FUNDAMENTAL FACTORS
by
Mordecai Goldberg

THE CHARACTERS:

HUMPHREY BOGART
INGRID BERGMAN
PAUL HENRIED
MICHAEL CURTIZ
CLAUDE RAINS
MARCEL RESNAIS
CONRAD VEIDT

THE PLACE
The action takes place in the auditorium and on the stage of theater normally used by the Warner Brothers Studio for private screenings; and occasionally for sneak previews of "problem" films—to which the general public or, in some special situations, studio employees are invited in order that their man-in-the-street reactions might be factored into the creative/corporate analysis.

THE TIME
The date is 7 August 1942. The play begins during the lunch break on the final day of shooting Casablanca.

ACT ONE

As playgoers enter auditorium CURTIZ and RESNAIS are discovered sitting in 2 of 7 oversized upholstered swivel chairs comprising front row. Both men are oblivious to what is happening behind their backs as they read and occasionally make revisions to the script books they have in hand. Periodically they confer on matters relating to ‘Casablanca’ generally, and to the problem they’ve had finding a suitable finale for that film in particular. When audience has fully established itself a voice is heard on public address system via microphone in projection booth.

PROJECTIONIST [Off.]: We will be ready to roll this morning’s rushes in about 5 minutes, Mr Curtiz.

CURTIZ: [With Hungarian accent into microphone attached to his seat.] Thank you, Bill. I’ll let you know when to start. There are some introductory remarks I need to make before we begin—[Swiveling to face audience.] Ladies and—[Stops, surprised by size of audience.] My God, what’s going on here? When I asked the personnel department to provide an audience for this special screening I expected them to send me only a handful of employees who would "voluntarily" forego their lunch hour as an act of artistic selfsacrifice or "studio solidarity!" Are you sure you are all in the right place? Judging by the way some of you are dressed one might think you were expecting to see the matinee performance of a stage play! No doubt the word’s been circulating throughout Warner Brothers that something special is happening on stage 5 because of the secrecy in which the filming of Casablanca has been cloaked these past months. Well, I am sorry to disappoint you ladies and gentlemen, but no one has been more mystified by the making of this film than me, its director! Any rumors to the effect that Michael Curtiz has been masterminding The Great American Movie are, I can assure you, grossly exaggerated! From its very inception Casablanca has been a problematical affair—and it’s nothing less than a miracle we are on the verge of finishing a project that should have been strangled at birth, as every other studio in Hollywood did when given the opportunity to do so!

     Not that I myself don’t deserve a significant share of the blame for having fallen under that spell which Casablanca has a habit of casting over those who find themselves exposed to its irresistible charms—an experience you seem to be familiar with! Although in my defense it must be pointed out Hal Wallis sent me the script of the play on which Casablanca is based only this past December—just a few weeks after the Jap’s sneak attack on Pearl Harbor—so it is not surprising my professional judgment was influenced by the kind of patriotic considerations which have no doubt awakened your own latent idealism since America has become a nation at war.

     In ordinary times Casablanca would have been rejected for many reasons; not the least of which is the all too obvious implausibility of its premise, which is: that nearly all of Europe has been conquered by a Viennese postcard painter who turns the Germany of Beethoven, Goethe and Kant into the world’s first totalitarian dictatorship! But these aren’t ordinary times. At this very moment the United States first Marine Division is landing on Guadalcanal; General von Paulus’ Sixth Army has reached the outskirts of Stalingrad, and Winston Churchill is in Cairo setting the stage for an Allied invasion of French North Africa that will be commanded by Dwight David Eisenhower. But there were other problems associated with putting Casablanca on film that historical events alone could not solve; and as we began shooting some ten weeks ago we did so with a script that was, to put it mildly, in desperate need of being rewritten. As you probably know, the Epstein brothers had only just started their screen treatment of "Everybody Goes To Rick’s" when they were mobilized to work on a patriotic film in Washington with Frank Capra. Howard Koch took what the Epsteins had left behind and made a heroic effort to keep pace with our production schedule; but there were days when we had to stop shooting for lack of dialogue; and others when the actors first received their lines upon arriving on the set! Not since Hollywood’s infancy had a major motion picture been made the way we were making Casablanca. In point of fact we were improvising our way on a daily basis through a mine field of budgetary, artistic and psychological dangers—not to mention the constant specter of the Breen Office! Oh yes, in addition to everything else the hot breath of censorship was scorching the back of our necks. Joe Breen was not unaware of that most potentially fatal of all the flaws plaguing Casablanca—the triangulated nature of its central love affair. For all of its geopolitical intrigue and melodramatic machinations, Casablanca is the story of a woman whose affections are equally divided between two men—one of whom, unfortunately, happens to be her husband. While in the general scheme of things such situations are not all that rare—and for those of us in showbusiness the threeway adulterous love affair is a notoriously pervasive fact of life—to Hollywood’s official arbiter of American morality no topic is more taboo than the marital menage a trois.

     Which brings me to the reason why you were invited to attend this private screening. But perhaps at this point I should introduce you to our resident specialist in the general field of tripartite romance and the peculiar ramifications of that phenomenon as they apply to the plot of Casablanca. Ladies and gentlemen, we are indeed privileged to have a filmmaker of Monsieur Marcel Resnais’ distinguished directorial credits on the Warner Brothers/Casablanca Team. I’m sure you’re all familiar with his name and reputation as France’s premier director—and although foreign films are seldom seen publicly in this town, some of you have no doubt attended the secret showings of such forbidden cinematic fruits as Jean, Marcel et Jacqueline, Affaire Triangulaire and Amour, Amour, Amour—the titles of which comprise Monsieur Resnais’ recently concluded trilogy on the fundamental factors applying to all sexual relationships of the threeway variety. Like so many other expatriated Europeans who have widened the artistic horizons of what was Hollywood’s rather provincial prewar ethos, Monsieur Resnais has his own story of Nazi persecution to tell. But for Warner Brothers the dark cloud of his personal tragedy may be lined with the purest kind of box office silver. I can think of no other writer whose talent and experience are more relevant to solving Casablanca’s quintessential problem than Marcel Resnais.

     Nevertheless, it was not easy persuading an artist of his integrity to apply his skills in salvaging a script which is, after all, nothing more than a typical example of Hollywood’s industrial approach to the mass production of mindless melodramas. But thanks to yet another in a series of those "divine" accidents by which Casablanca’s fate has been repeatedly rescued and rehabilitated, Monsieur Resnais "just happened" to be the nextdoor neighbor of Mrs Peter Lindstrom—better known as Miss Ingrid Bergman—whose powers of persuasion proved to be decisive in recruiting a talent that would, I am sure, have otherwise remained devoted to the more serious pursuit of plotting its next cinematic triumph. [RESNAIS clears throat.] But maybe you should hear the remainder of this story straight from the horse’s mouth.

RESNAIS slowly swivels to face audience.

RESNAIS: Thank you for those kind words, Michael. [Acknowledges audience with nod of his head.] Ladies and gentlemen. Before we enter the fictitious realm of Casablanca I would like to clarify the record on the nature of my relationship with Mrs Lindstrom—

CURTIZ: If my remarks seemed to even remotely hint at any romantic relationship between you and Ingrid I certainly apologize for them, Marcel.

RESNAIS: I accept that, Michael—but since those remarks were made in public it must also be stated publicly that my socalled "Casablanca Conversations" with Mrs Lindstrom were not only one hundred percent platonic, I insisted they all take place in the presence of her husband—which in fact they did. Although Dr Lindstrom disparaged my reputation as a wifestealer he agreed to play the role of chaperon throughout the series of discussions I would be having with his wife concerning the difficulties she was generally experiencing with Ilsa Lund’s character, and the particular problem associated with choosing which of her two leading men she—that is, Ilsa—should be truly in love with. Despite the banality of Casablanca’s script I must admit my intellectual and artistic curiosity was indeed aroused by Ilsa Lund’s predicament; a predicament I couldn’t help feeling was complicated by Mrs Lindstrom’s not uncommon habit as an actress of becoming at least temporarily infatuated with her leading man; a fact of cinematic life that, in Casablanca’s case, further complicates the issue with its tandem of leading men—each of whom happens to appeal, both on and off the screen, to equal but opposite extremes of a matinee idoldom bordering on the hysterical. First there is Ilsa’s husband, Victor Laszlo; played by Paul Henried. Both Henried and Laszlo epitomize the Europeanstyle heartthrob. Their deep baritone voices resonate with the kind of Charles Boyer accent that sends most American women swooning into a state of sexual hypnosis. In addition to being tall, dark and handsome, they are culturally sophisticated and personify the noblest principles of Western Civilization. Even the most emancipated females find the attraction of such men fatal in the way it stirs their secret yearning to return to the Golden Age of Romantic Chivalry.

     Then there is the other man in Ilsa’s life—Rick Blaine. As played by Humphrey Bogart he represents the second side of that sexual coin even the happiest of married women is forever mentally tossing in the hope it will come to rest on its rim in the perfectly balanced form of one man who can satisfy the conflicting desires of her heart and her mind—her body and her soul.

     On a theoretical basis then, Ilsa’s dilemma was not devoid of its allure for a man of my specialized interests—a man more than one gossip columnist has referred to as a "Gallic Sexpert!" In practical terms, however, my strictly artistic involvement with the Lindstroms was fraught with its own very real complexities and perils. To begin with there was my own somewhat notorious reputation as a stealer of other men’s wives—a mystique I have no doubt helped to foster by repeatedly typecasting myself as The Other Man in all of my films dealing with the dramaturgical dynamics of extramarital menage a troisism. Being Swedish the Lindstroms claimed to be open minded on the subject of my onscreen persona. As fellow Europeans they said they could differentiate between a filmmaker’s public philosophy and the way in which he actually lived his private life. As a general rule, in fact, the films a man makes say more about what he is not than they do about the true state of his personal affairs. But no amount of Scandinavian sophistication can totally defuse the combustible situation created by the act of simply speculating on the identity crisis every actor undergoes when getting in and out of a character who has become emotionally entangled with other characters played by other actors. And I’m sure it’s no secret among you who work here at Warner Brothers, that in Mrs Lindstrom’s case this typical identity crisis syndrome is exaggerated by the intensity of her talent—such that she has acquired her own reputation of being a wife who is manifestly ripe for stealing; a reputation which is probably no more accurate than mine is as a stealer of other men’s wives. Accordingly, it seemed to me that no matter how esoterically our threeway talks concerning Casablanca began, inevitably we would find ourselves speculating on the very real possibility of Mrs Lindstrom becoming genuinely infatuated with one—or even both—of her male costars. Frankly I didn’t see how we could avoid facing the fundamental fact that, in casting Casablanca, fate had quite literally "sandwiched" Dr Lindstrom’s wife between two of Hollywood’s most sexually charismatic leading men—a situation about which he expressed his total confidence in Ingrid’s professional ability to cope with what was a more or less standard hazard of her chosen vocation. I, on the other hand, expressed my gravest reservations over the wisdom of exposing any married woman to the twin temptations represented by Messers Henried and Bogart—reservations based on my own professional experience with the "occupational hazards" of "playing around" with the kind of emotional fire found in Casablanca. Dr Lindstrom argued that his wife had played "hundreds of steamy love scenes" before coming to Hollywood and their marriage had not only survived, it was probably improved by the "therapeutic effect" of Ingrid’s fictitious infidelities. I pointed out to him that leading men like Sten Lindgren, Gosta Ekman and Edvin Adolphson were hardly in the same league with Paul Henried and Humphrey Bogart—but he remained unpersuaded that his "textbook theories" were inferior to my "artistic insights" when it came to predicting the actual behavior of a woman who is forced to perform the artificial acts of adultery dictated by what, in the final analysis, should be Casablanca’s immoral denouement. Having read his wife’s unfinished script, Dr Lindstrom was convinced that, when the ending was written, Ilsa Laszlo would ultimately find she had no choice but to betray her saintly husband, Victor, and capitulate to the fatal pulling power of Rick’s animal magnetism. As the man who had recently undertaken the responsibility for writing Casablanca’s final scene I could not share Dr Lindstrom’s certitude on that vital point. It seemed to me there were many more factors which had to be applied in analyzing the "inevitability" of Casablanca’s denouement—including such a fundamental consideration as the political fallout of Victor’s betrayal by Ilsa within the current context of a worldwide war between the forces of good and evil. Can we realistically expect hardheaded businessmen like Hal Wallis and Jack Warner to separate the fate of Laszlo’s marriage from his crusade against Nazism? And, if Rick is portrayed as a participant in Ilsa’s stabbing of her husband’s back, will any redblooded American audience sit still for what adds up to Bogart’s unprovoked act of extramarital Pearl Harborism?

CURTIZ: I hate to interrupt this fascinating exegesis, Marcel, but with a knowledge of Casablanca’s plot that is only sketchy at best, is our audience really equipped to answer such complicated questions? And there is the time factor to consider if we decide to shoot another ending.

RESNAIS: Of course you’re right, Michael! Ladies and gentlemen, you must excuse me for getting carried away. There is something about Casablanca that starts my analytical juices flowing uncontrollably! At this stage of the game the only question we should be concerned about is the reason you are all here—and to answer that question it’s necessary for me to summarize the plot of Casablanca as it has developed during production to the point where this final day of shooting began. As its title indicates, Casablanca’s action is set in the capital of French Morocco. The time is late in 1941. America has not yet entered the war and, with the exceptions of Sweden, Switzerland, Spain and Portugal all of Europe has become a vast slave state ruled from Hitler’s Alpine Eagle’s Nest. The Gestapo has sealed off every avenue of escape but for a trickle of refugees who succeed in making their way to safety via the Marseille-Casablanca Lisbon route. Among this desperate band of freedomseeking refugees are the heroic Czech resistance leader Victor Laszlo and his beautiful Norwegian wife, Ilsa. With the Gestapo hot on their heels the Laszlos arrive in Casablanca hoping they can obtain the official exit papers that will take them first to Lisbon and then to a permanent haven in America—where Victor can continue leading the global crusade against Nazi tyranny. By coincidence a pair of these official exit documents has recently found its way into the hands of Richard "Rick" Blaine—a worldweary American adventurer who is now the proprietor of Casablanca’s most notorious den of intrigue and romance—the "Cafe Americain." And by another coincidence it turns out that Rick and Ilsa had previously been lovers in Paris; before their affair was terminated on that terrible day when German troops marched down the Champs Elysee. When Ilsa failed to keep her rendezvous with Rick on the last train leaving Paris for Marseille (where they could consummate their love affair with a wedding ceremony at least temporarily spared from the nightmarish realities of war) he was understandably shattered. So it’s no wonder that when they meet again in Casablanca Rick reacts with jealousy and hatred to Ilsa’s status as Mrs Victor Laszlo. Consequently, when Ilsa begs him for the precious letters of transit that will save her husband, she is met with the coldest kind of contempt. Whereupon she tells Rick the true story of how she and Victor were married in Prague prior to her Parisian affair with him; a marriage she believed was legally and morally dissolved by the news she had received of her husband’s death in a Nazi concentration camp—news which she discovered was false on the very threshold of keeping her rendezvous with Rick; when word reached her that Victor had once again eluded his Gestapo captors and quite naturally expected his wife to rejoin him in their mutual struggle against Nazism.

     Rick reacts to Ilsa’s story with a cynicism that has become a permanent feature of his character since the heart he formerly wore on his sleeve while running guns against Franco in Spain and Mussolini in Ethiopia had been broken beyond repair when he left alone on that train from Paris to Marseille. There is only one way Ilsa can purchase a ticket out of Casablanca for her husband—by doing unto Victor what she had done unto Rick in June 1940. If that is the price she must pay to perpetuate Victor’s crusade against totalitarian fascism and atone for her sins against Rick, she will pay it. Despite his existential lack of idealism she has never really fallen out of love with Rick—how could she, when it was her act of betrayal that permanently soured his outlook on life? In the final analysis, however, like any woman, she surrenders her freedom of choice in such matters to the superior will and intellect of the man in whose immediate sphere of influence destiny has conspired to place her. For his part Rick seems content to reestablish his preCasablanca affair with Ilsa even at the cost of sabotaging Victor’s faith in the universal triumph of good over evil, the consequence of which might be to seriously impair the entire allied war effort.

     And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the hook on which Casablanca’s plot hung suspended when yesterday’s shooting of the penultimate scene was finished; leaving me with very little dramaturgical maneuvering room in which to devise a finale that would be artistically valid while failing to offend an audience whose patriotism had become a fundamental consideration in my analysis of all the factors combining to decide the single fate of Casablanca’s three starcrossed lovers. On a strictly artistic level it seemed to me Victor’s "matrimonial" claims on Ilsa were doomed by the passionate nature of her infatuation with Rick. Even in the geopolitical terms of his one man crusade against Germany’s European hegemony, Laszlo would be forced to concede his wife’s sovereign right to selfdetermine her amatory independence. Concerning the unpatriotic ramifications created if Rick steals the wife of a man who personifies the ecumenical spirit of America’s wartime alliances—I was convinced a deeper look into the Marxist/Leninist motif of Czechoslovakia’s prewar political scene could cast a cloud over the purity of Laszlo’s proAmericanism sufficient to at least provisionally rationalize Rick’s apparent act of domestic sabotage. Normally, of course, such an indepth examination of the ideological milieu from which a character like Victor Laszlo emerges is not typical of the movies made on this side of the Atlantic; but since nothing about Casablanca is "typical," the possibility of adding some historical data damaging to Victor’s saintly image remained as one of my viable options. Although by rereading between the lines of the script as it was already written I detected the sewing of some seedlike doubts about the potentially unAmerican direction of Laszlo’s postwar politics. For all his engaging qualities there is the same kind of sinister element in Laszlo’s character that makes America’s marriage to its middle and east European allies one of military convenience only. Thus, more than one possibility existed for writing a final scene in which Victor’s true Marxist/Leninist colors are, if not fully revealed, at least sufficiently unfurled so as to excuse what would otherwise seem to be Rick’s and Ilsa’s inexcusably sinful behavior. But while such a finale might stretch the imagination of Casablanca’s audience into perceiving Rick’s seduction of Laszlo’s wife as a manifesto of America’s own postwar plan for decommunizing the planet—easing the moral qualms of Hollywood’s Public Decency Gestapo was, quite literally, another story.

     As Michael indicated earlier, from its very beginning Casablanca has been a thorn in the censor’s groin—a thorn which is still there despite the countless revisions of its script; none of which solved the basic problem of reconciling the tragic imperatives of Casablanca’s triangulated love affair with a moral code that, with its fairytale perspective on the harsher realities of human sexuality, frowns on unhappy endings—even the kind whereby a Wife’s true love for The Other Man in her life triumphs over the sentimental bondage of remaining married to a Husband who has become obsolete through no fault of his own—or, motivated by a love that is even loftier still, The Husband offers The Wife an opportunity to test the permanence of her affections for The Other Man with a rolereversing plot in which he plays The Other Man to their trial arrangement as Husband and Wife—an offer The Other Man might very well anticipate by making his own offer to exit the stage with his lust for The Wife voluntarily unconsummated in an act of sexual selfsacrifice that leaves the ending of their triple love affair in a permanent state of suspense.

     And that is only a sampling of the variations on a theme from whose infinity of plotting possibilities I finally chose the three scenarios I believed most likely to solve the hitherto insoluble paradox of treating Casablanca as a potential film classic, or as just another of those all too forgettable assemblyline melodramas the brothers Warner are so skilled at turning out.

     One of those three "Finale Scenarios" was shot only hours ago; the rushes of which you have been invited to see on this ordinarily private occasion because the immediate reaction to this morning’s shoot was of a very mixed variety. And, while we are not relinquishing our creative control over Casablanca, it was agreed that some public input might be useful in deciding whether to shoot one—or both—of my other two optional endings in the few hours remaining on this last day of Casablanca’s production.

CURTIZ: What’s this about two more optional endings? [Indicating his copy of script.] I thought this one we’ve been working on was the only other viable alternative?

RESNAIS: I didn’t mean to keep you in the dark, Michael—but there is a third possibility which is not fully scripted. At this juncture it is really just a concept—

CURTIZ: With a 6 o’clock deadline it seems a little late for "concepts."

RESNAIS: I only mentioned it as a remote contingency. In the event all else fails we may want to think about exploring this third option of mine on a contingency basis.

CURTIZ: Since I am one of those who was reasonably satisfied with the footage we got this morning, such a "contingency" seems unlikely to arise. But now I think the time has come to see if my confidence in that footage is shared by our audience. Are we ready to roll those rushes, Bill?

PROJECTIONIST [Off.]: Any time you are, Mr C.!

CURTIZ: Alright, let’s all sit back and see what Casablanca has to say for itself in the matter of how successfully Monsieur Resnais and I have solved the problems we have just been discussing.

Projection screen is lowered, houselights dim and final scene of "Casablanca" unfolds as follows¹: It is night. Scene is fog-shrouded Casablanca aerodrome. Over shot of twin-engine airliner voice of a French air controller is heard:

AIR CONTROLLER: Hello, hello, radio tower. [Cut to shot of AIR CONTROLLER speaking into microphone.] Lisbon plane taking off in ten minutes. Visibility one and one-half miles. Light ground fog. Depth of fog approximately 500. Ceiling unlimited.

Cut to shot of car arriving at hangar. RICK, ILSA, LASZLO & RENAULT emerge from car.

RICK: Louie, have your man go with Mr Laszlo and take care of his luggage.

RENAULT: Certainly, Rick. Anything you say. [To GENDARME.] Find Mr Laszlo’s luggage and put it on the plane.

GENDARME: [Saluting.] Yes, sir.

RICK: [Handing envelope containing letters of transit to RENAULT. ] If you don’t mind, you fill in the names. That will make it even more official.

RENAULT: You think of everything, don’t you.

RICK: And the names are Mr and Mrs Victor Laszlo.

ILSA: Why my name, Richard?

RICK: Because you’re getting on that plane.

ILSA: I don’t understand—what about you?

RICK: I’m staying here with him until the plane gets safely away.

ILSA: No, Richard, no! What has happened to you? Last night you said—

RICK: Last night we said a great many things. You said I was to do the thinking for both of us. Well, I’ve done a lot of it since then and it all adds up to one thing. You’re getting on that plane with Victor, where you belong.

ILSA: But Richard—no—I—

RICK: Now you’ve got to listen to me. Do you have any idea what you’d have to look forward to if you stayed here? 9 chances out of 10 we’d both wind up in a concentration camp. Isn’t that true, Louie?

RENAULT: [Sitting at desk inside hangar.] I’m afraid Major Strasser would insist.

ILSA: [To RICK.] You’re saying this only to make me go.

RICK: I’m saying it because it’s true. Inside of us we both know you belong with Victor. You’re part of his work—the thing that keeps him going. If that plane leaves the ground and you’re not with him you’ll regret it. Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow—but soon; and maybe for the rest of your life.

ILSA: But what about us?

RICK: We’ll always have Paris. We didn’t have. We lost it until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night.

ILSA: When I said I would never leave you!

RICK: And you never will. But I’ve got a job to do. Where I’m going you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do you can’t be any part of. Ilsa I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Some day you’ll understand that. [Lifting her chin with his hand.] Here’s looking at you kid.

Close shot of tears forming in Ilsa’s eyes. Cut to STRASSER in open car speeding to aerodrome. He sounds horn several times. Cut to shot of RICK receiving letters of transit from RENAULT. LASZLO enters shot.

LASZLO: [To RICK.] Everything is in order.

RICK: All except one thing. There’s something you should know before you leave—

LASZLO: Monsieur Blaine I don’t ask you to explain anything.

RICK: I’m going to anyway because it may make a difference to you later on. You said you knew about Ilsa and me—

LASZLO: Yes.

RICK: But you didn’t know she was at my place last night when you were. She came for the letters of transit. Isn’t that right, Ilsa?

ILSA: Yes. [She and LASZLO exchange glances.]

RICK: She tried everything to get them and nothing worked. She did her best to convince me she was still in love with me. That was all over long ago. For your sake she pretended it wasn’t, and I let her pretend.

LASZLO: I understand.

RICK: Here it is—[Handing LASZLO letters of transit.]

LASZLO: Thanks. I appreciate it. Welcome back to the fight. This time I know our side will win.

They shake hands. Cut to whirling props of airplane. RICK, ILSA and LASZLO turn to look at plane, then RICK and ILSA exchange looks.

Are you ready, Ilsa?

ILSA: Yes, I’m ready. [Smiling.] Goodbye, Rick. God bless you.

RICK: [To LASZLO.] Better hurry. You’ll miss that plane.

LASZLO and ILSA turn and walk off leaving RICK alone. Shot of ILSA and LASZLO smiling at each other as they walk toward plane. Shot of RICK watching them. Shot of RENAULT watching RICK.

RENAULT: [Advancing toward RICK.] Well, I was right. You are a sentimentalist.

RICK: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

RENAULT: What you just did for Laszlo—and that fairytale you invented to send Ilsa away with him. I know a little about women my friend. She went. But she knew you were lying.

RICK: Anyway, thanks for helping me out.

RENAULT: I suppose you know this isn’t going to be very pleasant for either of us. Especially for you. I’ll have to arrest you of course.

RICK: As soon as the plane goes, Louie.

Cut to GENDARME closing plane door. Cut to STRASSER arriving at hangar in open car. Cut to plane starting to taxi toward runway. Cut to STRASSER advancing toward RICK and RENAULT.

STRASSER: What was the meaning of that phone call?

RENAULT: Victor Laszlo is on that plane.

Cut to shot of plane turning on runway.

STRASSER: Why do you stand there? Why don’t you stop him!

RENAULT: Ask Mr Rick.

STRASSER looks at Rick, then strides deliberately into hangar towards telephone.

RICK: Get away from that phone.

STRASSER: I would advise you not to interfere.

RICK: I was willing to shoot Captain Renault, and I’m willing to shoot you.

STRASSER hesitates, then goes to phone and picks it up.

STRASSER: Hello?

RICK: Put that phone down!

STRASSER: Get me the radio tower!

RICK: Put it down!

STRASSER pulls Luger. RICK shoots him in selfdefense. STRASSER falls dead as open car full of GENDARMES pulls up outside hangar. Cut to shot of plane turning into wind for takeoff. GENDARMES salute RENAULT.

RENAULT: [To GENDARMES.] Major Strasser has been shot.

Shots of RENAULT and RICK exchanging looks. Round up the usual suspects.

GENDARMES salute, carry off Strasser’s corpse. RENAULT picks up bottle of Vichy water.

Well Rick, you’re not only a sentimentalist, but you’ve become a patriot!

RICK: It seemed like a good time to start.

RENAULT: I think perhaps you’re right—

RENAULT drops bottle into wastebasket, which he then kicks. He and RICK turn to watch plane taking off in fog. They walk onto runway as plane disappears overhead. We see them from behind, as:

RENAULT: It might be a good idea for you to disappear from Casablanca for a while. There’s a Free French Garrison at Brazaville. I could be persuaded to arrange a passage.

RICK: By letter of transit? I could use a trip. But that doesn’t effect our bet. You still owe me 10,000 francs.

RENAULT: That 10,000 francs should pay our expenses!

RICK: Our expenses?

RENAULT: That’s right.

RICK: Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Film ends as RENAULT and RICK disappear in fog. Screen goes dark. After pause of 5 seconds voice of Projectionist is heard:

PROJECTIONIST [Off.]: That’s all we have, Mr C.

CURTIZ: I know Bill.

PROJECTIONIST [Off.]: Do you want the houselights back on?

CURTIZ: Not yet, Bill. I find the darkness conducive to my analytical processes.

PROJECTIONIST [Off.]: Anything you say, Mr C.

CURTIZ: Well Marcel, what’s your reaction—does Ending Number 1 work or doesn’t it?

RESNAIS: I suppose the answer to that depends on one’s expectations. As it now stands Casablanca can scarcely be called a work of art. On the other hand, as an example of cultural popcorn this town habitually turns out it is not untypical. After all, this isn’t Paris or Budapest. As I understand it, in Hollywood one is paid to manufacture a product that sells, not a timeless masterpiece which might shed a little metaphysical light on the human condition.

CURTIZ: God knows we’ve earned our daily bread on this bloody film! I don’t know about you, but I am not sorry to see the last of Casablanca!

RESNAIS: I can sympathize with you, Michael—but personally I’m still bothered by the feeling that, for all of its flaws, Casablanca offered us a once-in-a-lifetime chance of making The Great American Movie and we let it slip right through our collective fingers.

CURTIZ: What about this second ending of yours—the one in which Laszlo refuses to accept Ilsa as a "gift" from Rick, and flies to Lisbon on his own—leaving Ilsa behind with Rick and Renault as the third musketeer in their swashbuckling plans to help pave the way for the deNazification of French North Africa? Wouldn’t a patriotic coda like that solve our censorship problem by wrapping the adulterous implications of Rick’s future relationship with Mrs Laszlo in a cloak of the purest red, white and blue; while at the same time conceivably elevating Casablanca into an Oscar nomination category?

RESNAIS: On the issue of any relationship Rick might have with Ilsa while Laszlo is still alive we are dealing with more than "implications." It’s adultery pure and simple. Even within the context of a world at war the Breen Office won’t stand still for such a fully frontalized breech of moral etiquette. As for its Oscar potential, while the Academy isn’t noted for its aesthetic expertise, in my opinion it would take a total rewrite—and several more miracles—before Casablanca had any chance of being voted The Best Picture of 1942. In addition to which, wouldn’t Ending Number 2 only reopen that can of worms you were telling me about concerning the offcamera competition between Bogart and Henried for top billing in a film featuring a duo of leading men?

CURTIZ: You’re dead right—although; God knows why Henried seems to think he gets the best of Bogey in Ending Number 1—which is all he ever really cared about since our discussions began on casting him as a husband whose wife is hopelessly in love with another man.

RESNAIS: And not just any Other Man, but a Humphrey Bogart who has shed his tough guy image and is now challenging the matinee idoldom of screen Romeos like Gary Cooper, Clark Gable and, of course, Mr Paul Henried!

CURTIZ: Well, Henried is nuts if he thinks the Victor Laszlo we saw in that final scene has a hope in hell of derailing Bogey’s romantic bandwagon. If Casablanca does nothing else for Warner Brothers, it proves that Bogart is so hot right now you can hear the dames in the audience sizzle when he plays a love scene.

RESNAIS: Isn’t the real reason for Henried’s contentment with Ending Number 1 the fact that it’s he who gets the girl—and quite a girl she is!

CURTIZ: He gets her alright, but the chemistry between Bogart and Bergman lingers on long after the film is finished. That’s why I wish there was some way to keep their romance on the boil. What about that third ending you mentioned to the audience?

RESNAIS: To explain Ending Number 3 requires telling the true story of my own exodus from France.

CURTIZ: That’s a story I wouldn’t mind hearing.

RESNAIS: I’m afraid it’s a rather long one, Michael.

CURTIZ: Since Casablanca seems to be a fait accompli, we have the rest of the day at our disposal.

RESNAIS: I was thinking about our audience.

CURTIZ: What makes you think they are in such a hurry to get back to their salt mine? Isn’t that right, ladies and gentlemen? Besides, isn’t this true story of yours somehow relevant to Casablanca? In which case I am authorized to classify our afternoon off as "an official story conference!"

RESNAIS: Well, if you insist—

By now projection screen has been raised—behind which BOGART and BERGMAN are discovered standing, as area of the stage they occupy is gradually illuminated. Playing characters of Claude Resnais and his actress/mistress/protoge Monique LeClaire, they are engaged in a conversation we are unable to hear distinctly.

RESNAIS: As it happens, my story begins in Paris on that fatal day when German troops would march through the Arc de Triomphe. We were shooting the last scene of the final episode of the final instalment of my trilogy on the menage a trois motif. For many reasons it was a tense situation. We were running out of time, film and money. If the Wehrmacht hadn’t made its appearance it was debatable whether we could have continued shooting for another day anyway. Everyone was on edge. Naturally the crew was concerned about their families; my artistic energies had long ago been stretched beyond their breaking point—and the actress with whom I was playing the scene complained of being—

BERGMAN: —in a state of complete emotional exhaustion!

BOGART: Good! You can use that to make this scene convincing! After all, what kind of emotional state do you think Jacqueline is in with her love life being torn apart by two men?

BERGMAN: That’s another thing, Marcel—isn’t it about time I was told whether Jacqueline is supposed to be in love with The Husband or The Other Man? Here we are after working on your three part masterpiece for five years and I am still in the dark on that basic point!

BOGART: And deliberately so, darling! Can’t you get it through your beautiful blonde head that the purpose of this exercise is for you to make up your own mind about choosing between Marcel and me?

BERGMAN: When you say "you" and "me," who do you really mean—Jean and Jacqueline, or you and me?

BOGART: Does it matter?

BERGMAN: My God—of course it matters! It’s the difference between acting and reality!

BOGART: But for us that difference ceased to exist a long time ago, didn’t it?

BERGMAN: Is it wise—discussing our real life relationship while the cameras are still turning?

BOGART: Of course not! But what has wisdom got to do with creating a work of art! Total honesty is what we are after—even if that means exposing our innermost secrets.

BERGMAN: Which I assume is what you want me to do in this scene—as the fictitious character Jacqueline?

BOGART: Yes!

BERGMAN: It would be so much easier if I was provided with a script—

BOGART: Easier no doubt, but even ignoring the obvious aesthetic factors involved, common decency prevents me from putting the words for such a crucial scene into your mouth.

BERGMAN: Common decency? You never had any scruples about forcing me to utter the vilest kind of dialogue in the past!

BOGART: And you never complained about the "vileness" of the lines I wrote for you!

BERGMAN: I am an actress. I do as I am told.

BOGART: Well, I am telling you to improvise this scene!

BERGMAN: All right. I will try. [Turns away for a moment, trying to compose herself.] Well, are you going to call for another take?

BOGART: I’ve already explained to everyone that for various reasons, not the least of which is an army of occupation advancing on Paris, we are shooting this scene as one continuous take.

As a matter of fact, since Resnais started his story the audience has been hearing the distant but constantly approaching sounds of war.

BERGMAN: You never explained that to me!

BOGART: If I didn’t it was only because in your case it shouldn’t have been necessary to do so!

BERGMAN: Oh? And why is my case so special?

BOGART: Because after all the time we have spent collaborating I naturally assumed you had developed an intuitive feeling for my filmmaking methods.

BERGMAN: But darling, I have—and that is why I find all of this so puzzling! Until now your "method" has been to totally dominate me with the power of your mind. Even my slightest deviation from your meticulously written scripts was met with the most vicious kind of criticism. Have you forgotten those occasions when I was publicly humiliated on this very set because I just happened to allow my own personality to become involved with the sordid plans you alone were making for poor Jacqueline’s fate? And now you criticize me for my reluctance to improvise!

BOGART: Since when did you consider my plans for Jacqueline to be "sordid?"

BERGMAN: What else can you call them when they deliberately expose a happily married woman like her to the kind of temptations on which your adultery scenario depends?

BOGART: Is it fair for me to infer from such a statement that you think the offcamera affair we have been having is strictly a product of my directorial imagination?

BERGMAN: Yes! No. Oh, Marcel, why can’t you see I am so confused by all of this I don’t know what to think anymore?

BOGART: Why can’t you see how essential that confusion of yours is to the verisimilitude needed for finally solving Jacqueline’s dilemma? It is in the nature of these triangular affairs that, in her final analysis, The Wife must consider a multitude of factors in deciding whether The Husband or The Other Man becomes the exclusive object of all her diverse desires? And added to all of those factors, of course, is the coincidental one of your unstable marriage to Gerard—

BERGMAN: A "coincidence" you orchestrated by marrying Jacqueline to an Israelite!

BOGART: Aren’t you conveniently forgetting you married your Jewish banker after having learned of my plot to wed Jacqueline with a Semitic financier?

BERGMAN: A plot you intentionally revealed to me—thinking I would accept Gerard’s proposal of marriage just to spite you.

BOGART: Which you did!

BERGMAN: The reasons why I became Gerard’s wife are very personal and very complex.

BOGART: Nonsense. You married him to make me jealous!

BERGMAN: Perhaps that was what motivated me—in the beginning. Yes! I wanted to teach you a lesson!

BOGART: About what?

BERGMAN: Taking me for granted—treating me like just another starstruck ingenue whose cinematic aspirations directors such as you exploit for their own sick purposes.

BOGART: So, in order to educate me on the evils of manipulating women as if they were sex toys, poor Gerard became a pawn in your game of extramarital chess!

BERGMAN: I suppose that was my intention originally, but Gerard had his own ideas about the supporting role I was casting him to play in our adultery scenario—with the result that now he represents a serious competitive threat to what was once your exclusive influence on the shaping of my career and my love life.

BOGART: Are you certain they were really his ideas, or did Gerard take a few pages from the script I had written for Marcel when he converts Jacqueline’s guilt over her exploitation of him into a state of sentimental bondage approximating the sexual force field by which Jean has enslaved his wife.

BERGMAN: I know you refuse to believe it, but Gerard and Marcel have nothing in common. Unlike Marcel’s secret lust to violate his wife’s flesh, Gerard has never entertained the slightest expectation of conquering me physically. In point of fact he was almost brutally frank about what he described as "the mutually beneficial terms of our future relationship." All he demanded was my absolute discretion in any extramarital affairs I might have; in return for which he would provide me with the advantages of being married to one of France’s richest and most powerful men.

BOGART: Ah, these Jewish bankers and their businesslike attitude to the art of seduction!

BERGMAN: If only you knew how counterproductive your racist views toward my husband really are in this twoway contest for my undivided affection!

BOGART: Believe me, I did a lot of soul searching before making Jean’s bigotry a factor that further complicates the fatal choice you are about to make between me and Gerard—

BERGMAN: You mean the fatal choice Jacqueline is about to make between Marcel and Jean—

BOGART: In either case, antiSemitism is not only a sociological fact of French life that cannot be ignored—in artistic terms it offers me a metaphor by whose high semantic voltage I can illuminate the darkest of all those objectives comprising a wifestealer’s most obscure desires.

BERGMAN: Which is?

BOGART: The answer to that is the terrible question haunting every married woman who finds herself caught in the middle of a threeway love affair; and the one you can no longer delay asking yourself.

BERGMAN: How is such a simple solution possible when, after all the time that has gone by getting us to this climactic moment, I still feel as if Jacqueline were drowning in a sea of unanswered questions?

BOGART: You feel that way because, like Jacqueline, in analyzing the true nature of our menage a trois you persistently fail to consider the most fundamental of all those factors motivating my adulterous behavior!

BERGMAN: Are you leading me back to Jean’s pathological hatred of Jews?

BOGART: Ah, but is it hatred; or could it be—

BERGMAN: Jealousy—and fear? Is that what you’ve been driving at since the start of your magnum opus? But why should Jean fear Marcel, or you fear Gerard—even if it is true that, like Jacqueline’s feelings for Marcel, mine for Gerard have become increasingly affectionate during the course of our marriage—especially because of his laissez-faire attitude toward my artistic relationship with you—a relationship he knows has the potential of becoming more than merely theatrical by virtue of its adulterous subject matter? Being bankers their cultural horizons are severely limited, but both Marcel and Gerard fully appreciate the supporting nature of their roles as The Husband in a wifestealing scenario written and directed by The Other Man. I’m sorry Marcel, but I find nothing in your script to justify The Other Man’s fear of The Husband—nothing that is, except for those anxiety attacks The Other Man inevitably suffers from when pondering the question of whether his predatory behavior is motivated more by the prospect of defeating The Husband than by winning The Wife. But surely that must have been one of the basic factors you applied in analyzing the effect of adding antiSemitic overtones to your menage a trois motif by marrying Jacqueline to a Jew. [Brief pause.] Why are you looking at me like that? My God—don’t tell me I have actually improvised my way into expressing the climactic idea you gambled I would be compelled to formulate by the irresistible logic of your unwritten finale!

BOGART: It wasn’t much of a gamble. I never had any serious doubts that in your ultimate analysis of what these 3 films of mine are basically all about our minds would eventually meet.

BERGMAN: And? Now that they have—are we finished shooting?

BOGART: Yes and no. For metaphysical purposes this film ends when The Wife realizes her choice between The Husband and The Other Man is not necessarily the decisive factor she—and the audience—assumed it to be. But, because the audience will be satisfied with nothing less than a conventionally melodramatic denouement, you and I must now play that required scene in which The Wife finally shatters the unbearable tension of her triangular entanglement with The Husband and The Other Man by choosing the one she thinks most likely to succeed in satisfying the desires of her body, her soul—and her mind.

Sounds of war have been intensifying. HENRIED ENTERS darkened area of stage. Looking very much the prosperous banker, he wears gray homburg hat and overcoat, carries large leather banker’s case with one hand while holding walking stick with the other.

BERGMAN: We are talking about the gratification of Jacqueline’s desires, are we not?

BOGART: Technically, yes—but as an actress, doesn’t the line separating your desires from those of the character you are playing disappear when the script has been eliminated as the decisive factor? Besides, given the circumstances we actually find ourselves in, is Jacqueline’s dilemma really that difficult to resolve? Or have you failed to perceive that, with the German occupation of Paris, her option of going to Hollywood with Jean represents more than just the chance for fame and fortune; it means she can escape from the horrors of Nazi persecution—an opportunity no one can blame her for seizing.

BERGMAN: Ah, but that is the crucial difference between me and Jacqueline! Her "Hollywood Option" exists only in your screenplay—

BOGART: [Taking envelope from coat pocket.] That is no longer the case I’m happy to say. As a result of my negotiations with Harry Warner these documents were delivered to me last night. [Offers envelope, which she takes and opens.]

BERGMAN: These are the diplomatic exit visas issued by the American State Department in blank—

BOGART: It seems there are very few strings Warner Brothers can not pull!

BERGMAN: Are you saying these aren’t the prop exit visas specified in the script?

BOGART: Have you ever seen such convincing props? No, they are the genuine article—signed by Cordell Hull himself; and, as you can see by the memorandum enclosing them, we have been booked on the flight evacuating the American embassy personnel to Marseille—probably the last plane that will leave Paris. From Marseille we will fly to New York via Lisbon and the Azores.

BERGMAN: And then on to California! I can’t believe this is happening!

HENRIED: [Advancing from shadows.] All of your dreams seem to be coming true, my darling.

BERGMAN: Gerard! What are you doing here?

BOGART: Please, Monsieur Rapoport, we are still filming!

HENRIED: If you want to be on that diplomatic flight to Marseille we must leave immediately. [Checking wristwatch.] It takes off at 1700 hours if I’m not mistaken.

BOGART: That information is top secret. How could you—

HENRIED: [Removes topcoat, under which he wears camouflaged combat fatigues with hand grenades and bandoleer.] I’ll explain everything on our way to the aerodrome. [Changes homburg for military beret.] It won’t be an easy trip. [Opening banker’s case; assembling 2 submachineguns it contains.] The southern roads out of Paris are clogged with refugees. The Wehrmacht is popping up in the most unexpected place—and the Luftwaffe controls every square kilometer of French air space from here to the Chartres-Nemours line. We may have to shoot our way through. It’s a shame this little escapade won’t be captured on film—although, from what my wife tells me, you are not keen on melodramatic endings. But, who knows; perhaps your aesthetic outlook will undergo a shift toward a more action oriented point of view in Hollywood—

The light has been fading on this scene.

RESNAIS: [Narrating from seat in audience.] And that is how what was then the unedited version of the final scene actually came to its end; with a fade to black as Gerard offered me one of the two submachineguns from his banker’s case and asked—

HENRIED: [Offering submachinegun to BOGART.] I assume you know how to use one of these things—or has your experience with "shooting" been exclusively cinematic?

BLACKOUT on stage.

CURTIZ: So, what is advertised as the "unrehearsed" ending of Amour, Amour, Amour has in fact been meticulously edited?

RESNAIS: Not exactly. My plan on reaching Hollywood with the negative of that last day’s filming was to edit its unscripted chaos into a polished work of art. But with each cut I made it became clearer that such divinely inspired raw material was meant to remain in its pristine state. So I abandoned my attempt at proving truth is never stranger than fiction.

CURTIZ: Which turned out to be a stroke of pure genius!

RESNAIS: Yes—the critics hailed what was the raw footage of that "famous" final scene as the best climax I had ever orchestrated. One of them described it as: "The perfect ending to a trilogy of films whose relentless intellectuality made its sentimentalized finale that much more effective by the sheer magnitude of its surprise."

CURTIZ: But your escape story didn’t end on that Parisian sound stage did it?

RESNAIS: Far from it! There was still that "dangerous" journey to the aerodrome; and the even more menacing business of that explanation Gerard had promised us concerning his knowledge of my top secret plans for "eloping" with his wife to Hollywood!

CURTIZ: In my experience with these menage a trois scenarios The Husband always discovers what The Wife and The Other Man are plotting behind his back.

RESNAIS: Given the intimacy of my directorial relationship with Monique and the fact that, even prior to 1933, most of Europe’s leading ladies entertained ideas of having their Old World sexappeal massmerchandised by the starmakers running America’s west coast dream factories—Gerard’s discovery of my plot to steal his wife should not have been entirely unpredictable. What really disconcerted me was Gerard’s revelation of his secret membership in the French Resistance movement—a membership whose preinvasion date made him one of the FFI’s legendary "founding fathers"—

Stage is slowly relighted to reveal BOGART, BERGMAN and HENRIED in aerodrome hangar setting similar to that used in final scenes of ‘Casablanca’.

RESNAIS: According to Gerard—

HENRIED: [Delivered from stage still only half-lit.] Initially I was recruited to join a renegade cell of antiSoviet Marxists as a fiscal expert whose ethnically engendered reservations over Hitler’s policy of deJewifying France would supersede the capitalistic bias of my banker’s mentality. But what began as my basic training in the fundamentals of selfdefense (in the FFI even pencilpushers are expected to die like musketeers rather than surrender to a Gestapo goon squad) turned me into an itchyfingered triggerman whose fondest dreams were of sending his first Nazi to Valhalla. Frankly I am disappointed the "dangers" of our drive to this aerodrome did not materialize—but my primary mission, of course, was always to get you two here safely; which is now the case.

RESNAIS: [Narrating from audience seat.] By the time we arrived at our destination I was no longer so sanguine about the "safety" of our arrival. To me it seemed certain that her husband’s disclosure of his secret career as a swashbuckling Boches-basher would have a profound effect on what must be Monique’s renewed analysis of which of us she would finally select to be the one and only lover in her life—

The stage is fully lighted now.

BERGMAN: I don’t understand why you are doing this, Gerard. Is it your intention to stay in occupied France while Marcel and I escape to America?

HENRIED: Yes.

BERGMAN: But Gerard—I—you—we can’t—

HENRIED: Listen to me, Monique. Have you any notion of what would happen if you stayed here with me? The odds are 1 to 10 we would both end up in a concentration camp; isn’t that a fact, Marcel?

BOGART: I’m afraid it is.

BERGMAN: You’re only saying that to make me go.

HENRIED: I’m saying it because it’s true. Deep down we both know you belong with Marcel in Hollywood. You are the only one who can inspire him to make the kind of patriotic propaganda films that will galvanize isolationist America into once again shedding its blood for France. If Marcel leaves on that flight to Hollywood alone you will never forgive yourself. Maybe you won’t regret it today and maybe not tomorrow—but eventually you will, and for the rest of your life.

BERGMAN: But what about my regrets over betraying you with another man?

HENRIED: You will be leaving me with the memory of a marriage that could not have been more blissful. No Other Man can take that away from me. But the most fundamental of all those factors applying to our present situation is that I have a real life role to play in defeating the forces of evil. Where I am going you cannot follow. What I must do you can’t be involved with. I don’t have the talent for making histrionic speeches Monique; but it doesn’t take a theatrical virtuoso to see that our little menage a trois doesn’t add up to a mound of merde on this dung heap of a planet our world has become. [Gently lifting her chin with his hand.] All I ask is your forgiveness if I make my last look at you a lingering one—

ENTER VEIDT and RAINS in German and French military uniforms worn by Strasser and Renault in ‘Casablanca’. Rains has unholstered pistol and aims it at BERGMAN and HENRIED.

VEIDT: [Applauding ‘scene’ played by Henried and Bergman.] Bravo! Or should I say brava?

HENRIED reaches for machinegun slung over his shoulder and points it at VEIDT.

VEIDT: That was a very touching farewell scene—which you both played to perfection! [Clicking heels while bowing to Bergman.] My compliments, Mademoiselle LeClaire—and to you, Monsieur Rapoport; or should I address you by the code name used in your Resistance circles—Ari ben Israel? In either case, on behalf of the Third Reich, I salute you for being a man of many hidden talents and, regrettably, arrest you for also being at the top of my most wanted list. But allow me to introduce myself. I am Major Heinz Ebberling, Commander of the Joint German/French CounterResistance Group—and this is my colleague, Captain Citroen. As you can see, Captain Citroen’s pistol is pointed at your wife’s heart. Any heroic gestures on your part would be made at her expense. And, after that noble speech you just made about sacrificing yourself for her welfare, it would seem out of character if you now acted in a way which spoils the happy ending awaiting her in Hollywood—no matter how "patriotic" your motives might be.

HENRIED: Does that mean you will honor their diplomatic exit visas?

VEIDT: I see no reason not to.

HENRIED: I want your solemn promise on that, Ebberling.

VEIDT: You have it, Monsieur—not only as a German officer and a gentlemen, but as one who admires the special artistry created by your wife and the man who maximizes her acting potential. Don’t let my uniform deceive you, Rapoport. Like you, under this costume I am wearing there is a complex human being. And while it is true that fate has cast you and I in roles which make us deadly enemies, we still retain the inner freedom to depersonalize our antagonisms. The fact you are a Jew, for instance, permits me a certain amount of latitude in the disposition of your case. As an agent of the FFI I could have you executed on the spot—or worse—delivered into the hands of an SS interrogation unit who would enjoy nothing more than administering your death on one of their famous instalment plans. On the other hand, technically your Semitic status entitles me to process you in accordance with a local Jewish policy by whose rather liberal terms—and with a little luck—your ticket to the transit camp at Drancy might turn out to be not the oneway type all too typical in the more Easterly areas of the Greater Third Reich. Isn’t that right, Captain Citroen?

RAINS: I understand our accommodations at Drancy are quite civilized—by Polish standards.

VEIDT: Well, Monsieur Rapoport, what is it to be? A guarantee of safety for your wife and the possibility of surviving in a French concentration camp—or are we going to end this impasse with a melodramatic display of mindless courage in which we might very well mutually annihilate each other?

HENRIED: My only concern is for Monique’s safety. As for your promises concerning the "advantageous" terms of my surrender, I will let God hold you responsible for keeping them. [Offers weapon to RAINS, who takes it.]

VEIDT: A sensible decision. Captain Citroen, will you see to it that our Jewish prisoner is conveyed to Drancy in strict accordance with the agreement I have made with him?

RAINS: It will be my pleasure. [EXIT with HENRIED.]

VEIDT: Well, that settles that.

BERGMAN: I’m afraid not, Major Ebberling.

VEIDT: I don’t understand, Mademoiselle. Given the circumstances we all find ourselves in, isn’t this the best possible outcome?

BERGMAN: I can’t accept as "circumstantial" a situation in which an otherwise perfectly ordinary and decent man is sent to a concentration camp on the basis of his race.

VEIDT: But there is much more to it than the accident of your husband’s Jewish birth, Mademoiselle. As you yourself were no doubt surprised to discover, he chose to become a dedicated, and potentially dangerous, enemy of a New Order we National Socialists are determined to impose on that Europe in which Germany has always been treated as a second class nation. There are enormous historic and geopolitical factors operating behind the scenes of this little drama we are playing, Mademoiselle—factors I hardly think you are capable of understanding as a woman. Wouldn’t you agree, Monsieur?

BOGART: [To BERGMAN.] Major Ebberling has a point. It’s not for us to question the rights and wrongs of a status quo we are not responsible for creating.

BERGMAN: Especially when you stand to benefit by the injustice being done to Gerard!

BOGART: An injustice we are powerless to prevent!

VEIDT: He’s quite correct, Mademoiselle. We are all unwilling participants in an epic that for most of its cast of millions is not going to end happily I’m afraid. You should both thank God for the chance he is giving you to salvage some romance from this very sad scenario. Besides, aren’t your options in this affair quite exhausted? In practical terms, there is nothing you can do to alter your husband’s fate.

BERGMAN: But in moral terms—

VEIDT: When one is deprived of the power to shape events, morality ceases to be a factor. That is the irrefutable argument by which characters like Captain Citroen and I rationalize the roles we have been cast to play as (what some selfrighteous people might consider to be) the real villains in this true life unfolding of Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf scenario. Being an actress you should appreciate the futility of overanalyzing whatever sins the woman you are playing is required to commit for the sake of art. Isn’t it a fact that, in all the films you have made for Monsieur Resnais, The Wife is depicted as a moral delinquent?

BERGMAN: Monsieur Resnais is not writing this "script." And we are not "characters" in a screenplay—at least I am not.

VEIDT: What is it you have in mind, Mademoiselle?

BERGMAN: I want to share my husband’s fate—

BOGART: Monique, what are you saying!

BERGMAN: Are Jewish wives exempt from your racial policies?

VEIDT: That is a question requiring a legal opinion I don’t feel qualified to make—and it doesn’t seem feasible to contact SS headquarters in Berlin with your plane taking off in a matter of minutes. Logically, however, I suppose that since you were not born a Jewess the issue of your racial status might depend on the analysis of certain discretionary considerations—

BERGMAN: Such as?

BOGART: Monique, don’t be a fool! You’re playing with dynamite!

VEIDT: I must caution you Mademoiselle that, like your husband, I am a man of principles. In the final analysis my patriotism must veto any sentimental feelings I might have for your predicament. So, think very carefully before you pursue what I anticipate will be a noble, but suicidal, course of conduct.

RE-ENTER RAINS.

BERGMAN: I know what I’m doing Major Ebberling. I insist you do your duty by sending me with my husband to the concentration camp at Drancy.

VEIDT: You realize you are asking me to sign what could be your death warrant?

BERGMAN: Yes.

BOGART: The woman is obviously in no state to make such a fatal decision, Ebberling!

VEIDT: Unfortunately Monsieur, she has put me in a position where my own fate may have become the decisive factor in this matter. As a Gestapo officer I have sworn an oath to faithfully execute the laws of the Third Reich—one of which requires the collectivization of all French Semites; and those whose sexual affiliations justify their treatment as "pseudoJews." My failure to grant Madam Rapoport’s death wish could therefore be construed in certain quarters as an act of treason. Isn’t that so, Citroen?

RAINS: The SS has a reputation for detecting sentimentally motivated deviations from its standard racial policy.

BOGART: Having bent the rules for Rapoport, surely you can invoke another "technicality" to save his wife from paying such a high price for the hysteria she is understandably suffering from.

VEIDT: That’s just it, Monsieur; the proliferation of these "technicalities" quickly becomes a slippery slope down which I have no desire of sliding toward the total nullification of my raison d’etre. Accordingly, Madam Rapoport, I will grant your request and order Captain Citroen to do his duty.

BERGMAN: Thank you. I only ask you to further order Captain Citroen that my husband and I should be kept together as man and wife during our confinement—

VEIDT: [With sudden and vehement anger.] That was not a condition of our bargain Madam! The deal has been struck! The accommodations at Drancy are strictly segregated according to sex! [Moderating his emotions.] Nevertheless, Citroen, I see no reason why the Rapoports can’t be transported to their destination in the same vehicle, do you?

RAINS: As far as I know there is nothing in the rules forbidding such a humane practice.

VEIDT: All right. Take her away.

After exchange of salutes with VEIDT, RAINS EXITS with BERGMAN.

VEIDT: Cheer up, Resnais! As a casualty of this war your wounds couldn’t be more minimal! I’m confident you will fully recover from your broken heart in Hollywood. Just think of all those starlets—the palm trees—the swimming pools—the boulevards paved with gold!

BOGART: I don’t expect you to appreciate the depth of my emotional state.

VEIDT: Is that the gratitude I get for my sensitivity in handling this delicate affair?

BOGART: You actually think you deserve my gratitude!

VEIDT: Why shouldn’t I? You owe your survival to me, Resnais. Oh yes, I have plenty of reasons for sending you off with the Rapoports to Drancy; not the least of which are your plans for making antiNazi propaganda films in America. And, of course, there are these Exit Visas—[Which he holds in his hand.] Questions could be raised about their authenticity.

BOGART: They’re genuine and you know it.

VEIDT: That doesn’t prevent me from subjecting them to a further scrutiny that would have the effect of canceling your travel plans. After all, in a few minutes your last chance for escape will expire with the departure of that flight to Marseille.

BOGART: Frankly, Ebberling, I don’t give a damn.

VEIDT: Maybe not, but it seems a shame to waste these two tickets to freedom.

BOGART: What are you driving at?

VEIDT: Just speculating out loud.

BOGART: About what?

VEIDT: The possibility that beneath all this melodramatic manure the seeds of a beautiful friendship may have been sown.

BOGART: A beautiful friendship between who?

VEIDT: Why, you and I of course!

BOGART: My God, what possible basis could there be for a relationship between us!

VEIDT: Don’t worry—I was thinking more along professional and artistic lines than anything personal.

BOGART: I’m not worried about the nature of a relationship that has no chance of ever developing.

VEIDT: You’re not of the opinion my talents could be exploited in Hollywood?

BOGART: Your talent for what? Sending innocent people to concentration camps!

VEIDT: Yes—among other things. From what I gather Nazis are a very marketable commodity in Hollywood nowadays—and I think you will admit my performance just now was not entirely amateurish. As a matter of fact I have had some considerable experience on the stage dating back to my University days.

BOGART: Let me get this straight, Ebberling. You’re seriously proposing we use those diplomatic exit visas to fly out of here together and then form some kind of moviemaking partnership when we reach Hollywood?

VEIDT: That’s the general idea.

BOGART: You’re out of your mind. In the first place I don’t make the kind of films that feature erstaz supermen like you or Helmut Dantine or Conrad Veidt. I happen to take Fascism more seriously than my American counterparts.

VEIDT: And, in the second place?

BOGART: Need I explain how repulsive to me your role in condemning the woman I love makes you?

VEIDT: No. But given your sophistication as a Frenchman—and an auteur—I thought perhaps you would discount what is principally a transitional antagonism between us when one factors in the passage of time.

BOGART: Jesus, you Germans and your metaphysical gymnastics!

VEIDT: Are you saying a meeting of our minds on this subject is not in the cards?

BOGART: Yes.

VEIDT: I see. Well, you can’t blame me for hoping. My future here isn’t exactly a rosy one.

BOGART: Thank God!

VEIDT: And yet, if one must make the choice between being a fake villain or the real thing, in the final analysis I will opt for fact over fiction. At least in my actual capacity as a Gestapo officer I enjoy some discretion in the way I play my character—including the freedom to decide your destiny.

BOGART: I’m not asking for charity.

VEIDT: That wasn’t your attitude when Rapoport made you a gift of his wife.

BOGART: The man was doomed. I didn’t want to spoil his last chance to be a hero in his wife’s eyes by quibbling over which of us had won our contest for her undivided affection.

VEIDT: There’s nothing to quibble about on that score, is there? It seems perfectly clear to me that Rapoport outmaneuvered you. What more definitive statement can a woman make about the man she truly loves than the one your wouldbe mistress just made by volunteering her way into a concentration camp?

BOGART: On the surface it might seem that way—but a more penetrating analysis of Monique’s behavior would reveal it was motivated by such peripheral elements as pity, patriotism and sentimentality; combined with that penchant for melodrama all actresses are afflicted with—and, above all else, the devastating emotional impact her martyrdom was intended to have on me. But the time factor scarcely permits us the luxury of probing such complexities.

VEIDT: No. And even if it did, I doubt if you could convince me real women orchestrate their love lives in accordance with your theatrical theories. Although, when all is said and done, Monsieur, there may be a grain of truth in your suggestion that all of us suffer from delusions of dramaturgical grandeur. Wasn’t it Richard Wagner who said: "The world is an opera house in which we each act as if the other 3 or 4 billion characters on its stage were merely playing spearcarriers to our heldentenor?"

BOGART: I’m not an expert on Wagner.

VEIDT: It doesn’t take one to see the maestro was talking about those unique phenomena we call "our lives"—any one of which is infinitely more dramatic in its actuality than all of the ersatz biographies plotted in your wildest dreams of cinematic glory.

BOGART: While I disagree with your assumptions about the superior status of reality over the application of artistic principles in the structuring of one’s existence, the answer to such an abstract question seems beggared by the hard fact that my fate is indisputably yours to decide.

VEIDT: [Looking at wristwatch.] Ah yes, it seems the hour has arrived for me to make my grand gesture! Doesn’t it strike you as odd that we are all doing what, according to your aesthetic credo, should never be done by one to whom melodrama is not the spice of life?

BOGART: I’m not aware of having violated my basic belief in that regard.

VEIDT: Oh? What about your rejection of my "beautiful friendship" proposal? Am I wrong to interpret that as being a kneejerk example of the cinematic heroism you refuse to believe ordinary human beings are incapable of improvising?

BOGART: There was nothing histrionic in my refusal of an offer that was so manifestly absurd.

VEIDT: Absurd or not, the consequences of failing to ingratiate yourself to me were potentially lethal.

BOGART: Were—or still are?

The light begins to fade.

VEIDT: There is no need for fretting, Resnais; my decision to let you escape is a firm one! Why would I waste this precious chance of sabotaging your stereotypical assumptions about the limited ability of my Germanic imagination to devise an original ending for this standard scenario in which the Nazi always torments his innocent victim with false hopes of salvation before administering the inexorable coup de grace?

He extends hand in which he holds exit visa toward BOGART as light continues fading to black.

CURTIZ: Jesus—talk about tormenting innocent victims! That crafty sonofabitch Ebberling makes our Major Strasser look like Albert Schweitzer! And, speaking of crafty sonsofbitches, you deserve an Oscar for making me think our finale for Casablanca was cut from the whole cloth of your imagination! Although I can hardly be blamed for thinking such things don’t happen in reality. Letters of Transit? Freedom flights from enemy-occupied aerodromes? Improvisational acts of patriotic sentimentality, sexual selfdenial and plain oldfashioned chivalry? It’s enough to make a man with my directorial credentials reevaluate the credibility of all cockamamie screenplays like Casablanca. What I don’t understand, Marcel, are the reservations you have about the final scene we shot when, except for some minor role-reversing, it rings with the truthfulness of this story you just told us.

RESNAIS: I wish it were as simple as that, Michael. But in my opinion the effect of those "reversed roles" is anything but "minor." Their distinctive chemistry makes any equation between the events at that aerodrome south of Paris and those at the one in Casablanca infinitely complex.

CURTIZ: I don’t know about that. The way I heard your story; Rapoport was Rick, Monique was Laszlo and you were Ilsa.

RESNAIS: If I gave you that impression it was unintentional. While it is true that Rapoport’s character contains some Rickian traits, it is also comprised of elements that are more or less Laszloesque and Ilsalike. Similarly, Monique’s persona is an amalgamation of Ilsa’s female instincts, Rick’s sublimated altruism, and Laszlo’s ideological mentality. As for the part I played, it is no less kaleidoscopic in the way it resembles all three of Casablanca’s leading characters. Admittedly there is a lot of Ilsa in the feminine nature of the role I was forced to perform in that final scene. Like her lack of persuasive power over Rick, there wasn’t much I could do about Monique’s fatal decision not to share the rest of her life with me in Hollywood; but rather to share her husband’s short ride to a French concentration camp. On the other hand, it is undeniably the case that my willingness to accept Rapoport’s "gift" of his wife and, when Monique vetoed that scheme, my acceptance of Ebberling’s charity in the form of a solo flight to freedom, constitute the kind of pragmatism practiced by Laszlo when he rationalizes Rick’s gift to him of Ilsa as one which will help him wage his war against the Major Strassers of the world from the safety of an American lecture hall. Moreover, there are several aspects of Rick’s psychology with which I can be identified. Firstly —just as Ilsa’s future with Laszlo must lack the passion of her physical attraction to Rick—so Monique’s choice of joining in Gerard’s fate as a Jew in occupied France does not invalidate the sexual basis of her affection for me. Secondly, like Rick, in the end I am the odd man out—if not stranded on that fogbound tarmac in Casablanca—then in this Babylon whose shallow socializing makes my loneliness that much deeper. For me there are no "beautiful friendships" in Hollywood. But in the last analysis the fundamental difference between the characters in Casablanca and those in my true story is that while to some extent they identify with Rick, Ilsa and Laszlo—unlike myself, Monique and Gerard—Bogart, Bergman and Henried are not playing for keeps.

CURTIZ: Aren’t you underestimating their acting abilities?

RESNAIS: No. They are all extremely talented performers. But there are limits to what any actor can do within the confines of a script.

CURTIZ: What about Ending Number 3?

RESNAIS: Ending Number 3 is exactly that.

CURTIZ: Exactly what?

RESNAIS: A scriptless scenario allowing its actors to improvise their own ending for Casablanca.

CURTIZ: That’s it?

RESNAIS: That’s it.

CURTIZ: The way you shot the final scene in Amour, Amour, Amour.

RESNAIS: Yes.

CURTIZ: Just let the cameras roll while Bogart, Bergman and Henried struggle to define their destinies as Rick, Ilsa and Laszlo—

RESNAIS: Yes.

CURTIZ: It’s one hell of an idea!

RESNAIS: I agree!

CURTIZ: But it wouldn’t work.

RESNAIS: Probably not.

CURTIZ: I don’t mean cinematically—

RESNAIS: I didn’t think you did.

CURTIZ: Cinematically it would be a kick in the ass.

RESNAIS: It’s a possibility—

CURTIZ: But we are not here to make art movies.

RESNAIS: Truer words were never spoken.

CURTIZ: Our only reason for being is to keep the assembly line moving.

RESNAIS: That is axiomatic.

CURTIZ: And, as it stands now Casablanca satisfies every requirement in Hollywood’s book of industrial standards.

RESNAIS: I have no doubt that millions of Americans will view it with complete satisfaction.

CURTIZ: What the hell do they want for 25¢—The Royal Shakespeare Company or Moscow Art Theater?

RESNAIS: No one who sees Casablanca will ever ask for their money back.

CURTIZ: We can’t blame Hollywood for the crassness of its commercialism.

RESNAIS: Not if we don’t want to be accused of biting the hand that feeds us.

CURTIZ: Speaking for myself—one forfeits the right to throw stones of that kind when one negotiates for the 6-figure salary a director with my moneymaking track record deserves.

RESNAIS: We’re all whores Michael—whores of the most glamorous type perhaps—but still whores in the truest meaning of that dirtiest of dirty words. There simply is no other word to describe the way you and I have prostituted our talents.

CURTIZ: Still, there’s no need to get overly masochistic about what is one of the realities of modern moviemaking.

RESNAIS: Is it really such an exaggeration to say we have sold our creative souls to the bidder with the most bucks?

CURTIZ: I don’t know if I’m prepared to go that far, Marcel.

RESNAIS: We aren’t getting any younger, Michael—and with each new diabolical picture deal we make, more of that finite time a moviemaker has in which to immortalize himself oozes through our greedy Faustian fingers.

CURTIZ: Does that mean you seriously think we could convert Casablanca into a vehicle for our immortality?

RESNAIS: Why shouldn’t I? Casablanca has all the ingredients of an everlasting classic. Are the human hearts in Othello, Helen of Troy or Gone With The Wind filled with more pure passion, jealousy and hate than those of our three starcrossed lovers? Are the mating impulses of men and women any less apocalyptic in Casablanca than they are in Eloise and Abelard or Tristan und Isolde? And, with the possible exception of War and Peace, in what other love saga can one find Casablanca’s complexities of triangulated desire, moral ambivalence and that most unanswerable of epistemo-ontological questions humanity eternally asks itself about the very nature of its being? And all of that played against the backdrop of a world war between the forces of good and evil!

CURTIZ: Enough! Enough! You’ve sold me on the theory, Marcel; but how do we solve the practical problem of turning Casablanca into an authentic work of art without incurring the wrath of Messers Warner and Wallis? Like every other studio in Hollywood, this one is crawling with corporate Gestapo agents and freelance culture fascists who would like nothing better than to settle our "elitist" hash.

RESNAIS: Can’t we solve that problem by simply staying where we are? Isn’t a theater the last place any of Warner Brothers’ top brass would suspect as a site for our subversive activities?

CURTIZ: And for good reason! This is a theater—not a soundstage. Maybe scenes can be rehearsed here but actually filming them in such a nonstudio environment is a differently colored horse.

RESNAIS: In general that’s true Michael, but with a little imagination I think the unorthodoxy of this situation can be turned to our advantage. We are, after all, dealing with a scene that is fundamentally theatrical in the static nature of its "action"—all of which is really nothing more than a tripartite dialogue between Ilsa, Rick and Laszlo. As for the hangar set, I’m sure we can ad lib something suitable—and do our shooting from the wings and the projection booth.

CURTIZ: [Into microphone.] Are you listening to this Bill?

PROJECTIONIST [Off.]: I’m all ears Mr C!

CURTIZ: Is that feasible—shooting from the projection booth?

PROJECTIONIST [Off.]: It’s a challenge—but, like Mr R says, with a little ingenuity anything can be made to work. In the old days we created all sorts of cinematic miracles working under the most primitive conditions.

CURTIZ: [To RESNAIS.] So, what you are proposing is that we assemble the cast here and shoot them in the act of improvising their solution to our problem of ending Casablanca on a note that is satisfying to its audience intellectually as well as emotionally?

RESNAIS: Yes!

CURTIZ: [Into microphone.] What do you think of that idea, Bill?

PROJECTIONIST [Off.]: I’m not sure I understand everything you’ve been talking about, Mr C, but it all sounds very exciting. The only thing I can tell you is that your conversation reminds me of the story conferences I used to overhear when Griffith, Chaplin and DeMille were masterminding their immortality. And, if you will permit me to add a personal note to this esoteric discussion—

CURTIZ: Go ahead, Bill—be my guest.

PROJECTIONIST [Off.]: Sitting in the dark listening to your ideas about Casablanca’s potential apotheosis has aroused my own curiosity to a point where I will feel pretty darned disappointed if you don’t do what Mr R is suggesting. I’m confident if you asked them audience would agree with me on that score.

CURTIZ: Well, that’s what they’re here for, isn’t it? So, why don’t we do just that? Can we have the houselights back on Bill?

Houselights come up gradually. CURTIZ and RESNAIS swivel to face audience.

CURTIZ: Well, ladies and gentlemen, what do you think of the little plot we are hatching? Let’s have a show of hands from those who think Casablanca might be improved by allowing its three characters to decide their own destinies? And now the hands of those who are satisfied with the way we have dictated their fates?

In the event a negative result is produced, following optional dialogue can be used:

CURTIZ: That’s hardly a ringing endorsement, Marcel—but revolutionary ideas seldom win any prizes in this kind of popularity contest. Besides, I seemed to detect a greater degree of sophistication in the faces of those who support your idea than in the faces of those who reject it. What do you say?

RESNAIS: Unquestionably more weight must be added to the opinion of those who agree with us. And, while democracy has its place in the breaking of new artistic ground one must be guided by political ideologies that are somewhat less egalitarian.

End optional dialogue.

CURTIZ: Alright. I’ve made up my mind. We will give it a try. [Using phone with which his chair is fitted.] This is Michael Curtiz, operator; would you connect me with Stage 5? [Pause.] Arnold? This is Michael. I’m calling from the preview theater—yes, the rushes are pretty much up to our expectations—but there is room for improvement, which is why I’m telephoning—I want you to call Messers Bogart, Henried, Rains and Veidt along with Miss Bergman for an afternoon shooting of the final scene here at the preview theater—yes, that’s right—we are going to reshoot the final scene here —I will also need a few key people to act as a location crew—but everything must be handled on a top secret basis, Arnold—strictly hush hush—in fact it would be a good idea if you put the word out that the rushes are a success and we have put the wraps on Casablanca—fine—you know where to reach me if anything comes up. [Hangs up phone, looks at watch.] It will be about 10 minutes before we are ready to begin our experiment, ladies and gentlemen. You can use that time to stretch your legs and generally refresh yourselves—as if this was the intermission of a play. But for security reasons, none of you will be allowed to leave the theater, use the public telephones, or in any other way communicate what is going on in here to the outside world! [Turning to face RESNAIS.] As for you and me, Marcel, we had better use this time to perfect our battleplan. I have a hunch we are in for one hell of a fight with the cast over our widening of their acting frontiers!

Footnote:
1 Original footage can be reverse-edited to make it appear as a rush. 

End Act One

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