Post by dreamer on Nov 10, 2006 17:31:27 GMT -5
Found this on the Tracy and Hepburn website ;D
Below is the original ending of Woman of the Year.
The source is the March, 1942 edition of Screen Romances, a fan magazine of the era that published pictures from and the plots of current films. Because there was a considerable lead time for publishing magazines in those days, it appears that the original ending of the film was given to the magazine rather than it's alternate ending.
"Pinkie turned up with the food, very unhappy. Sam crouched above a book oblivious, coat and necktie off, mouth grim."
(The story diverges after Sam returns Chris to the Greek orphanage.)
Sam cleared out his clothes at the apartment, and left his key on the teletype where Tess couldn't miss it. Then he went out and got drunk. So drunk that he could forget about ambassadors and wars and conferences and plaques and brillant columns and Tess Harding and the whole blasted mess.
But it didn't look much like success, that vigorous campaign of forgetting, when he started to come out of it late the next evening. He seemed to be in the apartment of a some woman named Mademoiselle Sylvia who taught French. And crumpled in one corner there seemed to be a young man quite exhausted, who taught Spanish.
Sam telephoned Pinkie's bar for sandwiches and went on with what he had been doing. Learning foreign languages, was it? All right, why not?
Pinkie turned up with the food, very unhappy. Sam crouched above a book oblivious, coat and necktie off, mouth grim. Mademoiselle, in a chair beside him, looked exhausted. It couldn't have been exactly an inspiring picture. Sam realized this slowly and glanced up.
"Hiyah, Pinkie? Thanks. Just put the stuff on the table."
"What gives out here?" Pinkie demanded "Sam, the fight! The World's Championship! You're supposed to be there, man!"
"Let me get this straight," Sam turned back to Mademoiselle, indicating Pinkie with a jerk. "He's a friend of mine, see? So I don't use the vous on him, I give him the tu? Right?"
"Thirteen hours, Mr. Craig!" the woman moaned. "After so long, it is difficult to assimilate. You ---"
"But you are important, Sammy!" Pinkie protested. "That fight --"
"That stuff's all over with! In a year, maybe less -- I'll have people hanging on my words like mesmerized grapes. I want to be important! All right, Mademosielle let's have it again!"
"I knew it! howled Pinkie, suddenly, "He's crazy! I knew somethin' was wrong when I read in his column how he picked Dunlap to win!"
Sam whirled, "Column? What column? Who picked Dunlap?"
"The stuff you wrote today. Don't you ever read it? " Pinkie thrust a crumpled sports page toward him. "You know guy's washed up. So --"
LITTLE WOMAN"S FAITH WILL WIN FOR DUNLAP, SAYS CRAIG
There it was, right in front of his eyes. There in cold print!
LOVE AND THE COMEBACK TRY
"Who did it?" Sam shrieked. "Who wrote that tripe?"
"Who wrote it? Don't do this to me Sammy!"
But Sam was headed for the door already, dragging Pinkie behind him. They were on their way to the big fight. And whoever in the press section had signed Sam Craig's name to this bilge was going to pay plenty!
The boys pulled no punches as Sam shoved through the crowd at the Garden on the way to his seat. An uncertain baritone hummed Hearts and Flowers in the background and hard-bitten newsmen began to dab handkerchiefs at their eyes. Burning, Sam couldn't blame them.
"Al Dunlap will whip the Champ tonight. As surely as the puny power of muscle must always bow to that invincible spirit which springs from the tender, constant devotion of a woman to her man ---"
Cripes! Whoever wrote that tripe had certainly hated Sam Craig. But who could it --- Sam tried to stop thinking. The crowd was on its feet. The big scrap was on. Al Dunlap rushed from his corner with such speed and force that the Champ was taken off guard. The first four blows were Dunlap's and the last of them took the favorite off his feet to kiss the canvas. All along the row, astonished writers twisted to stare at Sam again. And Sam stared back at them, the most astonished man of all.
Now the Champ was up again. But a soft voice, speaking in Sam's ear, had made him forget there was a ring. "Hello, Mr. Craig."
"Aren't you a little off your beat?", he grated.
"No, I'm exactly where I should be." Tess sank into half a space beside him. "Isn't it wonderful -- about Dunlap's winning, I mean? It certainly makes you a pretty smart picker, doesn't it?"
"Oh, so you read the column," Sam swallowed grimly. "Probably the first column of mine you ever read and you had to pick that one. I did not pick Dunlap. And I wouldn't have written that tear-jerking hokum at the point of a gun!"
"What do you mean, hokum?" Tess gasped. "Sam -- I wrote it."
He could only stare at her, cold in his anger. "Why?"
"We didn't know where you were. It had to be written -- I -- I knew one of the boys could cover for you. But it wasn't their job. It was mine." her eyes were shining. The perfect little woman of fiction!
"Take it easy, Tess," Sam warned, still not believing this was happening. "You're still writing that -- that column."
She shook her head. "No darling, no! I'm trying to live it now. I went out to Dunlap's training quarters, and there was Mrs. Dunlap -- knitting for him. I talked to her, and she told me all about how she gets behind him and makes him believe in himself even when everyone else thinks he's a has-been, and suddenly -- oh, everything became so clear to me! I haven't been a woman or a wife or anything!"
The crowd was going crazy at whatever was happening in the ring. But Sam couldn't be bothered to watch it. "And now you know?"
"We'll move out of the apartment and get a little house out of town somewhere. I'll learn how to take care of it, and you."
"You're not talking sense," Sam muttered. "You can't fix you and me up with an apron and a dusting cap. You can't make it work."
Tess tossed her lovely head. "I will too make it work! It'll work just as sure as Al Dunlap will win this fight!"
The words mingled with a rising roar as the figure of Dunlap came hurtling through the ropes and sprawled unconscious at their feet. Tess stared down at it, shocked horror in her eyes. Suddenly, she covered her face with her hands. They were shaking pitifully. Sam scarcely knew just how it was that his arms got around her. But there it was.
"Look, honey. Al will have a headache tomorrow. But a nice piece of change goes with it. He and Mrs. Al are going to buy a farm up-country and live up there -- where they belong."
He turned her toward him gently. "Why do you have to go to extremes? First you wanted to be just Tess Harding. Now you want to be just Mrs. Sam Craig. What's wrong with Tess Hardin Graig?"
She looked up at him, understanding slowly. "Sam -- I think it's a wonderful name! Kiss me, darling! It's a wonderful name!"
Below is the original ending of Woman of the Year.
The source is the March, 1942 edition of Screen Romances, a fan magazine of the era that published pictures from and the plots of current films. Because there was a considerable lead time for publishing magazines in those days, it appears that the original ending of the film was given to the magazine rather than it's alternate ending.
"Pinkie turned up with the food, very unhappy. Sam crouched above a book oblivious, coat and necktie off, mouth grim."
(The story diverges after Sam returns Chris to the Greek orphanage.)
Sam cleared out his clothes at the apartment, and left his key on the teletype where Tess couldn't miss it. Then he went out and got drunk. So drunk that he could forget about ambassadors and wars and conferences and plaques and brillant columns and Tess Harding and the whole blasted mess.
But it didn't look much like success, that vigorous campaign of forgetting, when he started to come out of it late the next evening. He seemed to be in the apartment of a some woman named Mademoiselle Sylvia who taught French. And crumpled in one corner there seemed to be a young man quite exhausted, who taught Spanish.
Sam telephoned Pinkie's bar for sandwiches and went on with what he had been doing. Learning foreign languages, was it? All right, why not?
Pinkie turned up with the food, very unhappy. Sam crouched above a book oblivious, coat and necktie off, mouth grim. Mademoiselle, in a chair beside him, looked exhausted. It couldn't have been exactly an inspiring picture. Sam realized this slowly and glanced up.
"Hiyah, Pinkie? Thanks. Just put the stuff on the table."
"What gives out here?" Pinkie demanded "Sam, the fight! The World's Championship! You're supposed to be there, man!"
"Let me get this straight," Sam turned back to Mademoiselle, indicating Pinkie with a jerk. "He's a friend of mine, see? So I don't use the vous on him, I give him the tu? Right?"
"Thirteen hours, Mr. Craig!" the woman moaned. "After so long, it is difficult to assimilate. You ---"
"But you are important, Sammy!" Pinkie protested. "That fight --"
"That stuff's all over with! In a year, maybe less -- I'll have people hanging on my words like mesmerized grapes. I want to be important! All right, Mademosielle let's have it again!"
"I knew it! howled Pinkie, suddenly, "He's crazy! I knew somethin' was wrong when I read in his column how he picked Dunlap to win!"
Sam whirled, "Column? What column? Who picked Dunlap?"
"The stuff you wrote today. Don't you ever read it? " Pinkie thrust a crumpled sports page toward him. "You know guy's washed up. So --"
LITTLE WOMAN"S FAITH WILL WIN FOR DUNLAP, SAYS CRAIG
There it was, right in front of his eyes. There in cold print!
LOVE AND THE COMEBACK TRY
"Who did it?" Sam shrieked. "Who wrote that tripe?"
"Who wrote it? Don't do this to me Sammy!"
But Sam was headed for the door already, dragging Pinkie behind him. They were on their way to the big fight. And whoever in the press section had signed Sam Craig's name to this bilge was going to pay plenty!
The boys pulled no punches as Sam shoved through the crowd at the Garden on the way to his seat. An uncertain baritone hummed Hearts and Flowers in the background and hard-bitten newsmen began to dab handkerchiefs at their eyes. Burning, Sam couldn't blame them.
"Al Dunlap will whip the Champ tonight. As surely as the puny power of muscle must always bow to that invincible spirit which springs from the tender, constant devotion of a woman to her man ---"
Cripes! Whoever wrote that tripe had certainly hated Sam Craig. But who could it --- Sam tried to stop thinking. The crowd was on its feet. The big scrap was on. Al Dunlap rushed from his corner with such speed and force that the Champ was taken off guard. The first four blows were Dunlap's and the last of them took the favorite off his feet to kiss the canvas. All along the row, astonished writers twisted to stare at Sam again. And Sam stared back at them, the most astonished man of all.
Now the Champ was up again. But a soft voice, speaking in Sam's ear, had made him forget there was a ring. "Hello, Mr. Craig."
"Aren't you a little off your beat?", he grated.
"No, I'm exactly where I should be." Tess sank into half a space beside him. "Isn't it wonderful -- about Dunlap's winning, I mean? It certainly makes you a pretty smart picker, doesn't it?"
"Oh, so you read the column," Sam swallowed grimly. "Probably the first column of mine you ever read and you had to pick that one. I did not pick Dunlap. And I wouldn't have written that tear-jerking hokum at the point of a gun!"
"What do you mean, hokum?" Tess gasped. "Sam -- I wrote it."
He could only stare at her, cold in his anger. "Why?"
"We didn't know where you were. It had to be written -- I -- I knew one of the boys could cover for you. But it wasn't their job. It was mine." her eyes were shining. The perfect little woman of fiction!
"Take it easy, Tess," Sam warned, still not believing this was happening. "You're still writing that -- that column."
She shook her head. "No darling, no! I'm trying to live it now. I went out to Dunlap's training quarters, and there was Mrs. Dunlap -- knitting for him. I talked to her, and she told me all about how she gets behind him and makes him believe in himself even when everyone else thinks he's a has-been, and suddenly -- oh, everything became so clear to me! I haven't been a woman or a wife or anything!"
The crowd was going crazy at whatever was happening in the ring. But Sam couldn't be bothered to watch it. "And now you know?"
"We'll move out of the apartment and get a little house out of town somewhere. I'll learn how to take care of it, and you."
"You're not talking sense," Sam muttered. "You can't fix you and me up with an apron and a dusting cap. You can't make it work."
Tess tossed her lovely head. "I will too make it work! It'll work just as sure as Al Dunlap will win this fight!"
The words mingled with a rising roar as the figure of Dunlap came hurtling through the ropes and sprawled unconscious at their feet. Tess stared down at it, shocked horror in her eyes. Suddenly, she covered her face with her hands. They were shaking pitifully. Sam scarcely knew just how it was that his arms got around her. But there it was.
"Look, honey. Al will have a headache tomorrow. But a nice piece of change goes with it. He and Mrs. Al are going to buy a farm up-country and live up there -- where they belong."
He turned her toward him gently. "Why do you have to go to extremes? First you wanted to be just Tess Harding. Now you want to be just Mrs. Sam Craig. What's wrong with Tess Hardin Graig?"
She looked up at him, understanding slowly. "Sam -- I think it's a wonderful name! Kiss me, darling! It's a wonderful name!"