The Last Tycoon

Nietzschean Ubermensch.

Any comments you wanted me

to pass along to Mr. Stahr?

Yes.

Tell him I think his director is a putz.

I know you don't know what that means,

but he will. I know what it means.

Will that be all?

Yes. Thank you, Felicity.

Mr. Brady?

Yes?

Martin Ringler.

Your board sent me

to look at your books.

Why would they do that?

Well, not to put too fine a point on it, sir,

but they claim you've put the studio in arrears.

Is that right?

A loan from Mr. Mayer,

paid back with interest pre-term.

Salaries cut, then restored.

How much do you weigh?

Sir?

You like numbers, give me one.

140 pounds.

Soaking wet. Now get out of here before I snap you in two.

Mr. Brady, I have a letter here from your board

ordering you to furnish said investigator

with any records or files he might require.

"Investigator"?

Yes, sir.

I'm a forensic accountant.

I review your books, then present the board

with my recommendations.

I don't need any recommendations.

We have a cash flow problem at present.

So we spend less.

Where shall I set myself up, sir?

You know, you can stop staring at it.

It won't disappear.

Brought you some cheaters.

Oh.

You're going to be bathed in jewels.

Maybe a car, too.

Oh, and, of course, your luggage-hauling days are over.

It's strictly porters and staff from here on out.

So I'm royalty now?

At Brady-American, you are.

A marriage contract?

Of sorts.

Your seven-picture deal.

Pat's idea.

Seven? Oh, my goodness.

How sexy.

Which page do I sign?

You might want to read it first.

With your lawyer.

I don't have a lawyer. I'll get you one.

And we shouldn't discuss this again until he's weighed in.

You and I are now adversaries in a business negotiation.

Technically.

You saying I can't trust you?

Look, it's my job to exploit you.

Okay, movie man...

exploit me.

Christmas is here

What a picture.

Wonderful.

Charming.

Leslie Reeves was an inspired choice.

What made you think of him?

Well, ask Pat.

This was his baby.

Is that so? It sure was.

I didn't even see any rushes.

We're glad you liked the picture, Hedda.

But it's an underdog, like we are.

The same three studios getting all the nominations every year.

Angels needs a champion.

That's sweet.

The little studio that could.

So,

I write a column fawning all over it,

saying that it's my favorite picture of the year...

infuriating Louis Mayer, Jack Warner, and Harry Cohn.

And I get... what?

Well, the satisfaction of praising a picture

that actually deserves it.

Mm.

Or, maybe, the story behind the walkout

that your employees just staged?

That... that was no walkout.

A payroll guy lost some salary checks.

It created a minor stir, but we fixed it in a jiffy

and everybody went back to work.

Hmm.

Except for the payroll guy, I assume.

No, no, we kept him on, too.

Everyone's entitled to a mistake.

Ah.

Well, then you and I are...

one exclusive shy of a deal. Oh...

Monroe...

what about your fiancee?

An unknown offered a lead

in your next picture?

Who is she? What was her childhood like?

Her family? I'd kind of like to know that, too.

I want to profile her, with pictures, of course.

Go back to her hometown in Ireland,

the house she grew up in, her parents.

My readers love all that, especially if it's... humble.

Humble does sell.

Yes. Her father passed away.

And her mother?

Good.

Can I count on the studio

to arrange it all for me?

And when I say "arrange," I do mean "pay for."

Yeah.

Then consider Angels plugged.

Hmm.

You know, new rule:

let's stop with the false humility bit.

"It was Pat's baby."

It's irritating as hell.

My intention was to give you the credit.

See what it cost us,

this little stunt your writers pulled by walking out?

An embarrassment to the whole studio.

It wasn't little, and it wasn't a stunt.

And then they blab it all over town.

I am happy to indulge this as soon as you tell me

how that'll get us closer to an Oscar.

You giving me dialogue notes now?

Where is Mr. Lang?

Fritz, it's the speech you asked for yesterday.

Mm, mm, mm, mm, mm, mm, mm, mm, mm, I asked you for life.

You give me words.

Fritz, is there... Don't interrupt me!

This scheisse might be good enough for Monroe,

but it's not cinema!

Is there a reason our art director

just drove off our lot? Yes, there is a reason.

Because I fired him

after he defiled me on the look for the staircase.

It's "defied."

And you can't, he's under contract.

Oh, I can't? I can't? Really?

Then please, by all means, please, bring him back.

And I will just put a title card in front of every scene

in the picture saying, "This offensive and lifeless set

was not approved by the picture's director."

This is what I get for having someone's daughter

as my producer.

If you tell me when something's troubling you,

I can fix it, but I can't...

You know what you can fix for me?

Coffee, black, no sugar.

Yes sir, I'm on my way!

How's the set looking, Celia?

Hi, Monroe.

Lang living up to his reputation?

He's all bark.

You want me to talk to him?

No, no, I'm taking care of it.

Anything at all I can do?

Yes.

You can find a new art director.

This one was subpar.

Attagirl.

Rupert?

I'm up here.

You said it was an emergency.

It is. I got you something.

I didn't want to die without giving it to you.

It's my apology.

I don't want one.

I don't want anything from you.

You won't even open it?

Rupert, you hit me.

I know. I'm sorry.

It'll never happen again.

I got jealous, kiddo, of you and him.

Dumb, right?

I guess...

somewhere deep down I always hoped we'd...

I don't know.

Please?

Just open it?

'Member? Your first week here?

I pointed to that sign and I said,

"If you do like I ask,

one day, you'll have all Hollywood in your hands."

And now you do.

Seven pictures.

I know, I know, you love him.

I just don't want you to hate me.

This should be the fun part.

Yeah.