conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first long scene for a screenplay with the title 'The Apartment'?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Apartment
  
  INT. LOBBY INSURANCE BUILDING - DAY
  It's a quarter to nine of a gray November morning, and work- bound employees are piling in through the doors. Among them is Bud, bundled up in a raincoat, hat, heavy muffler and wool gloves, and carrying a box of Kleenex. He coughs, pulls out a tissue, wipes his dripping nose. He has a bad cold.
  The lobby is an imposing, marbled affair, as befits a company which last year wrote 9.3 billion dollars worth of insurance. There are sixteen elevators, eight of them marked LOCAL - FLOORS 1-18, and opposite them eight marked EXPRESS - FLOORS 18-37. The starter, a uniformed Valkyrie wielding a clicker, is directing the flow of traffic into the various elevators.
  Bud joins the crowd in front of one of the express elevators. Also standing there is Mr. Kirkeby, reading the Herald- Tribune.
  BUD (hoarsely) Good morning, Mr. Kirkeby.
  KIRKEBY (as if he just knew him vaguely) Oh, how are you, Baxter. They keeping you busy these days?
  BUD Yes, sir. They are indeed. (he sniffs)
  The elevator doors open, revealing the operator. She is in her middle twenties and her name is FRAN KUBELIK. Maybe it's the way she's put together, maybe it's her face, or maybe it's just the uniform -- in any case, there is something very appealing about her. She is also an individualist -- she wears a carnation in her lapel, which is strictly against regulations. As the elevator loads, she greets the passengers cheerfully.
  FRAN (rattling it off) Morning, Mr. Kessel -- Morning, Miss Robinson -- Morning, Mr. Kirkeby -- Morning, Mr. Williams -- Morning, Miss Livingston -- Morning, Mr. McKellway -- Morning, Mr. Pirelli -- Morning, Mrs. Schubert --
  Interspersed is an occasional "Morning, Miss Kubelik" from the passengers.
  FRAN Morning, Mr. Baxter.
  BUD Morning, Miss Kubelik.
  He takes his hat off -- he is the only one. The express is now loaded.
  STARTER (working the clicker) That's all. Take it away.
  FRAN (shutting the door) Watch the door, please. Blasting off.
  INT. ELEVATOR
  Bud is standing right next to Fran as the packed express shoots up.
  BUD (studying her) What did you do to your hair?
  FRAN It was making me nervous, so I chopped it off. Big mistake, huh?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know another long scene?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: DREYFUSS Dr. Dreyfuss.
  FRAN Dreyfuss.
  DR. 
  DREYFUSS (to Bud) Get more coffee.
  Bud picks up the mug, leaves.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Dreyfuss.
  FRAN Dreyfuss.
  DR. 
  DREYFUSS (to Bud) Get more coffee.
  Bud picks up the mug, leaves.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last medium length scene? End with the sentence 'L Diamond Genres : Comedy User Comments
  Back to IMSDb'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: And that's about it. Story-wise.
  Apartment, The Writers : Billy Wilder I.A.L Diamond Genres : Comedy User Comments
  Back to IMSDb
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first long scene for the screenplay?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Apartment
  
  INT. LOBBY INSURANCE BUILDING - DAY
  It's a quarter to nine of a gray November morning, and work- bound employees are piling in through the doors. Among them is Bud, bundled up in a raincoat, hat, heavy muffler and wool gloves, and carrying a box of Kleenex. He coughs, pulls out a tissue, wipes his dripping nose. He has a bad cold.
  The lobby is an imposing, marbled affair, as befits a company which last year wrote 9.3 billion dollars worth of insurance. There are sixteen elevators, eight of them marked LOCAL - FLOORS 1-18, and opposite them eight marked EXPRESS - FLOORS 18-37. The starter, a uniformed Valkyrie wielding a clicker, is directing the flow of traffic into the various elevators.
  Bud joins the crowd in front of one of the express elevators. Also standing there is Mr. Kirkeby, reading the Herald- Tribune.
  BUD (hoarsely) Good morning, Mr. Kirkeby.
  KIRKEBY (as if he just knew him vaguely) Oh, how are you, Baxter. They keeping you busy these days?
  BUD Yes, sir. They are indeed. (he sniffs)
  The elevator doors open, revealing the operator. She is in her middle twenties and her name is FRAN KUBELIK. Maybe it's the way she's put together, maybe it's her face, or maybe it's just the uniform -- in any case, there is something very appealing about her. She is also an individualist -- she wears a carnation in her lapel, which is strictly against regulations. As the elevator loads, she greets the passengers cheerfully.
  FRAN (rattling it off) Morning, Mr. Kessel -- Morning, Miss Robinson -- Morning, Mr. Kirkeby -- Morning, Mr. Williams -- Morning, Miss Livingston -- Morning, Mr. McKellway -- Morning, Mr. Pirelli -- Morning, Mrs. Schubert --
  Interspersed is an occasional "Morning, Miss Kubelik" from the passengers.
  FRAN Morning, Mr. Baxter.
  BUD Morning, Miss Kubelik.
  He takes his hat off -- he is the only one. The express is now loaded.
  STARTER (working the clicker) That's all. Take it away.
  FRAN (shutting the door) Watch the door, please. Blasting off.
  INT. ELEVATOR
  Bud is standing right next to Fran as the packed express shoots up.
  BUD (studying her) What did you do to your hair?
  FRAN It was making me nervous, so I chopped it off. Big mistake, huh?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know another short scene?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: DR. 
  DREYFUSS (to Bud) Get more coffee.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last scene?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: BUD Did you hear what I said, Miss Kubelik? I absolutely adore you.
  FRAN (smiling) Shut up and deal!
  Bud begins to deal, never taking his eyes off her. Fran removes her coat, starts picking up her cards and arranging them. Bud, a look of pure joy on his face, deals -- and deals -- and keeps dealing.
  And that's about it. Story-wise.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: FRAN (smiling) Shut up and deal!
  Bud begins to deal, never taking his eyes off her. Fran removes her coat, starts picking up her cards and arranging them. Bud, a look of pure joy on his face, deals -- and deals -- and keeps dealing.
  And that's about it. Story-wise.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Apartment
  I'm not being fair. I might not have liked Carla, but she wasn't all bad. She'd been kind to us during Hayden's colicky infancy, when Mark and I were fragile and fractious after months of ruined sleep. She would pop in to check on us and deliver lentil moussakas once a week. We never ate them; they steadily filled the freezer, and for all I know they might still be there.
  Into my mind flashed an image of Mark and me strolling down the Champs-Élysées, Hayden sleeping in Mark's arms, chic French people smiling at us fondly as we passed. I imagined us pausing for coffee and croissants, sitting under an umbrella at a charming corner café; I pictured us eating French onion soup and crêpes for supper in a quaint bistro. My mind filled with one cliché after another, but it wasn't just the lure of the destination. I was drawn to the idea of a house swap. Since the break-in, the atmosphere of our house had shifted somehow. It had become darker, as if sunlight could no longer find its way in. The hastily installed new security measures didn't help: the burglar bars cast fingerish shadows on the floor, and the alarm pipped every time someone opened a door, putting us permanently on edge. I suppose I thought that if someone else stayed in the house—someone who wasn't us—perhaps the bad vibes would be vanquished.
  While Mark batted opinions about Jacob Zuma back and forth with Carla's boy toy, I slipped out to make coffee, surprised and dismayed when Carla followed me into the kitchen. I suspected she had an agenda. I was right. "Mark needs help," she said the second we were out of earshot. "He must go and see someone. A therapist." There was a note of accusation in her voice, as if I was the one stopping him. As if the whole thing was my fault. As if I'd got off lighter than he had that night, when objectively the opposite was true. I moved to the sink so that she couldn't see my face, and needlessly rinsed the French press. "You're strong, Steph," Carla continued. "You're obviously coping well. Mark's vulnerable to PTSD. It hasn't been that long since Zoë...well, you know. A thing like this could spark off all kinds of latent trauma..." Yadda yadda yadda. I didn't reply, just spooned the coffee and concentrated on not letting her see my hands shaking.
  After Carla left, it took me hours to fall asleep, only to be woken by Mark leaping out of bed at two thirty. This wasn't unusual. Since the invasion, the slightest sound—a moth batting against the bathroom light, the distant bark of a neighborhood dog—would jolt us awake. I waited numbly in the bedroom while he finished his patrol, my mouth dry as I imagined the worst—a gunshot, a blow to the head, the slam of footsteps heading for the bedroom door...I knew from experience that I wouldn't drop off again until it began to get light, so I waited until Mark was dozing, then picked up the cheap replacement laptop and headed for Hayden's room, the only place in the house I felt truly safe. As usual, the groans and creaks of the house cooling after a hot day sounded too much like the scratch of a screwdriver in a lock, or footsteps creeping along the corridor. No amount of convincing myself that Mark had double- and triple-checked the locks and alarm helped: the men who'd invaded our home had stained the house with their shadows. As I passed the bathroom, the towel draped over the open door formed itself into a figure with a cruel knife; the carelessly forgotten laundry basket at the top of the stairs was a hunchback waiting to spring. By the time I made it into the safety of Hayden's room my heart was jitterbugging.
  She always slept askew—legs twisted across the bed, duvet kicked around her feet—and I carefully tucked her in before squeezing in next to her and balancing the laptop on my knees. Mark might be reluctant to get away, but I wasn't willing to let it go. He was right, we could never pay for it, but I couldn't see the harm in dreaming about it. There were scores of house swap sites—Carla's companion had been right about that at least. I chose one with a photo of an Alpine chalet on its home page and signed up for the thirty-day free trial. I had to put in three desired destinations in order of priority—"Be flexible!" the site's FAQs encouraged. I put in Paris, then Ireland (no need for a visa), and then the United States. We'd need a tourist visa for most of Europe, but it was Paris I was set on. The seed had been planted. As I uploaded the most flattering pics of our house from the ones we'd taken when we'd almost put it on the market the year before, I felt as if I was doing something illicit—like emailing a lover.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know four more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Mireille's door was half-open. "Mark?" I whispered, but I could sense the studio apartment was empty. It felt like an intrusion, but I couldn't stop myself from peering inside it and turning on the light. It still reeked of smoke and turps, but now there was an undertone of something else—something like lavender. Someone, probably one of the cops, had turned all the canvases around, and scores of big-eyed children surrounded me as I stepped farther into the room. Then it hit me that the paintings all seemed to depict the same dark-haired child in different emotional states: leering, laughing, crying, and screaming. They were too slapdash to be creepy, but there was something lonely and desperate about their expressions, which stopped them from being purely kitschy or ridiculous. I reached out a hand to touch them but then snatched it back, irrationally certain they'd infect me somehow. The laptop was gone, as were the coffeepot and the coverlet. A pair of worn corduroy trousers lay curled forlornly in the corner.
  A thunking sound reverberated up from the guts of the building—the slam of the entrance door?—and I backed out of there, fleeing for our apartment, praying that Mark had returned while I was snooping in Mireille's room. Without the keys, I was locked out. I slapped the door with the flat of my hand. "Mark! You in there? Mark!"
  I turned to the neighboring apartment and traced my fingers across the top of the door. The key was gone. I pressed my ear to the door but could hear nothing but the gush of blood in my veins. Mark must have gone outside for some reason.
  By now the cold was really starting to bite, and my skin prickled with goosebumps. I hurried down the stairs and pushed through the door and out into the courtyard.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I didn't see the aftermath firsthand, but my imagination filled in the blanks. The superintendent who came to Montagu to question me after the incident was kind. She advised me not to return to the house "until it was cleaned up." Mark didn't ask to see me when he was arrested, and he still hasn't. The cut-price attorney my parents hired is adamant that due to Mark's actions and state of mind I don't have a duty of care to pay for his legal representation. I am going to fight to keep the house, and refuse to give into the bank's demands to sell. It's Hayden's. It's not the bank's. It's not Odette's. It's not Zoë's. It's Hayden's. It's all she will ever have of her father.
  How long will it take? We were in the apartment for only—what was it, five, six days? I haven't been back in touch with Monsieur le Croix, but I don't need to get in touch with him. I've been online. After we left Paris, all the apartments in that building, including the one we stayed in, were rented out in less than two weeks and the building itself is back on the market. Whatever was poisoning the bricks and mortar—bad juju, infrasound, dead children, fucking mold, whatever—left with us. Or with Mireille when she threw herself out of the window.
  The man on the stoop scratches his belly. A small hand clutching a Barbie appears through the bars of the security gate. I grip the steering wheel and lean forward in my seat. A little girl. Not much older than Hayden. I suck breath through my teeth. Did Karim tell me that his cousin had children?
  I lean across and roll down the passenger-side window. The little girl is saying something to the man—I can't make out her words from here—and he ignores her. He's blank-faced, focused in on himself.
  I could cancel the lease and throw them out of the house before it's too late. I could shout a warning right now, right this second, tell them who I am, try to convince them the house isn't safe.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I could shout a warning right now, right this second, tell them who I am, try to convince them the house isn't safe..
  I could cancel the lease and throw them out of the house before it's too late. He's blank-faced, focused in on himself. The little girl is saying something to the man—I can't make out her words from here—and he ignores her. Did Karim tell me that his cousin had children?
  I lean across and roll down the passenger-side window. I suck breath through my teeth. Not much older than Hayden. A little girl. I grip the steering wheel and lean forward in my seat. A small hand clutching a Barbie appears through the bars of the security gate.
  The man on the stoop scratches his belly. Or with Mireille when she threw herself out of the window. Whatever was poisoning the bricks and mortar—bad juju, infrasound, dead children, fucking mold, whatever—left with us. After we left Paris, all the apartments in that building, including the one we stayed in, were rented out in less than two weeks and the building itself is back on the market. I've been online.
  How long will it take? We were in the apartment for only—what was it, five, six days? I haven't been back in touch with Monsieur le Croix, but I don't need to get in touch with him. It's all she will ever have of her father. It's Hayden's. It's not Zoë's. It's not Odette's. It's not the bank's. It's Hayden's. I am going to fight to keep the house, and refuse to give into the bank's demands to sell. The cut-price attorney my parents hired is adamant that due to Mark's actions and state of mind I don't have a duty of care to pay for his legal representation." Mark didn't ask to see me when he was arrested, and he still hasn't. She advised me not to return to the house "until it was cleaned up. The superintendent who came to Montagu to question me after the incident was kind.I didn't see the aftermath firsthand, but my imagination filled in the blanks