The Twilight Zone (1959–1964): Season 2, Episode 4 - A Thing About Machines - full transcript

Bartlett Finchley's paranoia about the machines around proves true.

( eerie music)

YOU'RE TRAVELING THROUGH
ANOTHER DIMENSION...

A DIMENSION NOT ONLY OF
SIGHT AND SOUND, BUT OF MIND.

A JOURNEY INTO A WONDROUS LAND

WHOSE BOUNDARIES
ARE THAT OF IMAGINATION.

THAT'S THE SIGNPOST UP AHEAD.

YOUR NEXT STOP,
THE TWILIGHT ZONE.

( clanking)

HOW ARE YOU TODAY, MR. FINCHLEY?

I'LL ANSWER THAT BURNING
QUESTION AFTER YOU TELL ME

WHAT'S WRONG WITH THAT
MIRACLE OF MODERN SCIENCE,



AND ALSO EXACTLY HOW
MUCH THIS CURRENT LARCENY

IS GOING TO COST ME.

WELL, THERE'S TWO HOURS LABOR,

BROKEN SET OF TUBES,

NEW OSCILLATOR AND A NEW FILTER.

HOW VERY TECHNICAL,
AND HOW VERY CONVINCING.

I PRESUME I'M TO BE
DUNNED ONCE AGAIN

FOR THREE TIMES THE
WORTH OF THE BLASTED THING.

LAST TIME I WAS OVER HERE,

YOU'D KICKED YOUR FOOT
THROUGH THE SCREEN.

REMEMBER?

I HAVE A VIVID
RECOLLECTION, THANK YOU.

THE SET WAS NOT
WORKING PROPERLY.

I TRIED TO GET IT TO DO SO IN
A PERFECTLY NORMAL FASHION.



BY KICKING YOUR FOOT
THROUGH THE SCREEN?

WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST
HORSEWHIP IT, MR. FINCHLEY?

THAT'D SHOW IT WHO'S BOSS.

SUPPOSING WE STOP THIS
MORONIC SMALL TALK, SHALL WE,

AND GET DOWN TO
SOME SERIOUS LARCENY?

YOU MAY READ ME OFF THE DAMAGES.

ALTHOUGH I SOMETIMES WONDER

WHAT EXACTLY IS THE PURPOSE

OF THE BETTER BUSINESS BUREAU

WHEN IT ALLOWS ITINERANT
EXTORTIONISTS LIKE YOU

TO COME BACK WEEK AFTER WEEK,

MOVE WIRES AROUND,

BUSILY PROBE WITH
HAM-LIKE HANDS,

AND ACHIEVE NOTHING
BUT THE FINANCIAL RUIN

OF EVERY CUSTOMER.

WE'RE NOT A GYP
OUTFIT, MR. FINCHLEY.

WE'RE LEGITIMATE REPAIRMEN.

BUT I'LL TELL YOU
SOMETHING ABOUT YOURSELF.

THAT TV SET DOESN'T WORK

BECAUSE, OBVIOUSLY,
YOU GOT IN BACK OF IT,

AND YOU YANKED
OUT A LOT OF WIRES,

AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT ELSE.

NOW, A MONTH AGO, YOU
CALLED ME OVER HERE

TO FIX YOUR PORTABLE RADIO

BECAUSE YOU THREW IT DOWNSTAIRS.

THAT DID NOT WORK
PROPERLY EITHER.

WELL, THAT'S THE
POINT, MR. FINCHLEY.

WHY DON'T THEY WORK PROPERLY?

OFFHAND, I'D SAY IT'S BECAUSE
YOU DON'T TREAT THEM PROPERLY.

I ASSUME THERE'LL
BE AN EXTRA CHARGE

FOR THAT ANALYSIS?

WHAT DOES GO WRONG WITH
THESE THINGS, MR. FINCHLEY?

HAVE YOU GOT ANY IDEA?

ASIDE FROM BEING A
RATHER INCOMPETENT CLOD,

YOU'RE A VERY UNRECEPTIVE MAN.

I HAVE ALREADY EXPLAINED TO YOU,

THE TELEVISION SET SIMPLY
DID NOT WORK PROPERLY.

AND, AS FOR THAT
MARCONI ORIGINAL

OPERATING UNDER THE
GUISE OF A MODERN RADIO,

THAT GAVE NOTHING BUT STATIC.

ARE YOU SURE THAT'S ALL
THAT WAS WRONG WITH THEM?

ALL RIGHT, MR. FINCHLEY,
I'LL SEND YOU A BILL.

OF THAT I HAVE NO DOUBT.

FINCHLEY, WHAT IS IT
WITH YOU AND MACHINES?

I SHALL FILE THAT
IDIOTIC QUESTION

IN MY MEMORABILIA

TO BE REFERRED TO
AT SOME FUTURE DATE

WHEN I WRITE MY MEMOIRS.

YOU, MY GOOD FRIEND,

WILL FILL ONE ENTIRE CHAPTER

ENTITLED, "THE MOST
FORGETTABLE PERSON I EVER MET."

IT JUST SO HAPPENS THAT
EVERY MACHINE IN THIS HOUSE IS...

( clock chiming)

( clock strikes hour)

ALL RIGHT.

THAT WILL BE ENOUGH OF THAT.

DO YOU HEAR ME?

I SAID THAT WILL
BE ENOUGH OF THAT!

STOP!

( shouts): STOP!

( shattering)

( chiming continues)

THIS IS MR. BARTLETT
FINCHLEY, AGE 48,

A PRACTICING SOPHISTICATE

WHO WRITES VERY SPECIAL
AND VERY PRECIOUS THINGS

FOR GOURMET
MAGAZINES AND THE LIKE.

HE'S A BACHELOR AND A
RECLUSE WITH FEW FRIENDS,

ONLY DEVOTEES AND ADHERENTS
TO THE CAUSE OF TART SOPHISTRY.

HE HAS NO INTERESTS SAVE
WHATEVER CURRENT ANNOYANCES

HE CAN PUT HIS MIND TO.

HE HAS NO PURPOSE TO HIS LIFE

EXCEPT THE FORMULATION
OF DAY-TO-DAY OPPORTUNITIES

TO VENT HIS WRATH ON
MECHANICAL CONTRIVANCES

OF AN AGE HE ABHORS.

IN SHORT, MR. BARTLETT
FINCHLEY IS A MALCONTENT,

BORN EITHER TOO LATE OR
TOO EARLY IN THE CENTURY,

AND WHO, IN JUST A
MOMENT, WILL ENTER A REALM

WHERE MUSCLES AND
THE WILL TO FIGHT BACK

ARE NOT LIMITED TO HUMAN BEINGS.

NEXT STOP FOR MR. BARTLETT
FINCHLEY... THE TWILIGHT ZONE.

MISS ROGERS.

IS THIS ALL YOU'VE DONE?

THAT'S ALL I'VE DONE.

THAT'S 30 PAGES IN
THREE HOURS AND A HALF.

THAT'S THE BEST I
CAN DO, MR. FINCHLEY.

IT'S THAT IDIOTIC MACHINE...

THAT TYPEWRITER OF YOURS.

THOMAS JEFFERSON
WROTE THE ENTIRE

DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE
WITH A FEATHER QUILL,

AND IT TOOK HIM ONLY HALF A DAY.

WHY DON'T YOU
HIRE MR. JEFFERSON?

MISS ROGERS, DID I EVER TELL YOU

WITH WHAT DEGREE OF DISTASTE

I VIEW INSUBORDINATION?

OFTEN AND ENDLESSLY.

I'LL TELL YOU
WHAT, MR. FINCHLEY.

YOU GET YOURSELF ANOTHER GIRL...

ONE WITH THREE ARMS,

AND WITH ROUGHLY
THE SAME SENSITIVITY

AS AN ALLIGATOR.

THEN YOU CAN WORK TOGETHER

TILL DEATH DO YOU PART.

AS FOR ME... I'VE HAD IT.

AND YOU ARE GOING WHERE?

ANYPLACE WHERE I CAN BE AWAY
FROM THE HIGHLY ARTICULATE,

OH, SO SOPHISTICATED, BON VIVANT
OF AMERICA'S WINERS AND DINERS...

A MR. BARTLETT FINCHLEY.

YOU EVEN GOT ME
TALKING LIKE YOU.

MISS ROGERS, PLEASE.

DON'T LEAVE.

I BEG YOUR PARDON?

I DO WISH YOU'D...

I WISH YOU'D STAY FOR A BIT.

OH, I DON'T MEAN FOR
WORK OR ANYTHING.

ALL THAT CAN WAIT.

I WAS JUST THINKING

THAT WE COULD HAVE
DINNER OR SOMETHING.

THE THEATER PERHAPS?

HOW VERY SWEET,
MR. FINCHLEY. THANK YOU.

BUT NO THANK YOU.

GOOD-BYE, MR. FINCHLEY.

BEFORE YOU GO, MISS
ROGERS... BEFORE YOU GO...

YES?

I'D LIKE VERY MUCH...

I'D LIKE VERY MUCH NOT
TO BE ALONE FOR A WHILE.

ARE YOU ILL?

BAD NEWS OR SOMETHING?

NO.

WHAT'S YOUR TROUBLE?

DOES THERE HAVE TO BE
TROUBLE JUST BECAUSE I...?!

I'M DESPERATELY TIRED.

I HAVEN'T SLEPT FOR FOUR NIGHTS.

QUITE FRANKLY, THE THOUGHT
OF BEING ALONE JUST NOW

IS INTOLERABLE, MISS ROGERS.

THINGS HAVE BEEN HAPPENING...

VERY ODD THINGS.

GO ON.

THAT TELEVISION
MACHINE IN THERE...

IT GOES ON LATE AT
NIGHT AND WAKES ME UP.

JUST GOES ON ALL BY ITSELF.

THAT RADIO I KEPT
IN THE BEDROOM...

THAT WENT ON AND OFF, TOO,

JUST WHEN I WAS GOING TO SLEEP.

THERE'S A CONSPIRACY IN
THIS HOUSE, MISS ROGERS.

CONSPIRACY?

THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT
IT IS. A CONSPIRACY!

THE TELEVISION SET,
THE RADIO, THE CLOCK...

EVEN THAT MISERABLE CAR I DRIVE.

LAST NIGHT, I DROVE
IT INTO THE DRIVEWAY...

JUST DROVE IT INTO THE
DRIVEWAY, MIND YOU...

VERY CAREFULLY, VERY SLOWLY.

THE STEERING WHEEL
TURNED IN MY HAND...

IT TWISTED ITSELF IN MY HAND.

THE CAR DELIBERATELY
HIT THE SIDE OF THE GARAGE.

IT SMASHED A HEADLIGHT.

IT COST $140.

THAT CLOCK... OVER
THE MANTELPIECE.

OH, UH... I THREW IT AWAY.

WHAT I'M GETTING
AT, MISS ROGERS,

IS THAT, FOR AS
LONG AS I HAVE LIVED,

I HAVE NEVER BEEN ABLE
TO OPERATE MACHINES.

MR. FINCHLEY, I THINK YOU
OUGHT TO SEE A DOCTOR.

A DOCTOR?

THE UNIVERSAL PANACEA OF THE
DREAMLESS 20th-CENTURY IDIOT.

IF YOU'RE DEPRESSED,
SEE A DOCTOR.

IF YOU'RE HAPPY, SEE A DOCTOR.

IF THE SALARY IS TOO LOW

AND THE MORTGAGE IS
TOO HIGH, SEE A DOCTOR.

YOU, MISS ROGERS...
YOU SEE A DOCTOR.

I AM A LOGICAL, RATIONAL,
INTELLIGENT MAN.

I KNOW WHAT I SEE.

I KNOW WHAT I HEAR.

( ashtray smashes)

AND FOR THE PAST THREE MONTHS,
I'VE BEEN SEEING AND HEARING

A COLLECTION OF MECHANICAL
FRANKENSTEINIAN MONSTERS

WHOSE WHOLE PURPOSE
IS TO DESTROY ME.

NOW, WHAT DO YOU THINK
OF THAT, MISS ROGERS?

I THINK YOU'RE TERRIBLY ILL

AND YOU NEED MEDICAL ATTENTION.

I ALSO THINK THAT
YOU'RE SUFFERING

FROM A BAD CASE OF
NERVES DUE TO LACK OF SLEEP

AND THAT WAY DOWN
DEEP YOU YOURSELF REALIZE

THAT THESE ARE NOTHING
MORE THAN DELUSIONS.

I WILL NOT BE
INTIMIDATED BY MACHINES.

SO IT FOLLOWS THAT NO
EMPTY-HEADED LITTLE FEMALE

WITH A MECHANICAL FACE
CAN DO ANYTHING TO ME EITHER.

MR. FINCHLEY, IN THIS
CONSPIRACY YOU SPEAK OF,

THIS MORTAL COMBAT BETWEEN
YOU AND THE APPLIANCES,

I HOPE YOU LOSE.

GET OUT!

( typewriter clattering)

( moans)

"GET OUT OF HERE, FINCHLEY."

GET OUT OF HERE, FINCHLEY!

WHO ARE YOU TO TELL
ME TO GET OUT OF HERE?

NO, NO, THIS IS ABSURD.

IT'S A TYPEWRITER... A DEVICE...

AN INANIMATE, SENSELESS MACHINE.

( clattering)

Woman: Get out
of here, Finchley.

( flamenco music playing)

Why don't you get
out of here, Finchley?

( flamenco music resumes)

( typewriter clattering to
tune of flamenco music)

ALL RIGHT.

ALL RIGHT, YOU MACHINES.

YOU'RE NOT GOING
TO INTIMIDATE ME.

DO YOU HEAR ME?

YOU ARE NOT GOING
TO INTIMIDATE ME.

YOU... YOU MACHINES!

( typewriter clattering)

MISS MOORE, PLEASE.

OH, AGATHA.

BARTLETT FINCHLEY HERE.

HOW ARE YOU, MY DEAR?

YES, IT HAS BEEN A
LONG TIME... TOO LONG...

WHICH, INDEED,
PROMPTS THIS CALL.

HOW ABOUT DINNER TONIGHT?

OH.

I SEE.

YES, WELL, OF COURSE,
IT IS SHORT NOTICE, BUT I...

HMM. OF COURSE.

ALL RIGHT, I'LL, UH... I'LL
CALL YOU AGAIN... MY DEAR.

MRS. DONNELLY, PLEASE.

OH, PAULINE, IS THIS YOU?

AND HOW IS MY FAVORITE,
ATTRACTIVE YOUNG WIDOW?

BARTLETT.

BARTLETT FINCHLEY.

YES, I WAS JUST
WONDERING IF... OH.

OH, I SEE.

WELL, I'M DELIGHTED,
I'M SIMPLY DELIGHTED.

I'LL SEND YOU A WEDDING PRESENT.

OF COURSE.

GOOD NIGHT.

TELEPHONES.

JUST LIKE THE REST.

EXACTLY LIKE ALL THE REST.

THEIR WHOLE EXISTENCE
DEDICATED TO EMBARRASSING ME

OR IRRITATING ME OR
MAKING MY LIFE MISERABLE.

WELL, WHO NEEDS YOU?

WHO NEEDS ANY OF YOU?

( telephone bell jangles)

( humming)

( electric razor buzzing)

( buzzing loudly)

Woman: Why don't you
get out of here, Finchley?

Why don't you get
out of here, Finchley?

Why don't you get
out of here, Finchley?

Get out of here, Finchley!

Get out of here, Finchley!

( siren wailing)

( car approaches)

SHE ROLLED DOWN THE DRIVEWAY,

ALMOST HIT A KID ON A BIKE.

YOU OUGHT TO CHECK THAT
EMERGENCY BRAKE, MISTER.

THE EMERGENCY BRAKE WAS ON.

OH, NO, IT WASN'T.

OR IF IT WAS, IT ISN'T
WORKING PROPERLY.

SHE ROLLED DOWN THE DRIVEWAY
AND RIGHT OUT INTO THE STREET.

YOU'RE LUCKY IT
DIDN'T HIT ANYONE.

MONSTER.

YOU GOT THE KEYS?

YES. OH, THEY'RE IN THE HOUSE.

WELL, YOU BETTER PULL IT
BACK UP INTO THE GARAGE.

AND YOU OUGHT TO CHECK
THAT EMERGENCY BRAKE

THE FIRST CHANCE YOU
GET, UNDERSTAND, MISTER?

ALL RIGHT, DEAR FRIENDS.

YOU MAY REMAIN ON MY PROPERTY

GOGGLING AT THIS
ASTONISHING SIGHT

FOR ANOTHER THREE
AND A HALF MINUTES.

IF, WHEN I RETURN
WITH MY CAR KEYS,

YOU ARE NOT OFF MY PROPERTY,

I SHALL ENLIST THE AID OF
THIS UNDERPAID GENDARME

TO FORCIBLY EJECT YOU.

IDIOTS.

( groans)

( clock chiming)

( striking the hour)

( typewriter clattering)

"GET OUT OF HERE, FINCHLEY."

( typewriter resumes)

NO.

Woman: Get out
of here, Finchley.

Why don't you get
out of here, Finchley?

Why don't you get
out of here, Finchley?

Get out of here, Finchley!

Man: Get out of here.

Get out of here, Finchley.

Woman: Get out
of here, Finchley.

( jumbled voices shouting)

( clock chiming,
voices shouting)

NO, I WON'T!

I WON'T!

( growls)

( razor buzzing)

( buzzing loudly)

( voices shouting):
GET OUT OF HERE!

( clock chiming, razor buzzing)

( typewriter clattering)

( car engine starts)

( engine roaring)

( tires squeal)

( engine revving)

( tires squealing)

( tires squeal)

YOU PULLED THE BODY OUT?

YEAH.

IT'S FUNNY, THEY USUALLY FLOAT.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN, USUALLY?

HE WAS ON THE BOTTOM.

HE HADN'T COME UP.

HE WASN'T WEIGHTED EITHER.

THERE WAS NOTHING
TO HOLD HIM DOWN.

HIS EYES WERE OPEN,
HE LOOKED SCARED

LIKE SOMETHING HAD BEEN
CHASING HIM OR SOMETHING.

THE NEIGHBORS SAID
THAT HE'D BEEN SHOUTING

AND RUNNING AROUND LAST NIGHT.

I WONDER WHAT IT WAS THAT
COULD HAVE SCARED HIM?

WHATEVER IT WAS, IT'S A LITTLE
ITEM HE TOOK ALONG WITH HIM.

YEAH. MAYBE HE WAS DRUNK...

IMAGINING THINGS?

MAYBE.

COULD BE HE HAD A HEART
ATTACK OR SOMETHING.

COULD BE.

IT COULD JUST BE.

YES, IT COULD JUST BE.

IT COULD JUST BE THAT
MR. BARTLETT FINCHLEY SUCCUMBED

FROM A HEART ATTACK
AND A SET OF DELUSIONS.

IT COULD JUST BE THAT HE WAS
TORMENTED BY AN IMAGINATION

AS SHARP AS HIS WIT AND
AS POINTED AS HIS DISLIKES.

BUT AS PERCEIVED
BY THOSE ATTENDING,

THIS IS ONE EXPLANATION
THAT HAS LEFT THE PREMISES

WITH THE DECEASED.

LOOK FOR IT FILED
UNDER "M" FOR MACHINES

IN THE TWILIGHT ZONE.

Narrator: ROD SERLING, THE
CREATOR OF TWILIGHT ZONE,

WILL TELL YOU ABOUT
NEXT WEEK'S STORY

AFTER THIS WORD FROM
OUR ALTERNATE SPONSOR.

AND NOW, MR. SERLING.

Serling: DOWN THIS HALL IS
A VERY STRANGE INDIVIDUAL

LOCKED IN A ROOM.

HE'S KNOWN BY VARIOUS
NAMES AND BY VARIOUS FORMS,

AND NEXT WEEK ON
THE TWILIGHT ZONE,

YOU'LL BE CLOSE TO THE ELBOW
OF THE PEOPLE WHO LET HIM OUT.

OUR STORY IS CALLED
"THE HOWLING MAN,"

BY MR. CHARLES BOWMAN.

IT'S DESIGNED FOR THE YOUNG IN
HEART BUT THE STRONG OF NERVE.

I HOPE WE'LL SEE YOU NEXT WEEK,
ALONG WITH "THE HOWLING MAN."

THANK YOU, AND GOOD NIGHT.

COME TO THE AID OF YOUR PARTY.

♪ DON'T PASS THE BUCK,
BUT GIVE YOUR BUCKS ♪

♪ TO THE PARTY OF YOUR CHOICE. ♪