Blithe Spirit

Come on, you blithering idiot.

There's only 26 letters in the damned alphabet.

All you've got to do is put them in the right bloody order.

Write something.

Anything.

Right.

Music.

Oh, Charles!

Think!

Charles!

Darling!

Charles, they can hear you in Timbuktu!

Much obliged.

If you insist on living like a nocturnal animal,

at least be civil enough to hide your tracks.

- Morning, Edith. - Oh! Good morning, ma'am.

Oh, he's finally gone through with it.

Oh, yes. Scandalous, isn't it?

On the contrary. I think giving up the throne for love is awfully romantic.

I'll have a grilled grapefruit and a strong coffee, please.

Mr. Condomine's asked for his eggs to be brought over to his study again.

Given his mood, I hope they're being served sunny side up.

Here we go.

Two soft -boiled eggs for William Shakespeare.

What does Her Majesty want this morning?

- She's sticking to the Hollywood diet. - Hollywood diet!

It'll take a lot more than an exotic fruit

to turn her into Greta Garbo.

Don't dilly-dally in the garden, Edith.

He'll only send it back if the toast is cold.

I'm not a bad man.

I mean, yes, I like to flirt a bit.

And the occasional flutter.

Excuse me, sir. Your breakfast.

Edith.

Yes, sir?

Would you remind Edna

that the word "toast" is derived from the Latin "tostare",

meaning to scorch or to roast.

Whereas this...

is a cold, hard piece of bread.

Apologies, sir.

Do you need anything else?

Divine intervention.

It's wonderfully patriotic, Harold. You've really excelled yourself.

And I'm certain the judges will agree.

How was it so easy for you, my Manhattan muse?

Charles, you really should be praying to Cadmus and not decapitating him.

I'm sorry!

You've been commissioned to write a 90-page screenplay,

not War and Peace.

I'm at my wits' end.

I don't understand how it could be so problematic

to adapt a story you've already written.

I'm sorry, Charles. I just don't know how long I can go on like this

with you stuck in an imaginary world and me alone in the real one.

I miss you.

I miss us.

So do I.

Look at that.

I just found it amongst some papers.

Sweet of you to try and spare my feelings.

- And a little naive. - Why?

Because you imagine I mind you thinking of Elvira.

Well, don't you?

No, I'm not in the least bit jealous of her.

I just wonder, if I died,

whether you'd continue to look at photographs of me.

Oh, darling.

You're not the dying type.

He's simply incorrigible, Violet.

I found him mooning over pictures of Elvira yesterday.

Elvira?

He's been shirking work and pining for the ex-wife.

Ah. Game, set and match.

There's really nothing to feel insecure about.

Elvira may have been very attractive, but the poor woman's gone.

As has the spark in our relationship.

Charles is a man.

You can't expect him to juggle more than one thing at a time.

My advice, leave him to worry about the words,

and find someone else to shake your sheets.

Oh, come on. Don't be a prude.

One must be practical for a marriage to run the course.

Do you remember what you learnt in our last lesson, Mrs. Bradman?

Strong, firm grip. How could I forget?

So, what seems to be the trouble, old chap, hm?

Things don't seem to be flowing as they used to.

Oh! Name me a wordsmith who hasn't wrestled

with a bout of writer's block once in a while, hey?

The truth is, it's not just the words that have dried up.

Uh-huh.

Big Ben's stopped chiming.

Oh.

Mr. Peasebody's got stage fright.

Oh, you poor fellow.

It's like playing billiards with a rope.

Try a couple of these. Should put some fuel back in your tank.

- What are they? - Benzedrine sulphate.

Amphetamine. Enhances cheerfulness.

Alertness.

And as Violet will testify, it does wonders for your libido.

Sounds too good to be true. Is it habit-forming?

Not at all. Been using them for years.

Oh! Slow down! Charles, you'll give us both a coronary!

Ah! I've never felt more alive!

Why? What's happened?

I decided to take your advice and look on the positives.

Surely it's better to be up than down?

I don't want you to exhaust yourself

before the medium show at the theatre tonight.

Nobody in their right mind would waste a perfectly pleasant evening

pretending to be fascinated by someone holding a one-way conversation.

Ladies and gentlemen, take your seats.

This evening's performance will commence in two minutes.

Isn't that your cook? And your maid.

Oh, yes, so it is. Poor Edith. She's been very taken with this sort of thing

since she lost her brother, fighting the Fascists in Spain.

Primitive superstition can be very persuasive,

especially with the emotionally susceptible.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to an evening

that will change your perceptions of the world we inhabit.

That will answer irrefutably

the question that has confounded mankind since the dawn of time.

Is there life after death?

- No. - Hmm.

There she is.

Mesdames et messieurs,

bonsoir.

From the Great Pyramid of Cholula in the west

to Mount Taishan in the east.

From Whanganui-a-Tara in the south to Uppsala in the north,

I have traveled the globe,

communing with gurus, swamis and shamans.

These wise sages have guided me to a deeper dimension,

where finally I experienced an epiphany

and broke through to the other side.

I am certain that everyone here

has sensed the spirits of their departed loved ones,

and I am certain we all wish we could communicate with them again,

to say the things we never got to say.

- I've got it! - Shh!

- Tonight... - Sorry.

...I will use a precious mystical gift

to make that possible.

Ooh! Bugger!

Madame Arcati.

- It's a conjuring trick. - How dare you?

Here, I told you, she's a fraud.

That's an outrageous accusation!

I merely lost contact.

Charles was right. It was all a put-up job.

Where'd he go?

Please, please.

Madame Arcati has just been through a very traumatic experience.

Please just...

Please, I would ask you to respect her privacy at this difficult time!

Oh, my giddy aunt!

I've told you, Mandeep, I don't want to see a living soul.

My name is Charles Condomine. I'm an award-winning writer.

And especially not the gutter press.

No, I'm not a reporter. I write crime novels and screenplays.

Well, I can't abide fiction or fantasy.

Get out!

Madame Arcati?

I'm not here to question your integrity.

Faking an exotic accent doesn't mean your gift isn't real.

I fully understand that, like me,

you occasionally have to employ a certain artistic license

to entertain the masses.

They expect me to deliver a spectacle,

a transcendental miracle night after night.

Of course. There's no need to justify yourself.

I'm a believer.

I'm simply here to invite you to conduct a private seance at my home.

Well, I'm not a traveling banjo player, Mr. Condomine. I don't do requests.

Well, there might be some influential guests attending.

Could be the perfect opportunity to fend off any bad publicity

from tonight's unfortunate events.

When were you wishing this to take place?

Well, as soon as possible.

Then I suggest this Thursday, Midsummer Night.

The solstice.

The sacred turning point of the seasons.

Perfect.

I told her how profoundly interested I was in anything to do with the occult

and she blossomed like a rose.

Hosting an evening with a professional charlatan

- sounds like a scream. - Doesn't it?

But will it get you closer to finishing your screenplay?

I need the old girl to show me tricks of the trade.

That's what'll make my new hero unique.

What' s so unique about him?

- He's dead. - Dead?

As a doornail. He's the victim of a vicious unsolved murder

and communicates with the living through a medium

who helps bring people back from beyond the grave.

Maybe she could resurrect your career at the same time.

Daddy's on the warpath.

He's threatened to find another writer if you don't deliver soon.