NORMA DESMOND, fading star of silent screen, is talking to down-on-his-luck screenwriter JOE GILLIS about the funeral she would like for her dead pet monkey. She mistakenly believes Gillis to be the undertaker.
NORMA. How much will it be? I warn you-don't give me a fancy price just because I'm rich.
JOE. Lady, you got the wrong man. I had some trouble with my car. Flat tire. I pulled into your garage till I could get a spare. I thought this was an empty house.
NORMA. It is not. Get out.
JOE. I'm sorry, and I'm sorry you lost your friend. And I don't think red is the right color.
NORMA. Get out, or shall I call my servant?
JOE. Wait a minute. Haven't I seen you somewhere before? I know your face. You're Norma Desmond. You used to be in silent pictures. You used to be big.
NORMA. I am big. It's the pictures that got small.
JOE. I knew there was something wrong with them.
NORMA. They're dead. They're finished. There was a time when this business had the eyes of the whole world. But that wasn't good enough. Oh, no. They wanted the ears of the world, too. So they opened their big mouths, and out came talk, talk, talk...
JOE. That's where the popcorn business comes in. Buy yourself a bag and plug up your ears.
NORMA. Look at them in the front offices-the masterminds. They took the idols and smashed them. The Fairbanks, the Gilberts, the Valentinos. And who do we have now? Some nobodys.
JOE. Don't blame me. I'm not an executive, just a writer.
NORMA. You are! Writing words, words. You've made a rope of words and strangled this business. But there is a microphone right there to catch the last gurgles, and technicolor to photograph the swollen tongues.
JOE. Shh. You'll wake the monkey.
NORMA. Get out!