I've listened backstage to people applaud.

It's like...

Like waves of love coming over the footlights and wrapping you up.

Imagine, to know every night

that different hundreds of people love you.

They smile, their eyes shine, you've pleased them.

They want you. You belong.

Just that alone is worth anything.

Don't get up. And please stop acting as if I were the Queen Mother.

-I'm sorry, I didn't...

-Outside of a beehive, Margo,

your behaviour is hardly queenly or motherly.

You're in a beehive, pal.

We're all busy little bees, full of stings, making honey day and night.

-Aren't we, honey?

-Margo, really.

Please don't play governess, Karen.

I haven't your unyielding good taste.

I wish I could have gone to Radcliffe, too,

but Father wouldn't hear of it.

He needed help behind a notions counter.

I'm being rude now, aren't I? Or should I say, ain't I?

You're maudlin and full of self-pity. You're magnificent.

How about calling it a night?

And you pose as a playwright.

A situation pregnant with possibilities,

and all you can think of is "go to sleep."

-It's a good thought.

-It won't play.

As a non-professional, I think it's an excellent idea.

Excuse me.

Undramatic, perhaps, but practical.

-Happy little housewife.

-Cut it out.

This is my house, not a theatre.

In my house you're a guest, not a director.

Then stop being a star and treating your guests as your supporting cast.

-Let's not get into a big hassle.

-It's about time we did.

Margo has to realise what's attractive on stage need not be attractive off.

All right!

I'm going to bed.

You be host. It's your party.

Happy birthday. Welcome home.

And we who are about to die salute you.

Need any help?

To put me to bed? Take my clothes off, hold my head?

Tuck me in, turn out the lights and tiptoe out?

Eve would, wouldn't you, Eve?

-If you'd like.

-I wouldn't like.

-Oh, I forgot I had it.

-I didn't.

Too bad. We're going to miss the third act.

They're going to play it offstage.

-Coming, Max?

-In a minute.

Eve, you mustn't mind Margo too much, even if I do.

There must be some reason, something I've done without knowing.

The reason is Margo and don't try to figure it out. Einstein couldn't.

But if I thought I'd offended her, of all people...

Eve... I'm fond of Margo, too.

But I know Margo. And every now and then,

there is nothing I want to do so much as kick her right square in the pants.

Well, if she has to pick on someone,

I'd just as soon it was me.

-Max is going to drop us.

-Good night.

-Good night.

-Good night.

Mrs Richards?

You won't forget, will you? What we talked about before?

No, Eve. I won't forget.

Why so remote, Addison?

You should be at the side of your protegee, lending her moral support.

Miss Casswell is where I can lend no support, moral or otherwise.

In the ladies', shall we say, "lounge"?

Being violently ill to her tummy.

It's good luck before an audition. She'll be all right once it starts.

Miss Casswell got lucky too late. The audition is over.

It can't be. I came here to read with Miss Casswell. I promised Max.

The audition was at 2.30. It's now nearly four.

Is it really? I must start wearing a watch. I never have, you know.

Who read with Miss Casswell?

-Bill?

-No.

-Lloyd?

-No.

-Well, it can't have been Max. Who?

-Naturally enough, your understudy.

It's unnatural to allow a girl in an advanced state of pregnancy...

I refer to your new and unpregnant understudy, Miss Eve Harrington.

Eve? My understudy?

-Didn't you know?

-Of course I knew.

It just slipped your mind?

How was Miss Casswell?

Frankly, I don't remember.

-Just slipped your mind?

-Completely.

Nor can anyone else present tell you how Miss Casswell read,

or whether Miss Casswell read or rode a pogo stick.

Was she that bad?

Margo, I have lived in the theatre as a Trappist monk lives in his faith.

I have no other world, no other life.

Once in a great while, I experience that moment of revelation

for which all true believers wait and pray. You were one.

Jeanne Eagels another, Paula Wessely, Hayes.

There are others, three or four.

Eve Harrington will be among them.

I take it she read well.

It wasn't a reading, it was a performance.

Brilliant, vivid, something made of music and fire.

How nice.

In time, she'll be what you are.

A mass of music and fire.

That's me. An old kazoo with some sparklers.

Tell me, was Bill swept away, too?

Or were you too full of revelation to notice?

Bill didn't say.

But Lloyd listened to his play

as if it had been written by someone else, he said.

It sounded so fresh, so new, so full of meaning.

How nice for Lloyd. How nice for Eve. How nice for everybody.

Eve was incredibly modest. She insisted that no credit was due her.

That Lloyd felt as he did only because she read his lines exactly as he'd written them.

The implication being that I did not read them as written?

Neither your name nor your performance entered the conversation.

DOOR OPENS

Ah! Feeling better, my dear?

Like I just swam the English Channel. Now what?

Your next move, it seems to me, should be towards television.

Tell me this. Do they have auditions for television?

That's all television is, my dear. Nothing but auditions.

Oh, Margo, darling.

Mm-hm!

Terribly sorry I was late. Lunch was long and I couldn't find a cab.

-Where's Miss Casswell? Oh, hello, Eve.

-Hello, Miss Channing.

How are you making out in Mr Fabian's office?

Now, Max, I don't want you working this child too hard

just because you promised.

As you see, I kept my promise, too.

It's all over.

-What's all over?

-The audition.

Eve read with Miss Casswell.

Eve? How enchanting.

How did you get the idea of letting Eve read with Miss Casswell?

-Well, she's your understudy.

-Eve? My understudy? I had no idea.

I thought you knew. She started a week ago.

I've never seen her backstage,

but with so many people loitering about... Well, well.

So Eve is not working for Max, after all.

Max, you sly puss.

Miss Channing, I can't tell you how glad I am

that you arrived so late.

Really, Eve? Why?

If you'd been here to begin with, I never would have dared to read at all.

-Why not?

-If you'd come in the middle, I couldn't have gone on.

What a pity. All that fire and music being turned off.

-What fire and music?

-You wouldn't understand.

How was Miss Casswell?

Back to the Copacabana.

But Eve, Margo. Let me tell you about Eve.

I was dreadful, Miss Channing.

I have no right to be anyone's understudy, much less yours.

I'm sure you underestimate yourself. You always do.

You were about to tell me about Eve.

-You'd have been proud of her.

-I'm sure.

-She was a revelation.

-Oh, to you too?

-What do you mean by that?

-Among other things,

it must have been a revelation to have a 24-year-old character

played by a 24-year-old actress.

-That's beside the point.

-It is right to the point.

Also, it must have seemed so new and fresh to you,

so exciting, to have your lines read just as you wrote them.

-Addison.

-So full of meaning, fire and music.

You've talked to that venomous fishwife Addison DeWitt.

In this case, apparently as trustworthy as the world almanac.

You knew when you came in that Eve was your understudy.

Playing that childish little game of cat and mouse.

Not mouse. Never mouse. If anything, rat.

Your genius of yours for making a bar-room brawl

out of a perfectly innocent misunderstanding at most.

Perfectly innocent? Men have been hanged for less.

I'm lied to, attacked behind my back,

accused of reading your silly dialogue as if it were the holy gospel.

I never said it was.

When you listen as if someone else had written your play,

whom do you have in mind?

Arthur Miller? Sherwood? Beaumont and Fletcher?

May I say a word?

No!

What makes you think Miller or Sherwood would stand for the nonsense I take from you?

You'd better stick to Beaumont and Fletcher.

They've been dead for 300 years!

All playwrights should be dead for 300 years!

That would solve none of their problems because actresses never die!

The stars never die and never change.

You may change this star any time you want

for a new and fresh and exciting one,

fully equipped with fire and music.

Any time you want, starting with tonight's performance.

This is for lawyers to talk about.

This concerns a contract that you cannot rewrite or ad-lib.

Are you threatening me with legal action, Mr Fabian?

Are you breaking the contract?

Answer my question.

-Who am I to threaten? I'm a dying man.

-I don't hear you.

I said I'm a dying man!

Not until the last drugstore has sold its last pill.

I shall never understand the process by which a body with a voice

suddenly fancies itself as a mind.

Just when does an actress decide

they're her words she's saying and her thoughts she's expressing?

Usually at the point when she has to rewrite and rethink them

to keep the audience from leaving the theatre.

It's about time the piano realised it has not written the concerto!

And you, I take it,

are the Paderewski who plays his concerto on me, the piano?

Where is Princess Fire and Music?

-Who?

-The kid. Junior.

-Gone.

-I must have frightened her away.

I wouldn't be surprised. Sometimes you frighten me.

Poor little flower. Dropped her petals and folded her tent.

-Don't mix your metaphors.

-I'll mix what I like!

-OK, mix!

I'm nothing but a body with a voice. No mind.

What a body. What a voice.

That ex ship-news reporter. No body, no voice, all mind.

The gong rang, the fight's over, calm down.

I will not calm down.

Don't calm down.

You're being terribly tolerant, aren't you?

I'm trying terribly hard.

Well, you needn't be.

I will not be tolerated and I will not be plotted against.

-Here we go.

-Such nonsense. What do you take me for?

Little Nell from the country?

Been my understudy for a week without my knowing it.

-Carefully hidden, no doubt.

-Now, don't get carried away.

Arrives here for an audition when everyone knows I will be here,

and gives a performance out of nowhere.

You've been all through that with Lloyd.

The playwright doesn't make the performance. It doesn't just happen.

Full of fire and music and whatnot.

Carefully rehearsed, I have no doubt.

Full of those Bill Sampson touches.

-I am sick and tired of these paranoiac outbursts.

-Paranoiac?

I didn't know Eve was your understudy until 2:30 this afternoon.

Tell that to Dr Freud along with the rest of it.

No, I'll tell it to you. For the last time, I'll tell it to you.

Cos you've got to stop hurting the two of us by these paranoiac tantrums.

That word. I don't even know what it means.

It's about time you found out.

-I love you. I love you!

-Hah!

-You're beautiful and intelligent.

-A body with a voice.

A beautiful and an intelligent woman, and a great actress.

A great actress at the peak of her career.

You have every reason for happiness.

-Except happiness.

-Every reason.

But due to some uncontrollable drive,

you permit the slightest action of a kid...

-A kid!

-..of a kid to turn you into a hysterical screaming harpy.

Now, once and for all, stop it.

It's obvious you're not a woman.

-I've been aware of that for some time.

-Well, I am.

I'll say.

Don't be condescending.

Come on, get up. I'll buy you a drink.

I admit I may have seen better days,

but I'm still not to be had for the price of a cocktail.

Like a salted peanut.

Margo, let's make peace.

The terms are too high. Unconditional surrender.

Just being happy? Just stopping all this nonsense about Eve?

-And Eve and me?

-It's not nonsense.

But if I tell you it is, as I just did, were you listening to me?

Isn't that enough?

I wish it were.

Then what would be enough?

If we got married?

I wouldn't want you to marry me just to prove something.

You've had so many reasons for not wanting to marry me.

Margo, tell me what's behind all this.

I don't know, Bill.

It's just a feeling. I don't know.

I think you do know.

But you won't or can't tell me.

I said before it was going to be my last try, and I meant it.

I can't think of anything else to do. I wish I could.

We usually wind up screaming as the curtain comes down.

Then it comes up again and everything's fine.

But not this time.

No playwright in the world could make me believe

this would happen between two adult people.

Goodbye, Margo.

Bill?

Where are you going?

To find Eve?

That suddenly makes the whole thing believable.

SHE SOBS

DOOR OPENS

Lloyd.

-Lloyd, what's happened?

-Up to here, that's where I've got it.

Of all the star-ridden, presumptuous, hysterical...

-Margo again.

-And again and again.

-Two hours late for the audition.

-That's on time for Margo.

And then a childish routine about not knowing Eve was her understudy.

-It's possible she didn't.

-Of course she knew.

Addison told her how superbly Eve had read the part.

Karen, let me tell you about Eve.

She's got everything. A born actress.

Sensitive, understanding, young, exciting, vibrant...

You'll run out of adjectives, dear.

Everything a playwright first thinks of wanting to write about,

until his play becomes a vehicle for Miss Channing.

Margo hasn't done badly by it.

Margo's great. She knows it, that's the trouble.

She can play Peck's Bad Boy all she wants and who's to stop her?

Who's to give her that boot in the rear she needs and deserves?

It's going to be a cosy weekend.

-What is?

-We're driving to the country tomorrow.

Just the four of us. Bill, Margo, you and I.

Well, we've spent weekends before with nobody talking.

Just be sure to lock up all blunt instruments and throwable objects.

Newton, they say,

thought of gravity by getting hit on the head by an apple.

And the man who invented the steam-engine,

he was watching a teakettle.