Pussycat, Pussycat, I Love You

Rome, the eternal city.

The Colosseum, a monument to Julius Caesar.

The Trevi Fountain, a monument to Pope Alexander.

Piazza Navona, a monument to the great Bernini.

St. Peter's, a monument to God.

The traffic jam, a monument to Henry Ford.

Fred Dobbs.

He's more worried about losing his hair than losing his wife.

Right now he's late to his appointment with his scalp therapist.

This man.

Anna, my dear, may I see you a moment?

His name is Dr. Fahrquardt.

He has no degree. That's his name.

Like yours is Irving, his is doctor.

Meet Anna, the doctor's wife.

Few of us are happily married, but this is ridiculous.

Tell, come on. Tell me.

I'm losing my hair, I just know it. Look.

Let me worry about your hair.

Now, just tell me about all those girls, eh?

Dr. Fahrquardt is interested in Fred's sex life

because he gets none of his own.

Having met his wife, you can understand why.

Who said anything about girls?

I did. Just now. Didn't you hear me?

What's the matter? You losing your hearing, too?

Too? Then I am losing my hair. You...

Even as we speak.

But so long as these two hands...

God bless them....keep their skill,

you'll have a little something left to comb.

This clown really believes he's a scalp therapist.

The sad thing is his patients believe it, too.

I...

just couldn't stand being bald.

Who could?

It's disgusting. All that empty space gleaming up at everybody

like an undiapered baby.

Oh, it's obscene.

No more so than your dream about being shipwrecked on that desert island.

Just you and that male gorilla.

Low pain threshold, eh?

You must have been pretty scared of that gorilla.

Terrified.

Perfectly normal.

Well, the hell he was. He fell in love with me.

I love you.

I ran.

Oh, masculine protest, eh?

Then why can't you run from those girls?

It's not the same thing.

You're right...

You're, you're right. You're right. I can't say no.

My darling wife, for example.

To whom you're criminally unfaithful.

My Mistress Ornella.

With whom you've had your way, as the old books put it.

And some of those old books put it rather well.

I bet you underlined all the hot passages.

You sex clod!

It's like a disease. And then this wild, new pussycat.

What? Gwendolyn.

Gwen-do-lyn.

I hate to tell you about Gwendolyn.

What hate?

It's the least you can do while I stand here

trying to save your morally exhausted hair.

I am most grateful.

As well you should be.

Without me you'd be a melon with eyes.

Now tell me about this...

Gwen...

I couldn't say no to Gwen.

She was cold, unattainable. The absolute end.

Oh, a real pageant, go.

We were alone together, by accident.

Gwen...

I don't care if I am your wife's sister.

It's more erotic this way.

Right.

If it happens, it happens, Pussycat.

Let nature take its course.

Right.

I dig nature.Right.

It's beautiful. I dig nature.

Start digging.

My time's up.

But time...

What is time when

scalp-wise a scientific breakthrough is imminent?

Easy, now, easy, Victor Vicarious.

You interested in my scalp or my women?

Oh, don't give me that holier-than-thou attitude, Clyde.

If just once

I treated your rapidly vanishing hair

without checking on the distaff action,

you'd choke with frustration.

You dig re-living it.

That's how sick you are.

No.Yes.

No.Yes.

No! Yes!

No! Yes!

No! Yes!

No! Yes!

Yes! Yes!

Yes! Yes!

Yes! Yes! Yes!

Desist, sir!

Cease these unmanly tears immediately,

or I shall be forced to lock you in the little dark room. Ah?

Now, calm for your own good.

Tell?

You bet your scalp.

It all started at the Battle of the Bulge.

The Battle of the Bulge?

A ladies' reducing salon.

Oh, they take men on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

And you went on Friday?

Well, I am, er, normal.

Good afternoon, Madame.

My name's Liz. I hope you enjoy your massage.

Hello.

I don't know who you are,

but get the hell out of here before I call the polizia.

Pussycat,

if you were going to call the polizia, would you be whispering?

I'll give you that. What do you want?

Don't you remember? My name's Fred C. Dobbs.

From that big party at the villa.

Oh, yes.

How've you been? Very well, thank you. And you?

Fine, thank you.

And now that the social interlude is over,

kindly get the hell out of here or I'll lose me job.

Oh, you disappoint me.

A pox on your disappointment. Out.

A man.

Oh, that was a good one.

Well, one does one's best.

One got one fired from one's job.

I'm terribly sorry.

Look, it wasn't my fault.

I didn't know those women were going to react like that.

Promise to make it up to one in a big way.

'Ow big?

Modesty prevents one from saying.

Does one live far? Near.

Good. With one's mum.

Bad.

Look, maybe we can save it for another night.

Don't let's lose one's head.

One's losing one's mood.

I'll come up with something.

Fernando. Fernando?

Fernando. Fernando?

Look, did I wake you?

Is it really?

You're right, you know?

Quarter to 5:00 on the button. Right.

Fever?

A hundred and four?