Five Children and It (2004)
Cyril: Hello, Horace.
Horace: I was taught never to talk to strangers.
Cyril: But we're your cousins.
Horace: Yes, but you're strange.
Mother: Robert! Robert, wait! Now, Uncle Albert will meet you at the station.
Robert: Do you think he'll have model planes? Fighters, like the ones Dad will be flying?
Mother: I'm not sure, dear, but he does have a son called Horace who's about your age. He might.
Father: Cyril, you're in charge now. Children, you're all to listen to Cyril while we're away.
Robert: Why is he in charge? You're not in charge of me!
Cyril: Robert, I am.
Robert: Dad, is there any way I can come with you?
Father: Robert, who is the most important member of any mission?
Robert: You are. The pilot.
Father: No, it's the navigator. A pilot would be lost without one. Your mum and I need you to keep everyone on course.
Robert: You can count on me.
Father: [hands him a compass] So you always know where to find me.
Anthea: Robert, wait for us!
Robert: I'm sure we're going the right way.
Jane: How many times have you said that? I still don't understand why we had to leave home.
Robert: Jane, we're going on a secret mission behind enemy lines. The chances are that none of us will make it back alive.
Cyril: Good evening, Madam. We're looking for our Uncle Albert. We are...
Martha: Five children? Oh, my goodness! But you're not due till Friday!
Cyril: Today is Friday.
Martha: It is? But I have a goose in the oven. Goose is Thursdays. Oh, never mind. Come in. Come in. Come on, come on. Tuesday's duck, Wednesday's duck, Thursday's goose. Now put your cases down. It's duck, duck, goose! We must have had Wednesday on Tuesday and Monday on Sunday.
Martha: Well, it's just one day, I suppose. Last year we lost October. It's not an easy thing to do, you know, lose a whole month. I'll get you some towels, and tell your Uncle you've arrived.
Cyril: Uncle, It's me, Cyril. You came to my eighth birthday party. You gave me a subscription to Algebra Monthly.
Uncle Albert: Cyril? Cyril! No, Cyril was a much smaller boy.
Cyril: But that was five years ago.
Uncle Albert: Was it? Well, err... I should think he'd be about your age by now.
Uncle Albert: I wonder what he's doing.
Robert: I can eat a whole goose by myself.
Uncle Albert: Well, if it is Friday as you assert, then goose was yesterday so you'll have to wait till err... next Thursday.
Robert: But there is a goose in the oven, and today is Friday!
Uncle Albert: Ah, well, Martha. Looks like Thursday's gone missing with last October.
Uncle Albert: Rule Three: Laundry three times a week. Very important, you know. The British Empire was built on clean pants. Clean pants and...
Horace: Mint sauce?
Uncle Albert: Don't be ridiculous, Horace. Rule four: Never, ever go into... the greenhouse.
Robert: The greenhouse.
Robert: Come on, I can see light!
Jane: There's sea up ahead, and it's not raining!
Robert: It's beautiful!
Cyril: Robert, wait!
Robert: Look at it!
Psammead: I am a Sand Fairy!
Jane: A Sand Fairy? I thought fairies had little ballet dresses and wings and wands.
Psammead: What on earth have you been reading?
Jane: I'll call you Sandy.
Jane: Because we found you in the sand.
Psammead: You're so funny. Have your parents tried boiling you?
Uncle Albert: He went mad, you know. Completely bonkers. Lost his marbles. Fell out of his tree. Oak, I think.
Cyril: Robert, wait, where are you going?
Robert: Here's a clue. It rhymes with hand hairy.
Cyril: No way, we're not going back. You saw all the trouble that wish got us into.
Robert: Oh look, this must be the pole that's been sticking up Cyril's ...
Cyril: Back off! You can insult me all you like, but ...
Robert: Thanks, but I'll save that for later. I'm going, whether you're coming or not.
Jane: Hand hairy? Sand fairy!
Jane: That hole doesn't look very comfortable. Would you like to come and sit next to me, like Flopsy? He's my rabbit.
Psammead: You have a rabbit called Flopsy? Has he got no spine? Your ability with naming things is not very good, child.
Psammead: Were the vases smashed to smithereens?
Psammead: Add the floor flooded and dictionaries drenched?
Cyril: They were.
Psammead: And the house burned to the ground?
Psammead: House didn't burn to the ground? I'd say you got off pretty lightly then, all things considered.
Robert: Not so fast, Sand Fairy!
Cyril: You made them ruin the house on purpose, didn't you?
Psammead: Look, it's not me, it's the rules. You make a wish, it goes horribly wrong, and then you learn something valuable.
Robert: That's terrible. I don't need to learn anything!
Psammead: Of course, everything is back to normal by sunset.
Cyril: That's not a car. That is the Portman Speedster 3000, and according to Motor-Car Monthly, the 3000 is the fastest motor of all time. We're talking eight horsepower.
Anthea: If it's so wonderful, why don't you just buy it?
Robert: Yeah, buy the car, Cyril!
Peasemarsh: There's just the small matter of a deposit in case of misadventure.
Jane: Ours are always misadventures.
Peasemarsh: I dare say.
Anthea: Oh my gosh, I've got wings!
Jane: So soft, so white...
Cyril: The little - He must've made a wish! He's out of control. I don't know how I'm gonna cut it. What am I gonna tell Mum? Look at you!
Cyril: You've done it again. What were you thinking?
Robert: I'm going to France to see Dad!
Robert: His letter said he wished he could fly to see us. He can't, but we can fly to him. Come on!
Cyril: Robert, wait!
Jane: Mummy, I can't believe you're home!
Robert: Mum, we didn't know you were coming!
Jane: Did you get my letter?
Mother: Yes, I did, precious.
Cyril: Something's wrong.
Mother: It's your father.
Robert: Is he here?
Mother: No, Robert. His plane went down behind enemy lines several days ago. He's missing.
Robert: We have to help Dad.
Cyril: I know you want to, but we'll just have to wait for news.
Cyril: I'm sure everything ...
Robert: Sand Fairy, I need this wish.
Psammead: If you wait, I can grant you a wish when dawn comes, but not before.
Robert: But you'll do it?
Psammead: Yes, but child, what then? The wish will fade at sunset, you know that.
Robert: Maybe this wish won't fade.
Psammead: You know it will.
Robert: What's the point in wishes that don't last?
Psammead: Magic. Faith. That is nature. I can show you the way, but in the end, it is up to you.
Cyril: Okay, Sand Fairy, all we wish is for our dad to come home safely, and that's all.
Psammead: You don't get many cards these days. You know how it is after your 6,523rd birthday.
Anthea: You don't look that old.
Psammead: I drink a lot of moisturizer.
Jane: And you can't have a birthday without a present. Here.
Psammead: Brown paper, my favorite!
Jane: No, you have to unwrap it.
Psammead: Oh, yes, I knew that.
Robert: It was the Summer of nineteen seventeen and the world was at war. Like lots of children, we had to leave our home. - Leave London. We didn't want to go, but Dad went to fly planes, and Mum went to look after the wounded, and we were stuck. They insisted we go to the country, to stay with mad Uncle Albert and our cousin Horace.
Train Conductor: Mind the doors!
Martha: These are the children I was telling you about. Your nephews and nieces.
Uncle Albert: Impossible. They're not due 'till Friday. Isn't that right, Horace
Horace: Yes, Father. Not due 'till Friday.
Robert: Today is Friday.
Uncle Albert: Can't be.
Uncle Albert: Smell that. That's Thursday.
Martha: In the morning, I'll give you a tour of the grounds. You're allowed everywhere except the greenhouse. That's strictly off limits.
Jane: Why would a greenhouse be off limits?
Anthea: Maybe the plants are deadly, like in "The Black Rose Of Devil's Island".
Martha: The greenhouse is off limits because I said it is. So just stay out of it, and everything will be fine. Here we go.
Robert: [Jane is playing her violin] I knew I should have hid that thing back at home. Oh, no. There must be a wounded cat in the room. Jane, put that thing down and help me look. Here, Kitty, Kitty.
Cyril: Take that back.
Robert: You can't tell me what to do!
Cyril: I can and you jolly well know it.
Robert: I hate it here!
Uncle Albert: Ah, children. I expect you could do with a spot of lunch.
Martha: Come on. Sit down, sit down, sit down.
Uncle Albert: But before that, second Saturday of the month. You all know what that means. Second Saturday. Statutes, laws, edicts, regulations... rules. Exciting times children. Time to grasp the Goblet of Goodness.
Robert: [walking into the Greenhouse] Now, did Martha say that we were not to go in here, or that we were not to miss going in here. She wasn't very clear. Grapes!
Cyril: Stop fooling around. Come here.
Robert: You were saying something about not being in the Greenhouse.
Psammead: Stay back!
Cyril: [to Robert] You have to stop talking to it. It could be dangerous.
Anthea: I bet it has huge fangs and poisonous saliva.
Robert: It's an ugly little monster.
Psammead: "It"? "It"? "It"? Do you mean to tell me that you do not know what a Psammead is?
Robert: You're a what?
Psammead: I am a Psammead crustacea decapodlium wishasaurus. Got it?
Psammead: Alright, I will grant you your wishes. But I have a list of demands. My needs are minimal, but what I need is a state room, with a sunken bath, and those taps that go backwards and forwards. And I need a toothbrush made of gold. Not the bristles, of course, but the bit you hold. Gold bristles would hurt my gums, you see. Did that once. Anyway, I'd like white sand spread on the floor, preferably sand from the Bahamas. And a shower cap.
Anthea: Sand Fairy?
Psammead: Are you still here?
Anthea: Yes, and we wish...
Anthea: We wish for all the tasks on Uncle's list to be done by magic.
Cyril: She's right, you know. This is big. It's huge. It's immense. It's monumentally, colossally ginormous.
Jane: Is that even a word?
Anthea: Apparently it is now.
Robert: Horace, it's time we got to know one another.
Horace: No, it isn't.
Robert: I used to think that myself, but here we are. I'll start.
[walking into the basement]
Robert: Oh, great. Just what my day was missing. A tour of a dark smelly basement.
Horace: This is where I keep my monster collection.
Horace: Be careful. Don't get too close. You might get savaged.
Robert: By a dead star fish with an onion stuck on it.
Horace: It's not. It's called Megastarrium. And it's a monster. They're all monsters. Look!
Robert: That was scary. Very scary.
Robert: I was hoping you could teach me the more finer points of monster...
Horace: Monster Mastery.
Horace: You're in for a treat.
Robert: [to Cyril] There's no need to rush. Enjoy. Savor the sum. Let it wash over you. And once you gain its trust, it's yours for life.
Cyril: Three million, four hundred and sixty five thousand, two hundred and twenty two.
Uncle Albert: Say that again.
Cyril: Three million, four hundred and sixty five thousand, two hundred and twenty two.
Uncle Albert: A prime number of the Zeeman series. Toppety-notchety work, Squirrel - Cyril. It's my favorite series, although the Flugelstadt Succession runs it a close second. I'll show you Dr. Flugelstadt's book. He went mad, you know, completely bonkers. Lost his marbles. Fell out of his tree. Oak, I think.
Martha: What a to-do today turned out to be.
Jane: Oh... It wasn't us. Honestly, it was the sand fairy...
Martha: Sand fairy, huh?
Jane: Err... No!
Cyril: No. She didn't say "sand fairy", she said... She said...
Cyril: Safari. Yes.
Anthea: We were pretending to be on safari, and Cyril is an elephant.
Martha: A safari, of course. Well, now, if we all do as I do... we can undo all this to-do before tomorrow. Come along, you lot.
Uncle Albert: Oh, pendulous expression, furrowed brow. Bad news?
Martha: This letter from your publisher.
Uncle Albert: Yes, yes. Immaterial. Impact inconsequential.
Martha: They say they want to make big changes to your book.
Uncle Albert: They do?
Martha: Yes. It seems "Difficult Sums For Children" isn't catchy enough.
Uncle Albert: Catchy?
Martha: They're suggesting a new title. "Counting The Fun With Charlie Chicken". They're replacing you with a chicken.
Uncle Albert: Ridiculous.
Martha: Of course it is. We must write back and tell them immediately.
Uncle Albert: Just give me the name of the chicken and the address of his coop.
Martha: No, no, no. Your publishers. You can't have a counting chicken in your book.
Uncle Albert: Of course. No fingers. Can't count without fingers. No use. Oh, I suppose he could use wings. No, that's silly. He'd only get to two. Unless, err... Noah managed two by two. Gosh, that flood must have been a terrible set back.
Uncle Albert: Ahh... Hmm-hmm. Smells like rain. Great change is afoot.
Martha: You can sign this one?
Jane: What do you think?
Psammead: Ah, well... Very good, I like err... the use of light and shadow, it's very effective. The subject is hideous monster, of course. As the sun here melts, the monster, he is shocked! His hair's on end and... oh, it's me.
Cyril: I said, let's not go crazy.
Robert: Oh, shut up!
Jane: Hurry up.
Cyril: It's stuck.
Jane: Push it harder, Cyril.
Cyril: Buckets of the stuff.
Peasemarsh: Yeah, yeah, you and your gold. Nice lot you are. Tempting honest car dealers with your stolen gold.
Martha: That's quite enough. These children are with me.
Peasemarsh: Oh, an accomplice, I'll wager. Well I don't think they're gonna wriggle out of this one. Allow me.
Uncle Albert: [to Horace] Horace... Horace, you're becoming eccentric.
Cyril: [to Robert] How could it have been worse? You keep getting us into trouble!
Horace: I don't need friends, but I do need test subjects for my experiments.
Horace: I know you've got a secret, and when I catch you, I'll get it out of you.
Psammead: Here we go, Horace. I promised you a dinosaur. And you shall get what you deserve. This... is Gerald.
Jane: I've got you, Sand Fairy.
Psammead: [to Jane] Hello. You're my favorite one of the bunch, you know.
Anthea: I've got you too.
Psammead: [to Anthea] Well, you're my favorite one of the bunch, too.
Psammead: And you're very tall.
Cyril: Come on.
Psammead: Just burp me once.
Psammead: I think it means you haven't had a whole day's wish, contractually speaking. Therefore, you do have some wish allowance left over.
Mother: [to Robert about Horace] He's in shock. But he'll be okay. You did the right thing bringing him to me. Now... what happened?
Anthea: [about Horace] How is he?
Mother: Martha's been up with him all night. I told her to take a rest. I don't know what's wrong with him. He just keeps muttering about monsters and sand fairies.
Anthea: Maybe you should have a rest, too.