“Monkees a la Mode” Script

INT. CHIC OFFICE

QUAGMEYER:
Well, now, is it too much to ask the two of you to come up with a subject for our annual Young America issue? Rob Roy?

ROB ROY:
Madame Quagmeyer, I’ve photographed a dozen possibilities. Davies Van Patten, the polo champion. Vernon Equinox, the socialite.

QUAGMEYER:
Stale, stale, stale! What we need is something fresh and new.

TOBY:
Madame Q, I met a group of boys last week that were all that and more.

QUAGMEYER:
Ah. Possible. Possible.

ROB ROY:
Long-haired weirdos.

QUAGMEYER:
Hideous. But what difference does it make? We’ll make them over into our own image.

INT. THE PAD

MIKE:
Huh.

PETER:
Hm?

MIKE:
I guess it came by special messenger or something. Found it laying on the doorstep.

DAVY:
Hey, we don’t subscribe to Chic magazine, do we?

MIKE:
I’m hip. It’s a fashion magazine. Says here, “Necklines are plunging lower every year. This year, the V will go down to the tummy in something of a peekaboo effect. Get into the swing of fashions and have your own naval observatory.”

DAVY:
You must be joking.

MIKE:
You’re right. I am; it doesn’t say that at all.

DAVY:
Here, give me that. Hey, hey, listen to this. “Why not take little metal bottle tops and nail them to your living room floor? It gives you the impression that you are walking upon little metal bottle tops.”

PETER:
Hey, look. There’s a letter in here.

DAVY:
What’s it say?

PETER:
It’s from, it’s from a Madame Quagmeyer.

MIKE:
She probably signs her name in brown ink too.

PETER:
How did you know?

MICKY:
Hey, this is, this is for real. It says we’ve been chosen as the typical young Americans of the year.

“(Theme From) The Monkees”

DAVY:
I don’t like that typical young person stuff.

PETER:
Hey, this magazine isn’t so bad, guys. I mean, it’s got a lot of silly articles, I know, about like clothes and, and hair and stuff like that, but it’s also got a serial every month. This month, it’s cornflakes.

“(Theme From) The Monkees”

INT. THE PAD

MICKY:
This letter says that the writer and photographer should be here any minute.

DAVY:
Hark! I hear a knock upon yon door. Ooh! Oh, hello. Uh, why don’t you, uh, come in?

MICKY:
Hi. I-I’m, uh, Micky Do—aye.

ROB ROY:
They won’t do.

MIKE:
Wait-wait-wait. Wait a minute, what do? Do what?

ROB ROY:
Do. Do.

MIKE:
I beg to differ with you. Madame Quagmeyer wrote us a letter and said we would do. I’m not sure what kind of do, but we’ll do something.

ROB ROY:
I’m Rob Roy Fingerhead, the chief staff photographer. This is Toby Willis; she’ll write the story.

TOBY:
You see, what we wanna do is show what you are and the way you live.

DAVY:
What, huh huh, you wanna get us arrested? Don’t do that.

ROB ROY:
Now, as you know, Chic is the magazine of style. Now then, where’s your style?

MIKE:
Hm? Oh, well, we usually keep it in the bathtub.

PETER:
We, we have this picture.

ROB ROY:
I just walked into a house filled with cheap, ugly claptrap, and he’s showing me a picture of a cow.

PETER:
Well, it’s a nice cow, it—

ROB ROY:
You like living here?

PETER:
Very much.

ROB ROY:
Then why you looking so pained?

PETER:
’Cause you’re standing on my hand.

ROB ROY:
Oh.

DAVY:
I know it doesn’t look like much, but the rent’s very reasonable.

ROB ROY:
More than a dollar a month?

TOBY:
Perhaps we should take a look outside?

ROB ROY:
It’s impossible. I can’t photograph these boys; I can’t shoot anything in this house.

DAVY:
Hey, just a minute.

ROB ROY:
Don’t do that.

DAVY:
It just so happens that some of the things in this house have great historical significance. For instance. See this? This hatchet here? Now, this was owned by a very, very important person.

INT. THE PAD

MIKE:
George, who chopped up my new table?

PETER:
Search me.

INT. THE PAD

MICKY:
Would you believe that this lantern—

EXT. THE PAD

MICKY:
The British are coming! The B—???—the British are coming! Oh, sorry. The British are coming! Oh, three thou… lanterns for the… sea by tonight, two by the sea… the British are com… the British are… the British are coming… over to my house for a party tonight. A ha ha ha.

INT. THE PAD

ROB ROY:
Very well. What Madame Q wants, and she’ll get it.

MICKY:
Look, you don’t have to, well, you see—

MIKE:
Wait a minute. Hey, Rob, hey. Hey, look, uh, Miss Willis, I don’t, I don’t think we’ll be any good for your magazine article.

TOBY:
Why not?

MIKE:
Because we’re not, uh, typical young people. Well, we are typical young people, but, uh, well, well, young people just aren’t typical anything.

TOBY:
Look, fellas, you don’t understand the magazine business. Rob Roy isn’t such a creep, and think of what that creep could do for your careers. Now, Madame Q expects you at, at her office tomorrow at nine. Fellas, please? Trust me?

DAVY:
We’ll be there.

MICKY:
Okay.

DAVY:
We’ll be there.

MICKY:
Boy.

DAVY:
What have we got to lose, fellas?

MICKY, MIKE, PETER:
Our shirts!

INT. CHIC OFFICE

QUAGMEYER:
No! That is the worst looking dummy I have ever seen.

PETER:
Madame Quagmeyer?

QUAGMEYER:
I retract that statement.

PETER:
You may not remember about us.

QUAGMEYER:
Your intuition is faultless.

PETER:
We’re The Monkees. Typical young people of the year?

“(Theme From) The Monkees”

QUAGMEYER:
Oh. A-huh. Oh, yes. Of course. The Monkees. Girls, introduce yourselves.

COLLINS:
Miss Collins, Vassar, sixty-four.

OSBORNE:
Miss Osborne, Bryn Mawr, sixty-three.

DE LESSUPS:
Miss, uh, de Lessups, Bennington, sixty-two.

MIKE:
Mike Nesmith, Eagle Scout, sixty-one.

QUAGMEYER:
Well, ladies, I leave you to gather all the background data on the boys. Ta-ta.

MICKY:
[gibberish]

DE LESSUPS:
Where were you born?

MICKY:
In the mythical Far Eastern city of Shanghai.

DE LESSUPS:
Really?

MICKY:
No, I lied. Burbank.

PETER:
Do you two know any duets?

COLLINS:
And you, where did you say you were from?

MIKE:
Well, I didn’t say, but I’m from Texas.

COLLINS:
Texas? Whatever were you doing way out there?

MIKE:
Well, I realize it’s probably beyond your scope, but I lived there.

DE LESSUPS:
You boys have, uh, never made the best dressed list. How do you account for that?

MICKY:
Lousy boots.

COLLINS:
Now, what did you say your name was? Mr. Nes what?

MIKE:
Mith. Nesmith!

OSBORNE:
Tell me, Mr. Jones, what do you look for in a girl?

DAVY:
Well, um, uh, it all depends what I’ve lost. Heh.

INT. CHIC OFFICE

ROB ROY:
No. Before I shoot you, I’ve got to teach you how to stand. Your posture is horrendous.

PETER:
Thank you.

ROB ROY:
Look, Quasimodo, you’ve got to improve your posture.

PETER:
What’s wrong with my posture?

ROB ROY:
Stand up against the post. Shoulders back. There, now doesn’t that feel better?

PETER:
No.

ROB ROY:
Why not?

PETER:
There’s a nail in the post.

ROB ROY:
No, no. You’ve got to learn how to pose. Mm, mm, mm, see the, no, no, no, no, no, no, up, the arm, arm, up, up. Keep the arm up. Arm up.

DAVY:
Hey, wait, wait, wait. Come here. Come here. Is this absolutely necessary?

ROB ROY:
That’s it! That’s it! That’s it!

ASSISTANT:
Phone call for you, Rob Roy.

ROB ROY:
Huh? Oh, uh, now, don’t move; I’ll be right back.

INT. CHIC OFFICE

ROB ROY:
Now, remember this. Good taste demands that we know how to combine colors in the things that we wear. Please stop that, because if you don’t, I’m going to have to kill you. Now, pay attention and remember this. Olive socks with black shoes with gray slacks with a blue shirt with a red tie.

MICKY:
I get it. Black shirt with a blue tie and a red shirt with a green tie—

ROB ROY:
No, no, no, no. You’re not paying attention. I’ll start it from the top again.

ROB ROY, MICKY:
Blue shirt!

ROB ROY:
Gray slacks!

MICKY:
Blue shirt! Gray slacks! Olive socks! Blue shirt! Hey, that’s pretty. I like that an awful lot.

ROB ROY:
You stop that!

MICKY:
What, blue shirt.

ROB ROY:
Blue shirt. We’ll take it from the top.

MICKY:
Black.

ROB ROY:
You pay attention to me and we’ll be no more—

MICKY:
Green, blue. Shirt. Hold it! How about a plain purple business suit?

“Laugh”

INT. CHIC OFFICE

TOBY:
Madame, I’ve got the story on The Monkees.

QUAGMEYER:
Oh, Toby, dear, lovely. Just what I’ve been waiting for.

TOBY:
Oh, I think it captures them just the way they are.

QUAGMEYER:
Just the way they are, eh? Good. I shall waste no time reading it. I shall definitely waste no time reading it. Rob Roy, Miss Willis has turned in her story on The Monkees. It is accurate, truthful, and completely factual.

ROB ROY:
Is she out to destroy us?

QUAGMEYER:
Apparently. I want you to take a crack at it.

ROB ROY:
I anticipated you, Madame.

QUAGMEYER:
Hm. Devoon.

INT. THE PAD

MIKE:
Well, today’s the day that the Chic magazine’s supposed to come out.

PETER:
Yeah, I wonder what that article has to say.

FRIENDSHIP RING GIRL:
Here’s your friendship ring.

DAVY:
I wonder what came over her.

MICKY:
Hi, Linda.

MIKE:
Thought you handled that rather well. [on the phone] Hello? Hey, buddy, good to hear from you. You di—huh? Wh-wh-what do you mean? Well,you—well, the same to ya! G—[hangs up] Well, this just doesn’t seem to be our day, does it? Heh heh.

MICKY:
What was that?

DAVY:
Maybe it’s an ad for a glass factory.

PETER:
No.

MIKE:
“You guys are no good, you never were any good, you never will be any good. Signed, a friend.”

PETER:
Boy, this has been some day. At least we’re having our article printed in a nice magazine.

DAVY:
Oh, hi, Toby.

TOBY:
Hi, Davy. Hi, guys.

PETER:
Hey Tobe.

MICKY:
Hey, she’s got a copy of the magazine.

TOBY:
You mean you haven’t read it yet?

DAVY:
No. Why—

MIKE:
Well, no we haven’t read it, but I have a feeling that some of our friends have. What does it say?

TOBY:
“The Monkees are the typical fun people. The devoon madcap boys for whom every day is just one gay adventure.”

MIKE:
Well, that sounds like it was written by a sick leprechaun.

TOBY:
Rob Roy, to be exact.

MIKE:
A-ha, well, it’s the same thing then.

TOBY:
“The boys are gourmets all. Their favorite delicacy being pheasant under glass. Their favorite sports are polo and croquet.”

DAVY:
Come on.

MIKE:
It’s unbelievable.

TOBY:
“Their taste in music runs to chamber music and organ recitals.”

MIKE:
Completely loon crazy.

PETER:
Well, it must be true; it’s written there in black and white.

DAVY:
Oh, Peter.

TOBY:
I want you to know I quit my job today.

DAVY:
You didn’t have to do that, Toby. Why’d you do a thing like that? We never believe anything that’s in a magazine anyway.

MICKY [on the phone]:
Hello, huh? Oh, hey, it’s telegram from Madame Quagmeyer. Uh, to remind us to, uh-huh, be at the banquet tonight. Uh, it’s in our honor, and it’s to present us with the Young, uh, American people trophy award thing.

“(Theme From) The Monkees”

MICKY:
Uh, uh, could you sing that back? [hangs up]

DAVY:
Send her a telegram.

MICKY:
Right.

DAVY:
Monkee telegram twenty-six A.

MICKY [on the phone]:
Monkee telegram twenty-six A.

DAVY:
Collect.

MICKY:
Collect.

DAVY:
The one that reads you can take your trophy and—

INT. BANQUET HALL

QUAGMEYER:
Once each year, Chic magazine invites you, our advertisers, to watch us award the annual editor’s trophy to a fine young American. This year, we have a group of young people who are the epitome of everything for which Chic magazine stands: The Monkees.

MIKE:
Well, thank you very much.

PETER:
Hello.

DAVY:
Hello.

MICKY:
Hello.

MIKE:
Hello.

MICKY:
Hi everybody. How are you? Order in the room! Order in the room! Oh, thank you very much. How are you? Hi everybody.

QUAGMEYER:
Thank you very much. Thank you.

MICKY:
Hi everybody, hi.

MIKE:
All gussied up there, you look nice, jewelry hanging off.

QUAGMEYER:
Now, let me introduce them to you one at a time. First, we have the picture of grace: Peter Tork. Well, and next, we have the, the embodiment of the chic coiffure: Davy Jones.

MIKE:
Way to go. Way to go, Davy. That’s a nice surprise.

QUAGMEYER:
Oh, next, we have the, the paragon of quiet gentility: Micky Dolenz.

MIKE:
It’s time. Time to go on, Mick. No, no, it’s quiet gentility.

MICKY:
Shh.

MIKE:
You know. Shy or quiet.

MICKY:
Testing, testing, testing! One, two, three, testing. Hi there, ladies and gentlemen, hobos and tramps, ??? and all millionaires. Hi, everybody out there in high fashion land. How are you, baby? I’m kinda new in town. Can you direct me to your apartment? Ha ha!

QUAGMEYER:
Thank you, Mr. Dolenz.

MICKY:
You like that? Alright. Mwah! I love you. Oh, you’re beautiful! Thanks, everybody! Ha ha!

QUAGMEYER:
Thank you, Mr. Dolenz. And lastly, we have Mike Nesmith, who will receive the award for the boys. Thank you, Mr. Nesmith.

MIKE:
Hold on there, Quaggie-poo. I got a few things to say. Thank you very much. Um, we appreciate this, uh, trophy and everything, but, uh, well, we really don’t feel like we can accept it because, um, well, we really don’t deserve it. We’d like to give this trophy to the man who, who made us what we are today, and who is responsible, almost directly, for everything you’ve seen here. Huh. Mr. Rob Roy Fingerhead. And so, everybody, here’s crazy Rob Roy now. He’s gonna come up here and accept this trophy, and I hope that Rob Roy takes this trophy and just loves it.

ROB ROY:
I broke my camera.

MICKY:
It was a mercy killing.

MIKE:
Just keeps it warm and cozy.

QUAGMEYER:
Get ’em out of here, you fool! If I lose those advertisers, I’m gonna lose my job! Get out! Out! Out! Out! Get ’em out!

MIKE:
Thank you, Rob.

QUAGMEYER:
Ooh!

MIKE:
I’m very glad and pleased that Rob Roy is here to accept this trophy—

QUAGMEYER:
Get ’em out of here!

MIKE:
I’m glad that you all—

QUAGMEYER:
Get ’em out! Out! Out!

MIKE:
Because you’re the people who support this, and because you support, we’d like to thank you.

QUAGMEYER:
Out, out!

MICKY:
That’ll be thirty-seven dollars.

ROB ROY:
Mrs. Quagmeyer, take it easy.

DAVY:
Here we go.

MICKY:
Forty-seven dollars for these flowers.

INT. CHIC OFFICE

MIKE:
Um, hello. Um, uh, hello. Uh, say, listen, we understood you had a new editor. We thought we’d come, uh, see about getting maybe a retraction or something.

TOBY:
Retraction, my foot!

DAVY:
Uh, Toby, a-are you the new editor?

TOBY:
And why not? What’s so surprising about that?

DAVY:
Well, you know, it’s a very responsible job.

TOBY:
Well, I’ve got some of the best assistants in the business. Right?

QUAGMEYER, ROB ROY:
Right, Miss Willis.

DAVY:
Oh.

MICKY:
The shoe’s on the other foot, so to speak.

MIKE:
Boy, really got you there, didn’t he?

“You Just May Be the One”