I think that there's
something wrong with me.
For some reason, I find that
the girls that I like as human beings
I'm not sexually attracted to
and the ones that I am
sexually attracted to
I don't particularly
like as human beings.
And on the rare occasion
when one falls in both categories
they usually have
a boyfriend or a husband
and Lord knows I've got enough of that
bad karma to last me a lifetime.
These are classic
Freudian symptoms, Conrad.
Haven't you ever read
about defense mechanisms?
Actually, I've always considered
myself more of a Jungian.
The phone's ringing again!
Would you stop talking?
You stop talking.
Alright.
Morning.
Afternoon.
Yes, it's Conrad Valmont.
What?
But I've lived here since birth!
This is Conrad Valmont.
Conrad was the son
of a Parisian entrepreneur
and a Caledonian debutante.
His father, Jean-Louis Valmont,
owned the Valmont Hotel
as had his father
and his father before him.
Their country home in Great Neck
was the pantheon
of summer gatherings.
On the eve of his 51st year,
Jean-Louis took Conrad's mother
to the south of France
on what was to be
a weekend excursion.
It had since turned into
a lavish escapade around the world
lasting nearly three decades.
Over the subsequent years, Conrad
was raised by the Valmont's staff.
His chauffeur Bernard
had taken Conrad
to a Parisian brothel
for his 13th birthday
as a sort of rite of passage
into polite society.
It was a family tradition.
At present, he was working
on his magnum opus -
a great New York novel
in the tradition
of Fitzgerald and Edith Wharton.
It was widely speculated
as to where he was
in the process of writing it.
When asked, he would simply reply...
I'm in the gathering stages.
Conrad had been
in the "gathering stages"
for several years now.
Last week Thursday,
Conrad's parents had capsized
and had become stranded on
a small island in the Mediterranean.
Having to spend numerous
days together
without the distractions of wealth
and a transient lifestyle,
they'd come
to a simple realisation
they didn't particularly
like one another.
Conrad's parents were to divorce
by the week's end
and neither wanted
to continue paying
for Conrad's extravagant lifestyle.
Hence, the Valmont board of trustees
had requested hotel security
to escort Conrad
from the premises by 2 PM.
Bunny, please
make yourself useful.
Get some more cigarettes, please.
Hey!
What?
I'm hungry.
I'll be right there!
I don't understand. What do you mean
they won't accept the charges?
Did you tell them it was
Conrad Valmont? Hello?
What are you smiling at?
Nothing.
Come on, Bunny. Bernard, please
take us to the Belleville Cafe.
I'm... I'm sorry. I can't.
Hey, it's me! I'm gonna
have this sorted out in no time.
I can't. I mean,
it's orders from the boss.
I'm sorry, Connie.
Can you do me a favour?
Name it.
Can you take care of
Napoleon while I'm gone?
Of course.
This is lame!
I'm gonna go.
No, Bunny, wait, wait,
wait, wait, wait, wait.
Listen.
Can I borrow some cash for a cab?
No?
I'll be in touch.
Conrad chose to ride the subway
a convention he rarely took up
since he had learned how
to hail a cab at the age of seven,
but it was on this rare occasion
that he first saw Beatrice.
Her unassuming beauty
struck him at once
and as his eyes gazed down
he couldn't help but notice she
was reading "Sense and Sensibility".
Immediately Conrad reasoned
she could be no older than 19
and would easily be moulded
into a girl of his liking.
Of course, there was always
the outside chance
that she was merely
a Jane Austen fan.
But Conrad quickly
ruled that out on a hunch.
Herein lies the eternal question
is it a grocery list
or her phone number?
It was at that moment
Conrad realised
he was going to see her naked.
I think I'm in love.
Conrad, you've only just met her.
I know.
Is she attractive?
Yes.
You know, you have an unhealthy
obsession with female beauty.
I don't care.
Maybe you should try
dating more homely women.
I don't think so.
Take it from me, someone who's
been married for 25 years, Conrad
inner beauty doesn't age.
You're just saying that
because your wife is unattractive.
Conrad.
Yes.
What are you going to do?
You have no home.
Move in with Dylan, of course.
How about money?
I need some. Thank you. Yes.
Conrad, I'm not your accountant.
I'm your analyst.
Well, I'm certainly not
going to travel downtown
and work for 10 hours a day
for the best 20 years of my life
doing some dull, unimaginative work,
certainly non-altruistic work.
No, thanks.
Conrad, there's
an interesting case study
a colleague of mine
did a few years back.
The subject was a young
German woman
who had been diagnosed
with a brain tumour.
It rendered her witty, charming
and quite likeable to most.
Are you trying to set me up?
Though she possessed all
the aforementioned attributes,
her life was actually
completely artificial.
She had no meaning, no emotion,
not a care in the world.
She seemed
utterly blissful to an outsider,
but her friends and family
were worried, even horrified.
German neurologists called it
"Witzelsucht".
"The joking disease".
But eventually a dissolution set in
and her life was left empty.
Are you saying that
I have a brain tumour?
Conrad's analyst had given
Conrad a low-interest loan
in the amount of $217.33
the entirety
of his wallet's remains.
Conrad's ego was in no position
to admit the reality
of his impoverishment.
Consequently, he had decided
not to tell Dylan...
Ding-dong!
...or anyone, for that matter,
of his financial woes.
Bonjour, comrade.
Bonjour.
This is Dylan Tate.
Dylan was an antisocial socialist,
a closet conversationalist,
a clinical neurotic.
Possessing an inimitable
talent for the arts,
Dylan had been afforded
the opportunity
to travel the world and live
a comfortable lifestyle
at his own expense
something Conrad knew nothing about.
Dylan Tate was the only personage
of all Conrad's acquaintances
whom he admired
and, to a bigger extent than he liked
to admit to himself, envied.
How was Greece?
You mean Bhutan.
Semantics.
I got back a couple of days ago.
You mind if I stay
with you for a while?
Sure. Come on in.
So what happened?
We are remodelling
at the Valmont again.
Where's Jocelyn?
I don't know.
It's been a couple of weeks.
What I first perceived
as cute and endearing
was actually quite exhausting
her episodic hysteria,
her chronic dissatisfaction,
her endless pragmatism.
You know you two always do this
one of you screams,
the other comes running back.
I... I bought her a Volvo.
You bought her a Vo...
Why do you always buy them a Volvo?
I don't know. It's like
a free ticket to leave.
How can I feel guilty, you know?
I bought her a Volvo!
You know, what really
pisses me off about this whole thing
is that I'm the one who funded
her entire vegan fashion line
and now that every socialite
in St Barts thinks it's fashionable
I get the swift kick.
Swift kick? I thought
you broke it off with her.
I did, but still...
So Henri over at the gallery
set me up on a date last week.
That bad?
You can always tell
what somebody thinks of you
by who they set you up with.
Is it wrong to be aroused
by a bunch of 17-year-old girls
running around with knee-high socks
and polyester shorts?
Well, I guess that's a decision every
man has to make for himself.
But yes. Obviously, yes.
Conrad needs a girlfriend.
No, no, no, we don't
need girlfriends.
This is not the time
for girlfriends.
This is the time for us
to read and to write
and to have deviant
fetishistic sex with prostitutes.
Please! This from
a serial monogamist.
You've never even
been with a prostitute.
I understand that.
If you'll indulge me,
I'm going through a rough break-up.
I need to have certain reassurances
about the prospect of bachelorhood.
Look alive, look alive.
You need a new goalie?
Don't make eye contact.
Hey, mister,
give us back our ball!
Interaction is inappropriate.
I can play!
No, you cannot.
We should move.
They're like little veal.
So I met a woman
a couple of weeks ago.
I don't know. I can't
get her out of my head.
What happened to "the prospects
of bachelorhood"?
I know.
I just find it
completely, overwhelmingly
tedious and unnerving.
So tell me about the girl.
What are the details?
Well, she's like
an ingnue in a Chekhov play.
You know, one of those overly
romantic, virtuous types,
completely self-inhibited,
doesn't drink,
didn't have sex until she was 21
and read the bulk
of the Victorian classics.
Jesus! Sounds like a real keeper.
She is. She really is.
I'm in way over my head.
Is she attractive?
She's a model.
If I ever lost my fortune
and was completely disinherited,
could you ever see me
as a struggling bohemian artist type?
Hypothetically speaking, of course.
That reminds me
do you want to come with me
to the cocktail benefit
at the Woodruff Modern tonight?
Nope.
Come on!
You know I don't like those things.
It'll be fun. You can...
Probably not.
Then you can meet the ingnue.
Is it a date?
Not exactly.
We do this thing where
we don't really go out together.
We just call each other
to make sure the other's
gonna be at a certain place
at a preordained time and...
Adorable.
...we just happen to
bump into one another.
It's... less pressure.
So do you wanna come
to the cocktail party?
Well, I'll need a cocktail first.
Are you wearing perfume?
No, it's a new cologne
that I'm wearing for my date.
Why? What do you think?
Well, I think it smells like perfume.
No.
The woman at Bergdorfs
told me that it's unisex.
And you wanted to smell
sexually ambiguous?
Good evening, and welcome
to this evening's benefit.
I must say I am more than thrilled
to see so many familiar faces.
Enjoy the complimentary
hors d'oeuvres and champagne
and, remember, make a donation!
Cheers.
This is Beatrice Fairbanks.
Beatrice had attended
a rather strict etiquette school
on a biweekly basis.
In doing so, Beatrice
had been quietly instilled
with a certain Victorian idolatry,
a paragon of virtue.
Beatrice had been
forced at a young age
to learn the works of Bach, Chopin
and other masters
of classical music,
though secretly she had
always wanted to play jazz.
Oddly, Beatrice had opted
to become an editorial model...
C'est bon, c'est bon.
It's OK, it's OK.
...an occupation that only
heightened her insecurities.
Beatrice was a finn believer
in mystics, psychics and the occult,
which ran counter
to the debutante norm
which favoured
incessant psychoanalysis.
What does it mean?
So, what do you think of my cologne?
That's you!
You probably didn't get a good...
It's a little feminine.
The woman at Bergdorfs
told me it was unisex.
Hi. She was clearly lying.
He smells pretty, doesn't he?
Um, Beatrice,
this is my 'friend' Conrad.
Conrad, Beatrice.
We've met.
Just briefly.
On the subway.
Subway?
I gave him my, um...
Scarf.
She gave me her scarf. It was cold.
I'm gonna need that back from you.
OK. I'll give it to you.
I can get it from you...
to give to her.
- I'm gonna... I think I see foie gras.
- Yep.
- Want some? Duck?
- No.
Take your time.
He's... That's so nice of you.
Obviously I've got
a target on my back.
I didn't even know it.
I didn't even know it.
And listen to this.
My mistress says
she doesn't want to have sex
because she's afraid
she'll get pregnant.
I told her at the rate
we have intercourse
the only way that's going to happen is
from immaculate conception.
Didn't you say she was on the pill?
Yeah, yeah, she is,
but she says she's afraid of the 1%
and, besides, she wants to get off, it
gives her mood swings.
Awful. Just awful.
You already have a wife that
doesn't want to sleep with you.
Touch.
Honey, have you met, um...
Don't you find that the...
...the virtuous ideals
of the Victorian authors
are somewhat unrealistic
and sentimental?
No, not at all.
And as the century went on,
the scope of the genre
became far more complex.
You do realise that the moniker
of 'Victorian literature'
ranges from the Bront sisters
to Kipling?
Yes.
Have you ever actually
read any of their books?
No, but I'm...
...I'm heavily considering it.
She wouldn't have left. She...
she asked me to say goodbye, so...
There she is.
Hey.
Hi.
So where... where you heading now?
I have to go to bed.
I have work in the morning.
Yeah, me too. I'm gonna...
So what are you
working on these days?
Nothing in particular.
I'm open to ideas.
You sound very ambitious.
Actually, I am in
the gathering stages of a novel.
It is to be one of the great
New York novels
in the tradition
of Fitzgerald, Edith Wharton.
You've been in the gathering stages
for over a decade.
Well, all good things take time.
I rushed my first novel.
I don't want to suffer
the same pitfalls
as my predecessors
with my sophomore effort.
"Rushed"? I don't think
you finished your first novel.
And I'm pretty sure it can't
qualify as a sophomore effort
if you don't finish your first book.
You finish...
Nonetheless, everybody knows
that there are certain pitfalls
associated with a sophomore effort
that I simply want to avoid.
Period.
Avoid it by not doing it.
Dylan!
Well... goodnight.
Goodnight.
Don't you try anything.
I won't.
Don't try anything.
I won't.
Don't.
I...
Nearly 30 minutes had passed
and Beatrice could still feel
a rush from Conrad's flirtation.
Don't try anything.
I won't.
Not this one.
Dylan...
...I won't.
Don't try anything.
I won't!
The two friends' competitive nature,
which had spanned
nearly three decades,
stemmed from the simple fact
that each not only envied the other,
but wanted secretly to be the other.
Neither one ever spoke of this.
You know just 'cause
you're almost 40
and still getting a weekly
allowance from your parents
doesn't mean you can just do nothing
for the rest of your life.
First of all, I'm writing
a novel, as you well know.
Secondly, your statement
is completely subjective
and lacking any substantive facts.
You're walking down
a very dangerous road, my friend.
What road is that?
The road to Fantasy Land.
And when you take
a trip to Fantasy Land
you should always
have a return ticket.
I don't even know what that means.
At some point you're gonna have to
come to the same realisation I did.
What's that?
The rest of the world is never gonna
love you as much as your parents do.
Weren't you adopted?
I don't understand why
you're interested in this guy.
He's just another
philandering affluent type
doomed to chronic alcoholism,
perpetual adolescence
and death by syphilis.
He probably sits around all day
drinking Tom Collins
and just performing acts
of mental masturbation.
That is such an unfair generalisation.
He's not like that!
For your information,
he is writing a novel.
Aren't we all?
So I'm thinking about taking it
to the next level with Beatrice
and actually asking her
out to dinner tonight.
Bad move.
Why?
You just saw her last night.
You don't wanna crowd her
and make her think you're too eager.
Definitely wait.
How long?
I don't know, Dylan. A day at least.
Really?
Yeah, really.
Beatrice.
Yes, that's my plane.
I never understood why someone
would want to be a vegetarian.
I mean, do you really
love animals that much?
No, no, no, I just hate plants.
You eat fish, though, right?
Why?
All the vegetarians eat fish.
Well, I'm a Pisces.
What's that got to do with it?
I don't eat my own kind.
Beatrice, tell me,
what is it like being a model,
all those people staring at you?
It's like any other job innocuous
and demoralising. But it pays well.
I'm serious. Tell me about yourself.
All I know is that
you do frequent the subway
and you read Victorian
and pre-Victorian literature, right?
Come on. I wanna know...
I wanna know your fears.
I'd like to know your hopes.
I wanna know political ideologies
and sexual preference.
I don't care what order.
That's a lot of information
for a first date.
That's true.
How about you?
What is like being born with
the proverbial silver spoon?
Alright.
Well, you know,
it's like any other job.
It's innocuous and demoralising,
but pays really well.
Beatrice was different.
As their conversation continued,
the two spoke of French cinema
and classic literature.
He tried to be witty,
to make her laugh
and for a moment
she resembled a statue,
a bust of an Aphrodite that he could
only remember its gentle eyes
but not where
the statue itself had been.
Shall we go have a cigarette?
OK, yeah.
Conrad often became attached
to the idea of something
and not to the actual thing itself.
So what is your novel about?
I'm not so sure. I'm still
figuring that part out.
I want you to try this.
Why? What is it?
This is... It's a Valmont Executive.
It is my family's brand.
It's only the rarest and most exquisite
cigarette in existence.
That is pretty great, isn't it?
It sort of tastes
like any other cigarette.
What about the smell, right?
The smell?
It smells like any other too.
I mean, maybe I'm missing... something.
You don't get it.
You just don't get it.
I'm gonna take two, then.
That's good. That's healthy.
As the day wore on,
Beatrice was playing hard to get.
Conrad's pseudo-intellectual banter
was wearing thin
and so he decided
to proceed to plan B
get her drunk.
I know you don't drink, but they
make an incredible Tom Collins, OK?
How often do you come here?
Every once in a while.
Here you go, Mr. Valmont.
Lucky. Cheers.
Cheers.
It's weird how nobody
dances anymore, you know?
That's funny coming from
someone who's not dancing.
I don't dance.
You know, you're nothing
like Dylan described.
Why? What did he say?
He said you were self-inhibited
and that you didn't drink.
Well, a woman
can wear many hats.
Yeah? What does that mean?
It means a woman can be inhibited
and conservative with one man
and virtually the opposite
with another.
Boy, even socialist regimes
wait until their demise
before they admit such insincerity.
Well, I'm not a socialist regime.
I'm a woman.
You play that thing?
A little bit.
Can you play me a song?
No.
Come on. Please.
. Sorry.
Beatrice!
I'm not in the mood.
Are you gonna make me beg?
Maybe.
Come on. Please?
Just one.
Beatrice loved the way
Conrad walked into a room,
the way he waved his hands
in the air every time he heard Bach,
the way he read her excerpts
of Fitzgerald's
short fiction before bed,
the precision with which
he made a Tom Collins
and a single Windsor knot...
...his infallible wit and charm
and the way he used words
like "haberdashery".
But most importantly
Beatrice loved the way
he looked at her.
Conrad loved the way
Beatrice walked into a room,
how she laughed at his jokes
no matter how convoluted
or juvenile they seemed,
the way she bit her lip the moment
before she played the piano,
the softness of her skin,
the yellow in her eyes,
the mole on her thigh.
But most importantly,
Conrad loved to look at her.
Unfortunately, there were still
two unavoidable problems
Dylan, and that Conrad was broke,
but most importantly
that he was lying concerning both.
Have you ever noticed
that when people become happy
they pack on a few extra pounds?
What are you trying to say?
No, no, no, no.
Nothing about you, angel.
No, no. I'm just...
I'm making an observation.
Are you saying that
all fat people are happy?
Not at all. No.
I'm merely stating that there
are two categories of fat people.
There is happy fat and there is...
...just fat.
No, no, no! Please!
Just give me a little space.
I am trying to cook, you know?
It's not natural.
Hey, that water's brown.
That can't be healthy.
That's how I like it.
Really?
Yeah.
Want me to get that?
Nope.
Well, how am I supposed
to wash my hands?
There's egg all over them.
Hello. Hey, Dylan.
No, not doing anything.
Tonight?
Yeah, can you
hang on one second?
He wants to take me
to the theatre tonight
and he wants me
to bring a date for you.
I'm not that good of a liar.
I sincerely doubt that.
No, I'm sorry. We can't...
I... I can't.
You did? That's so nice of you.
OK, well, then,
I'll see you at seven.
OK, 'bye.
There's nothing I could do.
This is a bad idea.
I don't understand why
you and Dylan always have to get into
these prepubescent competitions
of which he always loses.
I resent that.
You know I make a conscious effort
to stay out of all forms
of competition with him.
Well, your track record
proves otherwise.
Well...
This girl's important.
Let me know if there's
anything I can... I can do.
Have you heard anything? I can't
get anyone to return my calls.
Rumours. Just rumours.
I don't wanna get into details,
but I've only got 36 hours
of clean underwear left.
I've got no idea
what to do, you know?
I feel like Napoleon after Waterloo,
dying in exile
on the coast of St Helena.
You're gonna be alright, Connie.
You think?
I promise you.
You're gonna be alright.
Alright.
Listen. I need to take the antiques!
You don't need to do anything!
They were in my family!
They belong to me.
Your family? Your family?
That desk was from Marie Antoinette!
Please!
It's a fake! Yes. it was!
I'm sorry, sir.
No one picked up.
Is there another number
you'd like to try?
Um...
No, no. That's OK.
That's fine. Thank you.
I think it's a pretty good
pairing over there.
She's very,
opinionated and judgemental.
Yeah.
I told you this was a bad idea.
Shut up. Shut up.
Well, then, tell me about him!
Seriously?
Yes, seriously! Of course!
Here I am. I'm listening.
Is... is this a joke?
What a pitiful advocate you are.
Speak whether it's a joke or not!
Why are you looking
all around the room like that?
You... you really
are in a temper!
I wish to take a lover, Octave,
or if not a lover
at least a cavalier.
Whom do you suggest?
I shall abide by your choice.
From tomorrow... from this evening,
whoever has a fancy to sing beneath
my window will find my door ajar.
Well...
Well?! Nothing to say?
Marry me!
Sure don't like the way
you were looking at Dylan tonight.
I am not doing anything!
OK, maybe it's me, but I don't know.
Just stop it.
I don't know.
I didn't even understand
any of the Parisian speak.
I think they were Canadian.
Bonsoir, Monsieur Valmont.
Hello, Didier.
Your usual table is waiting.
Great. Thank you.
Will you be paying tonight
or putting it on the books?
It will be on the books.
And that goes for
the whole table, so...
Very well.
Please, right this way.
Shall we? It's just down here.
S'il vous plat. Bonsoir.
Yes.
It's just a little bit.
I'll just have a little.
What did you think?
I don't know.
I felt that it was
sort of pretentious.
It seemed like everyone
who was in the theatre
was just there to be seen.
There to be seen?
It was a theatre.
It was pitch black in there.
How am I supposed to care
about a group of
over-privileged affluent types
who go gallivanting around without
any sort of a moral compass?
The affluent have plenty
of problems. I'm a mess.
I'm sorry, but I'm very sensitive
to an audience's reaction
and I couldn't get into it.
If they all jumped off a bridge,
would you join them?
I hate that analogy. I really do.
But maybe. Maybe there's a reason
why they're all doing that.
Maybe the bridge is about
to explode and no one told me.
That's a good point.
I'm just...
How am I supposed to sympathise
with these characters?
No one suffers any consequences
for their actions,
no one learns anything
and nobody changes.
It was a satire.
I didn't get that at all.
- I love this place. It's so chic.
- Wait.
I thought you said that
the door policy was discriminatory
and this place was insipid.
I did say that,
but that was before I came inside.
I'm gonna go.
Count to five and then follow me.
Are you wearing perfume?
Excuse me?
Don't you feel
a bit strange about being an artist
in a world that's
already so full of art?
Isn't that sort of a waste?
I forget. What do you do?
I'm getting
a doctorate at Columbia
is postmodern criticism.
For me, I think that people who are
creative are really just indulgent.
There's already so much.
We don't need any more.
And there are so many people
who are without, you know?
You should... just be a farmer.
You can always tell
what someone thinks of you
by who they set you up with.
The only reason that
I'm dancing with you
is because I'm incredibly drunk.
I despise you
and everything that you stand for.
Where are Conrad and Beatrice?
I don't know. Do you wanna
get another drink?
You're a bit of a philistine,
aren't you?
I'm sorry. Wait.
Tell me your name again.
Jocelyn.
Are you kidding me?
I just got out of a three-year
relationship with a Jocelyn.
Do you wanna sleep over?
Your place or mine?
I live in a dorm.
Definitely mine.
You know, I realised
something the other day.
Usually the women that
I like as human beings,
I'm not sexually attracted to
and the ones that
I'm sexually attracted to
I don't particularly like
as human beings.
On the rare occasion when one of them
falls into both categories
they usually have
a boyfriend or a husband.
What are you trying to say?
I'm trying to say...
What I'm trying to say is it's great
that you don't have a boyfriend.
But I am married.
Is that a problem?
You're a cheater, though.
Right? Yeah.
I gotta tell Dylan.
I've gotta tell him, right?
I mean, tell him.
Just tell him right out
and you just... just let him know.
You just tell him. Gotta tell him.
You gotta tell him. Gotta tell him.
You gotta tell him.
God.
This was it.
This was the moment Conrad
would right his wrongs.
Hey.
This was the moment he would
bare his soul to his only friend...
What's going on?
...and tell him of his betrayal.
This was the moment Conrad
would ask for forgiveness.
Nothing.
Nothing. Nothing at all.
What? Does something
seem like it's going on?
Yeah, it seemed like you were
about to say something.
No. No, no, not at all.
Where's the friend?
You mean Jocelyn?
No, the friend.
Yeah, the friend's name is Jocelyn.
Really? Ironic.
Yeah.
I don't wanna talk about it.
Didn't have sex with her?
No, I didn't have sex with her.
I had to talk to her all night.
She only left half an hour ago.
It was horrible.
So, what happened last night?
What happened
was that it was amazing
and we talked until the sun came up!
That's amazing!
I have something
I have to ask you.
Yes.
Are you sleeping with Beatrice?
No.
No.
Good.
Good man.
There's something
I'd like to ask you.
May I sleep with Beatrice?
Definitely not. No.
I've got something
I'd like to tell you.
What is it now?
Beatrice and I are already together.
Hey, Dylan, Dylan! Easy, easy!
I'll fucking kill you!
Now, as we ease into adulthood
sometimes a good stiff drink
is the only excuse we have
for committing the atrocities
we really want to.
"Ease into adulthood"?
We're nearly 40!
Careful. I said I was sorry, OK?
I was gonna...
You're a selfish asshole.
Now, hang on.
Selfish? Dylan,
you're the one that's selfish.
I might actually
have a shot with her, OK?
She could be... the one.
"The one"!
What are you, 14?
It's not charming anymore, Conrad.
I need you to sleep
somewhere else tonight.
You're kicking me out?
And you realise by kicking me out
I'll probably move in with Beatrice?
Sometimes you're
your own worst enemy.
Conrad's ability to trust
had been marred by years
of betrayal and deceit
for others had only
dated or befriended him
to gain access to his wealth.
He had been quoted
on numerous occasions
as saying that no one
could be trusted.
What he forgot to add was
that included himself.
Well, I feel very, very conflicted.
I like the idea of living
up at the summer home.
You know, upstate, life of
a reclusive writer. I really do.
But I'm allergic
to the grass, the clean air,
the bees, the ticks, the badgers,
a bunch of wildlife.
What are you trying to say, Conrad?
I am gonna move in with Beatrice.
That's great news.
Thank you.
Does she know that you're broke
and have no place else to go?
Of... Yes.
Don't you feel guilty about Dylan?
Obviously.
But, you know,
this is actually a very small city
and if you meet an attractive girl,
the chances are great
that one of your friends has
already slept with her or wants to.
You're lying
to yourself, Conrad.
I know.
I'm OK with it.
Ding-dong!
Hi.
Bonjour, Mon amour.
What's going on?
I'm moving in.
What happened to Dylan's?
I was allergic to his sheets
Egyptian cotton.
I have Egyptian cotton.
Well, we'll have to do
something about that.
I think I'm in love with you.
How? It's only been two days.
Then I'm in love
with the idea of you.
Not the actual me?
Well, the idea of someone's
always better.
You can't have sex with an idea.
I'm telling you,
don't put a scratch on it.
I won't.
Your father is going to kill me.
She's waiting.
Come on!
OK. Look alive.
There it is.
Yeah? What do you see there?
Well, I mean, it's obvious, kind of.
Right.
Explosive. It's explosive.
A car, right?
Do you see the...
You see just the headlights?
It's a female orgasm.
I think it's kind of clear.
I didn't...
That the driver is having?
What's wrong?
Um... nothing.
Sitting at Beatrice's piano,
Conrad quietly read Dylan's note.
"In lieu of
unnecessary explanations,"
"please enjoy this Volvo."
Conrad began to feel
an odd sensation
one of guilt.
He had never felt
the emotion before.
I think I have a brain tumour.
What?
Nothing.
I'm not... I'm not in the mood.
I'm sorry.
Sorry. Sorry.
You're never
in the mood anymore.
We had sex last night.
Yeah. You seemed a little distant.
We're just going
through a dry spell.
- Dry spell?
- That's all.
It's only been a week.
Watching Beatrice
as she delicately played the piano,
Conrad felt horrible
for his ceaseless deception.
For a moment, he contemplated
admitting his impoverishment.
Then the moment passed.
I mean, how can I be with someone
that doesn't appreciate
Bach or a Valmont?
This is a classic story,
Conrad. "Pygmalion".
Have you even read "Pygmalion"? This
has nothing to do with "Pygmalion".
You should revisit that.
Or get the notes
or I'll read it to you.
I've seen "My Fair Lady".
OK, Beatrice, stop right there.
Don't move. OK.
Don't move. Like that.
Beautiful, you're beautiful.
Tu es magnifique, tu es splendide.
Ne bouge pas! Ne bouge pas!
Regarde-moi. Give me love.
Give me love. Voil. Comme a.
Do you love me? Smile. Voil.
You love me? You love me?
OK, show me. Show me.
Show me you love me.
Show me. OK! Love!
Hate! Now. Like that.
Beautiful, beautiful.
Love. Hate. Love.
Voil! Encore une. One more.
Chapter One.
Greece was a place he'd visited
many times in his mind.
But on this day...
Jumping forward. Chapter three.
Chapter four.
So how long are they going to be
remodelling the Valmont?
A couple of months maybe.
What?
I think. Sometimes they take
a couple of months.
You said weeks.
Well...
Hey. I got your gift.
Hey.
Well, as good as it is to bump
into you guys, I have to go.
I've got my opening tonight.
What part of town's that in?
Whitman Gallery.
Maybe we'll see you there.
Don't know if I... Time.
Who's that girl?
Jocelyn.
That's not Jocelyn.
No. The... the other Jocelyn.
Let's get in this car. Come on.
I gotta go.
Conrad had often professed
that he led a "life of the mind".
Unfortunately for him,
his mind had been damaged
by years of abandonment,
philandering, Tom Collins, and
a two-pack-per-day nicotine habit,
not to mention
an unhealthy Oedipal complex.
The weight of his guilt
had finally become too heavy.
The incessant charade
could go on no longer.
What's wrong?
Where were you?
You left me in the concert.
You stayed?
Actually, I did. It was beautiful.
We're out of cigarettes.
Where are we going?
To the Valmont.
Why are we hiding
behind the bushes?
I want you to follow me on
the count of three. Ready? Go!
What?
Hi, Timothy.
Fredrick.
I don't believe
you're supposed to...
Mr. Valmont? Mr. Valmont?
Mr. Valmont! Stop them!
What is going on? This is crazy.
I know. Isn't it fun?
Where are we going?
What? Why are we...?
Shhhh!
Come on!
Please turn on the lights.
What is happening?
It's a game. Hey, if you see
my mother's jewels, get those.
What?
No, we should not do that.
Yeah, we should.
I showed her,
that washed-up debutante.
Shit.
Really, really good work, Timothy.
It's Fredrick, sir.
Yes, Fredrick. Sorry. No, I think you
lot are really picking up the pace.
You know where to return
Mother's jewels, right?
That's the penthouse, the East Wing,
the Rhodesian cabinet, third drawer.
I've got my cigarettes.
Please
tell Bernard that I'm very sorry.
I'll be right there, honey.
What was all that about?
I'm not sure
I even know anymore.
Conrad, what is going on?
You know, Beatrice,
I only moved in with you because
I've got no place else to go.
OK, I'm broke.
What do you mean?
I have nothing.
I was kicked out of the Valmont,
parents cut me off.
Conrad, you're nearly 40 years old.
Well, that's completely irrelevant.
I've got separation anxiety,
abandonment issues.
Are you saying you've been lying
to me this entire time?
Yes, but I'm not the only liar.
I saw you with Dylan earlier today.
What? You've been following me now?
I... I was trying to patch things
up between you. God, grow up.
You are not honest with yourself.
That's your problem.
OK, you're always acting so virtuous.
You're always talking about how
you want to be a bohemian musician.
In the end, you're just a model.
Well, at least I have a job.
You have just managed
to coast through life
without worrying about money or
anything else pertaining to reality.
You are just
a philandering narcissist
who's so afraid of being alone
because when you are alone,
you're gonna realise
how empty your life is.
You know what?
I should've gone with Dylan.
Between the two of you, he was
the nice one. You are insufferable.
Didn't seem to bother you
when I was flipping the bill.
Alright, you're just like
the rest of them.
You were only with me for the money.
I am the only girl
you have ever been with
who wasn't just in it
for the money.
And besides, you were broke.
Well... you didn't know that, so...
Staring into the grille
of a bread truck,
Conrad couldn't help
but think of the poor woman
who had been diagnosed with
Witzelsucht, the joking disease.
In a daze, he suddenly began
to speak fluent German,
though he had never studied
the language.
He promptly lost consciousness.
Where does it hurt?
Conrad's worst fear had come true.
He was all alone.
Hello.
Who is this?
- It's your son, Conrad. Hi.
- Connie.
Where are you? What's that noise?
Can't you see I'm preoccupied?
When are you coming home?
I don't know, darling.
Divorces of this stature
can take some time.
How long, do you think?
Look, I... I have to go.
Maybe this won't blow over.
I just saw the most amazing
performance piece
where a husband and wife
tied themselves together
with a 10-foot rope
for an entire year.
It was a commentary
on the modern relationship.
That is the most beautiful
metaphor I've ever heard.
What happened to them?
They got a divorce.
I heard you met
with Beatrice earlier.
She was trying to get me
to do what we're doing right now.
Yeah.
Dylan, I guess you were right.
About what?
Sometimes I am my own worst enemy.
What happened to your face?
I got hit by a truck.
Zeus is dead.
"You could fetter my leg,"
"but Zeus himself cannot get
the better of my free will."
Hear, hear.
And I want my Volvo back.
That was just a joke.
How are things with Jocelyn?
We broke up again.
This time it's for good.
I think she was stealing from me.
That's rough.
How are things with Beatrice?
- Not so good.
- No?
Well, it's not a surprise considering
what an asshole you are.
I resent that.
Well, you should. It was an insult.
You're not still mad at me,
are you?
Not at all.
Maybe a little.
I really thought
Beatrice and I were gonna last.
What is it?
- Hi.
- Hi.
Now, you two seem like
fans of literature.
I have got a very impressive library
at my apartment.
Really?
You wanna see
my Balzac collection?
You sure you don't wanna
do anything?
No, I can't, sorry.
It would be a misrepresentation
of how I feel inside.
I... I don't even know what that means.
Well, that's exactly the problem.
You can, um, keep the Volvo.
Beatrice, it's Conrad.
Give me a call. Call me back.
What do you see, Conrad?
Sex.
And now?
Beatrice. I mean, sex.
I mean, wait, Beatrice.
Now?
Sex.
This isn't healthy, Conrad.
I know that.
Meanwhile, Beatrice visited
her Upper West Side mystic
in an attempt to find similar answers
to her quandary.
Unfortunately, her prospects
were less than ideal.
I mean, I've only just moved
in, she's already kicked me out.
I don't know.
I don't know what to do.
Sometimes we have to make
sacrifices for the ones we love.
This literary moral code of yours
is completely unrealistic.
This isn't a Jane Austen novel,
and I'm certainly not Emily Post.
You have the moral code
of a Bolshevik, Conrad.
I mean, I'm... I'm having
an existential crisis here.
I can't stop thinking about her.
I think I need to see a doctor.
Conrad, I am a doctor.
Beatrice? Beatrice?
Note to self. Upon a second reading,
my analyst was correct.
It has EVERYTHING to do
with "Pygmalion"
Dylan, wake up.
What? What is it?
I need Jocelyn's phone number.
Allez, Beatrice.
Regarde-moi. Regarde-moi.
Voil. Comme ga. Magnifique.
Tu es belle, tu es belle.
Petit oiseau. Voila. Love.
Hate!
Stop! Don't move. Voil.
Superbe. Superbe.
Splendide. Encore une, encore une.
Une dernire pour la route.
OK, let's...
let's take a break.
Hi.
What happened to your head?
I got hit by a truck.
Yeah.
I like this music selection.
Whose is it?
What are you doing here?
I'm quitting. The whole act.
Well, it wasn't the act that bothered
me. It was the cover-up.
Well, the act was the cover-up.
I have to go back to work.
Can I have one hour?
I just need one hour.
- OK. One hour.
- Yeah.
Thanks. I'll be right here.
I hate surprises.
You're gonna like this one.
- I don't understand.
- It's for both of us.
Don't get too excited.
It's just a rental.
You didn't?
I did.
How?
There's no leaks in the ceiling.
Got his-and-her bathrooms.
This water is not brown.
What's wrong?
Nothing.
So did you actually go to the Picasso
retrospective last week?
- It was horrid.
- I know.
I'm sorry, but I find his work
pretentious and adolescent.
You know, if people
just sort of take a step back...
Do you ever notice that the people
who make fun of people
for being pretentious are
usually the pretentious ones?
It's just Duchamp
but without the wit.
You ever noticed how people
only lash out on others
because they're afraid of what
they see because they see themselves?
What if I tell you "I love you"?
Does that mean
I actually love myself?
Exactly.
I love you.
I love you too.
It was at that moment Conrad
and Beatrice knew that it was over.
Beatrice couldn't help
but feel sympathy for Conrad.
Not love but sympathy.
One can often get confused
for the other.
As the two exited the station,
they waved goodbye
to one another as usual.
It would be the last time
they would ever see each other.
It seemed there was
an unavoidable distinction
between Conrad and Beatrice that
had rendered them incompatible.
She was a hopeless romantic,
and he was romantically hopeless.
By the week's end,
Conrad had received a telegram
informing him of his parents'
reconciliation.
Their week-long divorce
had grown tiresome,
and they were to return home
in two days time.
As much as Beatrice had tried,
she was unable to forget
Conrad's actions.
Note to self. See doctor
about possible brain tumour.
Conrad went on to keep the empty
apartment as a sort of metaphor
for the void left by Beatrice.
He told no one of its existence.
It wasn't till years later
that Conrad would realise
love was just like communism -
it was a great idea
but never quite worked out.
Conrad may have told others that
he was in search of a girlfriend,
a future wife,
but it was merely rhetoric.
Conrad's search was for an idyllic
beauty he would never attain.
Conrad often became attached
to the idea of something
and not the actual thing itself.
Back in the Valmont with
his credit cards once again active,
Conrad resumed the life
he was accustomed to living.
But something was different.
Like this one right there.
Get that one.
I missed it.
OK, why the hell
are we fishing with spears?
What's wrong?
It's been a long week.
With the matriarch of the Valmont
household once again home,
Conrad was able to let out
a decade of emotions and fears
for she had long been
the only person
that he would truly confide in.
I think there's something wrong
with me.
In an attempt to change his ways...
Ding-dong.
...Conrad started down the road
to redemption
with the simple gesture
of quitting cigarettes,
of getting his father's
Austin-Healey out of hock,
and on one spring afternoon
while Dylan was out,
Conrad snuck into his friend's apartment
to finally repay him.
He not only monetarily compensated
Dylan for his loan
but also included the keys
to his Volvo
and an inflation-adjusted interest
of 20%.
These are classic symptoms.
I think you're a closet agoraphobic.
I'm terminating our sessions.
Conrad, can we talk
about this later?
I'm in the middle of a session.
I don't care.
I'm getting worse.
Beatrice broke up with me,
and I got hit by a truck.
Look at me, I'm a mess.
Why do you think that is?
Your bad advice.
Conrad, I've been your therapist since
you were nine years old.
Indeed... I think
it's all that bad advice
that made me the bad person
I am today.
It's going to take a very long time to
recover from this.
Farewell.
Perhaps he had the wrong office.
Hypothetically speaking,
do you think someone
could have a Napoleonic complex
without being particularly short?
I don't believe so.
What would you call
this hypothetical person then?
An egoist?
Egoist.
I think I'm an egoist.
I've never told you this before,
but... you're a horrible writer.
I know.
After several years of deliberation
and public speculation,
Conrad had finally finished
his sophomore effort.
His inability to complete the novel
had simply stemmed from his lack of
understanding its central character.
Of course, the central character
was himself.
The book was published in the spring
and received mixed reviews.
"He proceeded to wave goodbye
to Abigail as if routine."
"For he was convinced
that this was not the last time"
"that they would ever see each other."
"Harold went on to keep
the empty apartment"
"as sort of a metaphor
for the void left by Abigail."
"He told no one of its existence."
Thank you.
How do you respond
to the criticism
that your novel
is inherently derivative
of the works of Fitzgerald
and Edith Wharton?
Thank you.
Mr. Valmont, I'm sorry,
but I found the book and
the central character adolescent
and his problems
grossly inconsequential
by modern social standards.
Don't you find his change at the end
slightly contrived
and, frankly, sophomoric?
I completely disagree.
I find him quite likeable
and his change rather significant.
Yes.
At a matinee performance of
"Les Caprices de Marianne",
the play which the once tightly knit
group had all seen together,
Dylan ran into Beatrice
for the first time
since her split with Conrad.
This was not a coincidence, however,
for each had mysteriously received
a ticket two days prior.
Conrad had sent the tickets
in an attempt to pay penance
for his actions the previous week.
The two then went to a small bar
in the West Village
to speak about the play.
They both enjoyed it
and had seen it with a nostalgia
for their old times together.
They made love that night
and have been together ever since.
Dylan finally read Jane Austen's
pre-Victorian classic,
"Sense and Sensibility".
He found it neither sentimental
nor unrealistic
but actually quite relatable.
Soon after their encounter
outside the Hudson Playhouse,
Beatrice gave up
her modelling exploits
and formed a jazz ensemble
with Dylan.
They achieved moderate success
and were happy.
Consequently,
they both put on 15 pounds.
Conrad and Dylan continued their weekly
conversations over squash
and, for the first time, Dylan won.
Conrad saw this as a sign of change.
Dylan, however, merely felt
a sense of satisfaction.
Conrad would go on to donate
a large portion of his wealth
to various charities
and philanthropic endeavours.
Unfortunately,
it took losing everything
for Conrad to finally appreciate
the economic stability he once had.
He wasn't going to take it
for granted this time.
I really despise the whole idea
that by being over-privileged
and well educated,
that one has to live up
to certain lofty expectations.
For one, you have to live
under the proverbial shadow
of said father and/or namesake.
Two, lofty expectations
can only lead to failure?
And three, more scientifically
and mathematically speaking,
if your parents were a great success,
I think a betting man would say
that the chances
of lightning striking twice,
especially in consecutive generations,
is very slim.
You do realise you're talking
to your chauffeur?
Touch.
After the lukewarm reception
of his second novel,
Conrad began to spend more time
in the country
to focus on the work,
for it was only there
that he felt at ease.
It appeared Conrad's allergies
to grass and clean air
had been completely psychosomatic.
He began to reflect back
on his week with Beatrice
and thought of the old adage,
"'Tis better to have loved and lost than
to have never loved at all. "
Conrad reluctantly agreed, for
he still thought of Beatrice often.
At the ripe age of 42,
Conrad Valmont
was finally growing up.