Behind the Scenes: The End of the Affair
- Year:
- 1999
- 15 min
- 47 Views
This is a diary...
of...
hate.
And perhaps I wouldn't
be writing it...
if some devil hadn't made me
stop him that night...
in the rain.
You want to drown, Henry?
I wanted a bit of air.
How nice to see you, Bendrix.
How long has it been?
Ayear?
June, 1944.
As long as that?
How's Sarah?
Oh, she's out and about
somewhere.
She at the cinema?
No, she never goes.
Oh, good night, Henry.
You should go home
before you catch your death.
Is something wrong?
Let me take you home, Henry.
Or perhaps I wouldn't
be writing this...
if I had known then
who I hated.
Was it Henry?
Was it his wife Sarah?
Or was it some other
who was yet to be revealed to me?
Sarah?
See? She's out still.
Come upstairs.
Come in.
Let me get you a drink.
Whiskey, thank you.
Whiskey.
So what's troubling you,
Henry?
Sarah.
She's out for a walk now,
Bendrix.
A walk.
Well, she always was
a great walker.
Jealousy's a terrible thing.
Well, you know you
can trust me, Henry.
You know, I went so far...
as to get the name
of a private detective.
You think she's seeing someone?
- Of course you think me a fool.
- No, Henry.
I don't think you're a fool.
- You mean you think it's possible?
- Of course.
Sarah's human.
Can't sleep.
Keep picking up...
this wretched card.
Burn it.
- I wish I could.
- Then go see what's-his-name, Savage?
And sit where all
Do you think they have
a waiting room, Bendrix...
where we see each other's faces
as we pass through?
Why not let me go, Henry?
- You?
- Yes.
I could pretend
to be a jealous lover.
Jealous lovers are less ridiculous
than jealous husbands.
They're supported
by the weight of literature.
Tragic, never comic.
Think ofTroilus.
Well, I shan't lose my amour propre
when I interview Mr. Savage.
This is ridiculous.
One can't spy on one's wife
through a friend...
and have the friend
pretend to be her lover.
- What else are friends for?
- You're a good chap, Bendrix.
All I needed was to talk,
clear my head.
The name was Savage,
and the address was 3 Vigo Passage.
Forget what I've told you.
Doesn't make sense. I'll see a doctor.
That was the door.
Sarah's come in.
It's the maid.
She's been to the pictures.
No, it was Sarah's step.
Sarah, darling.
Henry.
- You... Is that you?
- Been out for a walk?
- Yes.
- It's a filthy night.
You're wet through, Sarah.
One day you'll catch your death of cold.
Good night.
Their marriage was conventional...
like their well-appointed house.
And I liked them both
drinking bad South African sherry
because of the war in Spain.
Good evening, sir.
- May I take your hat?
- Thank you.
Mr. Miles is upstairs.
Sherry, sir?
Thank you.
She seemed restless.
In the summer of 1939...
the whole of London was restless
in the face of the coming storm.
How nice of you to come.
Sarah, this is our neighbor,
the novelist chap.
What on earth
- Research.
- On what?
On your husband.
I'm trying to write a character
who works for the Ministry of Pensions.
I need to find out his habits,
what he drinks before bedtime.
- Cocoa.
- And when.
Unless we're entertaining.
Would you be so kind
as to excuse your character?
- Unfortunately it does.
- So tell me.
- What?
- His secrets.
- Henry's a good man.
- Good men have no secrets.
- I was afraid you'd say that.
You see, goodness
has so little fictional value.
What does have fictional value?
- A minister of Home Security.
- Are you saying my husband is fiction?
in the right hands.
Oh, dear. This is alarming.
Can we get away from the service?
- You mean change the subject?
Of course.
- So how long have you been married?
- Is your character married?
Yes, he's been married happily
for ten years.
Henry's the perfect model then.
We've been married ten years.
You know that...
happiness is even harder to write
than goodness.
Henry prefers habit to happiness.
- I'll give them to you to sign.
- We were discussing the house, darling.
Let me fill that for you.
- It's a lovely house.
- My wife found it.
And your wife is charming.
- She's a great help to me.
- Yes, I'm sure.
They've made a picture
of one of your books, haven't they?
Yes, it's playing at the Rialto.
- I'll take you both.
- Far too busy for pictures, I'm afraid.
Should I make a note of that?
Make sure your character
never gets home before 10:00.
- Come out, Henry, for once?
- You know I can't, darling.
But you go.
Take her, Bendrix.
- Sarah, one has to insist.
- Henry.
- Where are you going?
- To see wonder.
- But you promised.
- Murderer's promises keep.
- It's not what I wrote, you know.
- You can't keep saying that.
- It's true.
- I know.
There was one scene you did write.
Describe it.
Where he offered her onions
with her meal.
She refused because her husband
didn't like the smell.
He got angry.
And why did he get angry?
He didn't want to think of her
going home to him.
Does Henry like onions?
No.
I'm in love, you know.
Me too.
Susan?
Come upstairs.
Sarah?
One minute, dear.
What if he heard?
He wouldn't recognize the sound.
- Sarah, you been eating onions?
- Sorry, darling.
So, Bendrix,
how was the picture?
Up to scratch?
Of course, as she began to love me...
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