"THE LADYKILLERS"
Screenplay by
Joel Coen and Ethan Coen
Based on the 1955 movie
"The Ladykillers"
by William Rose
EXT. MISSISSIPPI RIVER - DAY
A BOAT
Specifically, a garbage scow.
We see it from ON HIGH, chugging down the placid but mighty
Mississippi.
Head credits play over COVERAGE of the garbage scow. No sound,
except for an incongruously heroic score.
The COVERAGE is a little rough, coarse-grained; along with
the overbearing score it almost suggests an industrial film
rather than a feature.
One piece of sound -- the toot of the boat's horn -- is
obviously library. And not a new library either.
The garbage scow passes under a bridge spanning the broad,
sluggish waters, and proceeds on to its landfill, a steaming
river island. Disturbed gulls and other scavenger birds rise
from where they were picking through trash. Their squawks,
like the boat horn, are not quite believable as SYNC.
The head credits end as the anthemic music resolves.
EXT. SAUCIER, MISSISSIPPI - DAY
AN OLD HOUND DOG
lies on the weather-grayed and -roughened planking of a front
porch. The porch is half-shaded from the noonday sun. It is
quiet except for the chirr of heat bugs, close by, and, very
distant, many voices in chorus, engaged in divine worship in
a Baptist church sufficiently far away that vagaries of breeze
fan them in and out of audibility.
We once again hear the toot of the scow's horn, distant now
and played as real, not slapdash effect. At this, the dog
lifts his nose to catch the breeze, sniffs, and then, whining,
lowers his head to the floor and covers his snout with his
forepaws. He huffs briefly and goes to sleep.
We DRIFT UP to show that the dog is sleeping before the
SAUCIER WORM STORE
Your source for worms, lures, etcetera, etcetera...
We TRAVEL OVER TO REVEAL that the modest one-story structure
houses two establishments; its other front door leads to the
SAUCIER MUNICIPAL BUILDING.
A campaign sign in the window on the municipal side shows a
black man of late middle-age beaming and giving the viewer a
thumbs-up:
RE-ELECT WAYNE WYNER SHERIFF/He Is Too Old to Go to Work.
INT. SAUCIER MUNICIPAL BUILDING - DAY
We hear snoring on top of a low, steady hissing sound.
We are DRIFTING toward the door of the lock-up, which stands
open. The small cell is empty, its bed neatly made.
A KEY
We are ARCING slowly around a jailer's key on a ring that
hangs from a nail. The OFFSCREEN snoring and whirring
continues.
The TRACK'S SHIFTING ANGLE now makes the light catch a spider
web spun between the key and the wall.
POLICE SCANNER
We DRIFT across the face of the radio. The peaceful steady
hissing jumps in louder at the CUT: it is uninterrupted: a
transmissionless, crimeless, misdemeanorless idle radio hiss.
The snoring is also louder here. As we TRAVEL OFF the radio
we are COMING ONTO a pair of feet propped up on the desktop.
They belong to SHERIFF WYNER, tipped back in his chair,
fingers laced on his chest, head lolling forward.
As the MOVING CAMERA FINALLY ENDS on him, there is the ring
of a telephone -- muffled, not present.
It nevertheless rouses the sheriff who almost strangles on a
snore as he awakes, and then rocks forward to pick up his
phone.
SHERIFF WYNER
Sheriff Wyner...
The muffled ringing continues; the sheriff looks, puzzled,
at the phone. Now the ringing stops and we hear a muffled
voice next door:
VOICE (O.S.)
Worms.
The sheriff replaces the phone, leans back again, adjusts
his hat, and is about to go back to sleep when we hear the
front door open.
The sheriff looks and reacts with genuine, if momentary,
fear.
He manages to compose himself and give the intruder a smile:
SHERIFF WYNER
Afternoon, Miz Munson.
Entering is an elderly black woman in a floral print dress
and fruited bonnet.
MRS. MUNSON
Afternoon, Sheriff. You know the
Funthes boy?
SHERIFF WYNER
...Mackatee Funthes?
MRS. MUNSON
No no, WeeMack! Mackatee's eldest!
SHERIFF WYNER
Oh yeah, believe I do.
MRS. MUNSON
Well, he's a good boy but he done
gone down to the Costco in Pascagoula
and got hisself a blastah -- and he
been playin' that music!
Wyner is not sure where this is going:
SHERIFF WYNER
Uh-huh...
MRS. MUNSON
Loud!
SHERIFF WYNER
Well--
MRS. MUNSON
"Left my wallet in El Segundo!"
SHERIFF WYNER
He--
MRS. MUNSON
Songs like that!
SHERIFF WYNER
Uh-huh...
MRS. MUNSON
Hippity-hop music!
SHERIFF WYNER
I could--
MRS. MUNSON
You know they call it hippity-hop
music, but it don't make me wanna go
hippity-hop!
SHERIFF WYNER
No ma'am--
MRS. MUNSON
And Othar don't like that music
neither!
Sheriff Wyner now displays an exaggerated solicitousness:
SHERIFF WYNER
It's been disturbin' Othar then, has
it?
MRS. MUNSON
How could it help but do! That kind
of music! You know what they call
colored folks in them songs? Have
you got any idea?
SHERIFF WYNER
I don't think I--
MRS. MUNSON
NIGGAZ! I don't wanna say the word.
I won't say it twice, I'll tell you
that. I say it one time.
SHERIFF WYNER
Yes ma'am.
MRS. MUNSON
In the course a swearin' out my
complaint.
SHERIFF WYNER
Yes'm--
MRS. MUNSON
NIGGAZ! Two thousand years after
Jesus! Thirty years after Martin
Luther King! The age of Montel! Sweet
lord a-mercy, izzat where we at?
SHERIFF WYNER
Mm-mm--
MRS. MUNSON
WeeMack down to Pascagoula buyin' a
big thumpy stereo player?! So he can
listen to that word in the house
next to mine? Sheriff, you gotta
help that boy!
SHERIFF WYNER
Help him?
MRS. MUNSON
You gotta take an innarest! EXTEND
that helpin' hand!
SHERIFF WYNER
(dubious)
Well, we're here to help...
MRS. MUNSON
Well God bless ya. Don't wanna be
tried and found wantin'.
SHERIFF WYNER
No ma'am.
MRS. MUNSON
Many many tunkalow parzen, Sheriff
Wyner. Many many tunkalow parzen!
SHERIFF WYNER
Many what ma'am?
MRS. MUNSON
You have been tried and found wanting.
Don't want that writin' on the wall!
SHERIFF WYNER
No ma'am--
MRS. MUNSON
Feast a Balthazar!
SHERIFF WYNER
Mm-hm.
MRS. MUNSON
John The Apostle said: Behold there
is a stranger in our midst, come to
destroy us!
SHERIFF WYNER
Yes ma'am.
EXT. SAUCIER MUNICIPAL BUILDING - DAY
Mrs. Munson closes the door behind her. She wags a paper fan
and mutters:
MRS. MUNSON
He's a good man. Just needs
instruction. Dog, you in peoples'
way.
The dog stirs with a whine and ambles off.
EXT. MUNSON HOUSE - DAY
With a neatly tended garden. It is the last house on a street
of other similarly modest but well maintained homes; beyond
it the street disappears down a bluff. The empty space beyond
suggests a wide river, and indeed we can see the top of an
anchored, gaudily painted paddle-boat poking over the rise.
The paddle-boat is apparently anchored at the near bank of
the river.
Mrs. Munson is entering by the gate. She stops in the garden
and stoops to pull a tiny weed marring the otherwise perfect
row of flowers.
I/E. MUNSON HOUSE - FOYER - DAY
Mrs. Munson lets herself in. A cat lopes up to her, the bell
around its neck tinkling, and leans mewing into her leg.
MRS. MUNSON
You need somethin' to eat, Angel?
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - KITCHEN - DAY
Mrs. Munson hand-cranks a can opener around a tin of cat
food.
MRS. MUNSON
Mm... gizzards...
The cat paces back and forth between her legs, leaning into
them and purring, responding to the snap of tin as the cover
comes off the can.
The can contains cubed processed gizzard in a gelatinous
medium like the stuff that clings to gefilte fish.
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
Above the fireplace is an oil portrait of a serious-looking
black man of late middle-age with a neatly groomed mustache
starting to gray. A couple of candles sit on the mantel below
the portrait, giving it the semblance of a shrine.
Mrs. Munson enters and lights the candles.
MRS. MUNSON
Othar, I went'n complained about
WeeMack, I hope it'll do some good.
That boy hangin' by a thread! Over
the pit! Fiery pit! "I Left My Wallet
in El Segundo"!
She shakes out the match and sits in a rocker and takes up
her knitting. As she sits she gives an audible groan.
MRS. MUNSON
...Sixty-seven years of life, forty-
six years of marriage, you mean to
tell me you never one time suffered
from piles? It's the human condition,
most humans anyway. Like that ball
player said: world's got two kinds
of folks -- them that's got piles
and them that's gonna get 'em. But
you was always healthy as an ox...
There is the distant moan of a riverboat horn.
MRS. MUNSON
...Passed on before you got piles.
Mmmmhmm. Thank the Lord you wasn't
sick. You don't wanna sicken 'n die.
No, you wanna pass nice 'n peaceful...
go to sleep one night, wake up in
the glory land... woof...
A gust of wind hums under the eaves; the candles below the
portrait flicker. As Mrs. Munson looks around the room,
vaguely towards the ceiling, sensing a negative aura, the
cat arches its back and hisses.
At this moment the doorbell rings.
MRS. MUNSON
...Well who's that now, Pickles?
She grunts as she hoists herself out of the chair.
I/E. MUNSON HOUSE - FOYER - NIGHT
She opens the door--
A draft--
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
The candles below the portrait of Othar go out, sending up
thin wisps of smoke.
I/E. MUNSON HOUSE - FOYER - NIGHT
The cat shrieks and bolts out the door, past the man on the
stoop: GOLDTHWAIT HIGGINSON DORR, III.
He is a middle-aged Southern gentleman wearing a panama hat
and a cape over a cream-colored suit. He has dark circles
under his eyes. The smile he attempts, mournful yet courtly,
is wiped away by:
MRS. MUNSON
PICKLES!
DORR
Ma'am?
MRS. MUNSON
Go get 'im!
DORR
I do beg your pardon?
MRS. MUNSON
Go get Pickles, I didn't let 'im
out!
DORR
(tasting the name)
Pickles...
EXT. MUNSON HOUSE - NIGHT
Dorr walks down the stoop followed by the old lady.
MRS. MUNSON
Oh, he's up the tree again. Your
gonna have to shimmy on up.
DORR
I am so terribly sorry, madam. But
won't the feline eventually tire of
his lonely perch and, pining for his
master's affection, return on his
own initiative?
MRS. MUNSON
Huh? No, he won't come down less you
fetch him. He'd set there til Gabriel
blows his horn if someone didn't
shimmy up. Up with you now!
DORR
Well then couldn't we perhaps offer
him kitty treats and enticements, or
if not foodstuffs perhaps squeaky
little toys of the kind formerly
manufactured in Hong Kong but now
produced in the other so-called
"Little Tigers"...
His fingers form the quotes.
DORR
...of the Pacific Rim? The point
bein', do we have to actually ascend
the tree--
MRS. MUNSON
Look, I don't want no doubletalk. If
you ain't gonna fetch him down I
guess I gotta call the po-lice...
DORR
Police...
His face darkens.
MRS. MUNSON
They ain't gonna be happy. Every
time they come fetch him down they
swear they won't do it no more...
Dorr casts his hat aside and starts awkwardly climbing the
tree. He gasps as he climbs:
DORR
No need to call the authorities. I
did this often as a youth -- why, I
was a positive lemur... Here, kitty...
The cat backs away down a branch, arching its back and
hissing.
MRS. MUNSON
Don't upset him, now!
Dorr, on his stomach, inches after the cat, grunting:
DORR
I wouldn't dream of it... harmless
little felix domesticus... Come to
G.H...
The branch breaks, hinging down to slam Dorr face-first into
the trunk, from where he drops the rest of the way to the
ground.
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
Othar's portrait, upside-down, seems to be looking bemusedly
down on us.
An OBJECTIVE ANGLE shows Dorr lying on the couch, a damp
washcloth on his forehead, eyes rolled back to look at the
picture.
Mrs. Munson is entering with a cup of tea. Dorr swings his
feet out to sit up and accept the tea.
DORR
I thank you, madam, for your act of
kindness.
MRS. MUNSON
Well you let him out.
DORR
I certainly did and I do apologize
no end. Allow me to present myself,
uh, formally: Goldthwait Higginson
Dorr, Ph.D.
MRS. MUNSON
What, like Elmer?
DORR
Beg your pardon, ma'am?
MRS. MUNSON
Fudd?
DORR
No no, Ph.D. is a mark of academic
attainment. It is a degree of higher
learning bestowed, in my case, in
recognition of my mastery of the
antique languages of Latin and Greek.
I also hold a number of other advanced
degrees including the baccalaureate
from a school in Paris, France, called
the Sorbonne.
Munson chuckles.
MRS. MUNSON
Sore bone, well I guess that's
appropriate. You ever study at Bob
Jones University?
DORR
I have not had that privilege.
MRS. MUNSON
It's a bible school, only the finest
in the country. I send them five
dollars every month.
DORR
That's very gener--
MRS. MUNSON
I'm on their mailing list. I'm an
Angel.
DORR
Indeed.
MRS. MUNSON
They list my name in the newsletter,
every issue. I got the literature
here, you wanna examine it.
DORR
Perhaps when my head has recovered
from its... buffeting. Mrs. Munson,
are you at all curious as to why I
darkened your door, as the expression
has it, on this lovely camelia-scented
morn?
MRS. MUNSON
I was wondering, til you let Pickles
out. Then in all the excitement--
DORR
I quite understand. The fact is that
I saw the sign on your window
advertising a room to let, and it is
the only such sign among the houses
of this charming, charming street.
MRS. MUNSON
Yeah, I got a room. I'm lookin' for
a quiet tenant. Fifteen dollars a
week
DORR
I quite understand. Madam, you are
addressing a man who is quiet -- and
yet not quiet, if I may offer a
riddle...
He sets down the teacup and rises.
DORR
...Perhaps you can show me the room,
Mrs. Munson, and allow me to explain.
MRS. MUNSON
Well you can see the room, but I
don't like double-talk.
Mrs. Munson precedes him...
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - STAIRCASE - NIGHT
...up the stairs.
DORR
You see, madam, I am currently on
sabbatical from the institution where
I teach -- the University of
Mississippi at Hattiesburg. I am
taking a year off to indulge my
passion -- I don't believe that is
too strong a word -- for the music
of the Renaissance. I perform in --
and have the honor of directing -- a
period instrument ensemble that
performs at Renaissance fairs and
other cultural fora...
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - DORR'S BEDROOM - NIGHT
They enter a small bedroom. There is a small bed on a brass
frame, a chair, a wash basin, and cheerful yellow chintz
drapes on the window. Dorr appreciatively takes it in.
DORR
...thoo-out central and southern
Mississippi. We perform on the
instruments for which the music was
originally composed, in the belief
that... that... Why, this is lovely...
MRS. MUNSON
Wait a minute. You got some kind of
band?
Dorr once again wiggles quotes with his fingers:
DORR
The word "band" would be, in this
context, something of an anachronism.
Though we do play together -- hence
the word "ensemble" -- the nature of
the music is such that one would
hesitate to apply the epithet "band"
with its connotations of jangling
rhythm and ear-popping amplification.
MRS. MUNSON
So you don't play hippity-hop, "I
Left My Wallet in El Segundo," songs
with the titles spelt all funny?
DORR
Madam, I shudder. I quake. The
revulsion I feel for modern popular
music, and all other manifestations
of contemporary decay, is, I have no
doubt, the equal of y'own. Why, we
play music that was composed to the
greater glory of God. Devotional
music. Church music.
MRS. MUNSON
Gospel music?
DORR
Well-inspired by the gospels,
certainly. The vintage, of course,
is no more recent than the Rococo.
MRS. MUNSON
Rococo, huh? Well, I guess that'd be
okay.
DORR
But I certainly don't propose to
inflict our rehearsals on you. May I
enquire -- do you have a root cellar?
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - CELLAR - NIGHT
Dorr ducks while descending the steep, narrow stair in order
to avoid an overhead beam. He is followed by Mrs. Munson.
DORR
Yes, yes, yes, this looks promising...
He pulls on a hanging string to light a bare bulb overhead.
MRS. MUNSON
Little dank, ain't it?
DORR
Oh, indeed, but that only improves
the acoustics...
He experimentally claps his hands.
DORR
...Marvelous. These earthen walls
are ideal for baffling the higher
registers of the, uh, lute and, uh,
sackbutt. That's why so much music
of the cinquecento was played in
crypts and catacombs. Yes, this will
do nicely...
He dry-washes his hands with enthusiasm, but his tone remains
mournful.
DORR
...This is perfect. This is more
than perfect. I can scarcely contain
my glee.
MRS. MUNSON
You containing it okay.
He starts to peel cash out of a large, well-worn billfold:
DORR
Allow me to pay you a week in advance.
Allow me to pay you two weeks in
advance. Allow me to pay you a month
in advance. I cannot countenance the
thought of these charming apartments
being tenanted by someone
unappreciative of their special je
ne sais quoi.
MRS. MUNSON
That would be a shame.
INT. CASINO - DAY
TRACKING ON A GARBAGE CART
On the cart is a boombox. It is playing "I Left My Wallet in
El Segundo."
It is being pushed through a casino empty of customers.
As the cart stops and a wastebasket is emptied into it:
VOICE (V.O.)
You gotta peel this shit out sticks
to the bottom.
WIDER
shows two youngish black men in the khaki uniforms of
custodians. Emptying the wastebasket is WEEMACK-MACKATEE
FUNTHES. He is instructing GAWAIN MACSAM.
WEEMACK
...You wouldn't believe this shit,
sometimes even out here on the casino
floor you gonna find sanitary napkin
shit stuck there, Tucks, I don't
know what the fuck people do while
they're gambling here man.
GAWAIN
I ain't peelin' funky shit with my
human hands, man. That's a
prescription for disease and viruses
and shit, attackin' y'insides.
As they roll on we see more of the gambling floor, which is
on something less than the scale of a Las Vegas casino. The
floor is not yet open and dealers stack and count chips at
the tables, pit bosses with clipboards looking over their
shoulders. Other dealers strap on visors and sleeve garters,
preparing to work.
WEEMACK
You gotta do it. Mr. Gudge checks
everything. Man is a motherfuck.
Shit -- looka this.
After a furtive look around he plucks a chip from the next
wastebasket and slips it in his pocket.
WEEMACK
...You keep an eye out, man. I found
a hundred-dollar chip once.
GAWAIN
Fuck that, man. I ain't pawin' through
used Tucks for a fi' dollar chip.
WEEMACK
I said it was a hundred.
GAWAIN
Man, your guts gonna turn to soup'n
leak outcha fuckin' asshole.
SERVICE HALL
The cart jitters loudly on the dimpled plastic floor.
WEEMACK
This tunnel leads back onto land. To
the office for all the people work
for Mannex. Mannex Corporation. Owns
the Lady Luck 'n three other boats...
INT. CASINO - SERVICE HALL - DAY
The two men are entering a windowless fluorescent-lit office
area. A row of wooden office doors and one heavy steel door.
WEEMACK
...This is where they think on their
corporate shit, Gudge and them.
He stops to empty a wastebasket.
WEEMACK
...The lights is ugly but it ain't
as many Tucks.
He bangs on the steel door:
WEEMACK
...YO, motherfuck! Lemme in!
MUFFLED VOICE (O.S.)
What's the password?
WEEMACK
Kiss my ass.
We hear a deep chuckle and the door, steel reinforced, swings
open.
INT. CASINO - COUNTING ROOM - DAY
The two men enter, WeeMack nodding at the security man
(ELRON).
WEEMACK
This is where they count the dough.
You try to take any of it Elron there
shoot your ass.
Again the security man chuckles. WeeMack picks up some fast-
food wrappers.
WEEMACK
...This place is a fuckin' pigsty.
You a pig, man, nothin' but a squeaky
ol' motherfuckin' pig...
Elron chuckles. He is an enormously fat man; his chuckles
come from deep, deep in his chest.
WEEMACK
...You got fuckin' Kocoa Krispies in
ya uniform man, still got breakfast
there and you eatin' motherfuckin'
lunch.
Elron uses one hand to swipe crumbs off his uniform shirt,
chuckling.
WEEMACK
...You a disgrace before motherfuckin'
God...
Elron chuckles.
WEEMACK
...You a motherfuck-- oh, hello Mr.
Gudge, how we be this mornin'?
A man in a buttoned white shirt nods at him.
GUDGE
Funthes. How's the new man?
WEEMACK
He is a cleaning motherfucker, man!
GUDGE
Is that a fact.
INT. SOUNDSTAGE - SMOKING FIELD SET - DAY
HIGH ANGLE
It is a ruin of a field; charred trees point bare and gnarled
limbs toward a gray sky; smoke drifts across the desolate
waste.
Something is bounding towards us from the deep background.
We BOOM DOWN as it approaches: a bulldog, running avidly
toward us on its stumpy little legs.
An OFFSCREEN male voice (CLARK PANCAKE):
PANCAKE (O.S.)
One, Mountain!
There is an explosion that showers dirt in front of the dog
and makes it veer. Something strapped around the dog's neck
bounces as he runs.
PANCAKE
...Scrub two! Scrub three! Four,
Mountain!
Another explosion makes the dog veer back so that it once
again bears on us. The thing that has been bouncing around
its neck flies off.
Our CONTINUING BOOM DOWN has brought us to ground level just
as the dog arrives in front of us to feed at a dog food bowl
in the foreground. The yellow plastic bowl has a K-Ration
logo facing us.
We hear another OFFSCREEN voice (DIRECTOR):
DIRECTOR (O.S.)
Cut, goddamnit. His canteen fell
off.
The Director's feet enter in the foreground. He hooks the
dogs belly with one foot and hoists it roughly away from the
bowl. We
CUT UP TO:
The DIRECTOR. He scowls down at the animal.
DIRECTOR
...Props!
A man in a Hemingway field-jacket with multiple pockets, and
also a loaded utility belt, trots up toward him, his belt
jangling as he runs. This is CLARK PANCAKE.
Pancake is a florid beer-bellied man in his late fifties. He
has a full blond-grey Grizzly Adams beard and wears multi-
pocketed shorts that form an ensemble with his Hemingway
jacket.
The director is angry.
DIRECTOR
...The goddamn thing's canteen fell
off. It would have been a good take.
Pancake is unperturbed.
PANCAKE
Okay. Okay. We're prepared for that...
He hits a button on the radio on his belt and talks into his
headset:
PANCAKE
... Mountain, bring Otto with the
apparatus.
PULLING ANOTHER BULLDOG
He strains at his lead, muscling forward as quickly as his
minder and his own stumpy little legs will allow.
He peers through the two goggly eyeholes of an antique leather
gas mask, its pignose breathing apparatus covering his own
snout. His phlegmy breathing is amplified by the device.
We TILT UP the lead to show his minder, MOUNTAIN GIRL. She
is a solid woman in her late forties with freckles beginning
to merge into age spots. Her long straw-colored hair is
tightly braided into Heidi pigtails bound with red ribbon.
Otherwise her dress is unadorned.
The director squints at the dog.
DIRECTOR
What the hell is this?
Pancake's manner is professorial:
PANCAKE
World War I vintage gas mask. It's
authentic. Strapped on, of course,
so it can't fall off. The animal is
free to be as active as he wants,
doesn't inhibit his movement, and I
think it really sells the whole
doughboy thing--
DIRECTOR
It looks like a fucking joke.
Pancake stares at the director for a moment and, though not
doing anything, makes a sound of concentrated effort:
PANCAKE
...Nnnnrnff!
The director squints at him:
DIRECTOR
What?
Pancake comes out of his trance, or whatever it was:
PANCAKE
No, nothing, uh... you're absolutely
right, the gas mask is a whimsical
concept--
DIRECTOR
How the hell does it eat when it
gets to the Kennel Rations?
The dog looks up from person to person as each speaks,
twisting its neck to peer through the eyeholes. Its breathing
is growing louder.
PANCAKE
Well, you're absolutely right–-
DIRECTOR
Don't let the client see this.
PANCAKE
Of course not, that would be
inappropriate--
DIRECTOR
Or the Humane fucker.
PANCAKE
No no--
The dog gets down on its knees, slowly, like a camel,
breathing ever more loudly.
DIRECTOR
They'll shut the fucking spot down,
Pancake. Put the goddamn canteen
back on. That says he's a soldier.
Dented tin canteen. Just tie the
damn thing to his collar.
The dog flops over into the mud.
PANCAKE
Easiest thing in the world. I just
thought -- but the canteen is much
better. Good concept. Let's go with
that--
DIRECTOR
What's he doing?
The dog has started to convulse.
PANCAKE
Well, he's uh... Just breathe
normally, Otto.
DIRECTOR
The fucking dog can't breathe.
PANCAKE
Oh, he can breathe, that thing is --
just breathe normally, Otto.
The dog's breath is rasping and horrible.
DIRECTOR
The fucking dog cannot breathe! Get
that fucking thing off him!
PANCAKE
Of course. Easiest thing in the world.
He stoops and fiddles at the straps.
PANCAKE
...It's on good and tight, I, uh...
Just breathe normally, Otto.
He starts thumping at his pockets.
DIRECTOR
Get the fucking thing off him!
PANCAKE
Don't have my Leatherman. Mountain!
Give me your Leatherman! Chop chop!
DIRECTOR
Get the fucking thing off him! Chitra,
make sure the Humane fucker doesn't
come over here! Bring him to craft
services!
As he makes to scoop up the dog:
PANCAKE
Good idea! Ice water, treats-–
DIRECTOR
Not the dog, you idiot! The Humane
fucker! Distract him!
PANCAKE
Right! Of course!
He goes back to work on the mask.
DIRECTOR
Oh my god, he's bleeding!
PANCAKE
No, that's me -- I -- the
Leatherman... here we go.
His hand gouting blood, he finally manages to get the gas
mask off.
A crowd is starting to gather and gape. The director barks
at a grip:
DIRECTOR
Put up a couple solids here -- I
don't want the client seeing this!
Pancake thumps on the inert dog's chest.
PANCAKE
Come on, Otto!
DIRECTOR
Otto is fucking dead!
PANCAKE
Mountain, have electric run me a
stinger! Don't give up on me, Otto!
Mountain, I need two live leads!
More people crowd in to look.
MOUNTAIN GIRL
Clark, the gennie's a hundred yards
away!
PANCAKE
Goddamnit! Otto's gonna have brain
damage in about ninety seconds! Okay!
He pulls the dog's lips back, exposing its teeth and slobbered
tongue.
PANCAKE
...Kiss of life!
He sucks in a deep breath and starts mouth-to-mouthing the
beast.
EXT. FOOTBALL FIELD - DAY
POV
We are looking out from inside a football helmet; we hear
the super-present breathing of the helmet's occupant. Just
over the breathing we can hear the muffled shouting of a
snap count.
We are in a crouch position looking downfield. At the call
of "Hike!" we and everyone on the field spring into action.
We sprint downfield, the breathing becoming even louder. A
very big person downfield is sprinting toward us.
After several yards, still on the move, we PAN quickly around
to look back for the quarterback. Barely visible among
converging bodies, he is releasing the football toward someone
else.
Easing up on the run we PAN BACK around to look downfield
just as the oncoming defender is upon us and -- CRUNCH --
slams into us. A STROBING PAN leaves us looking up at the
sky. Our loud breathing has stopped.
After a long beat the breathing resumes with a raggedy labored
inhale. It continues irregularly. Another helmeted player
appears above us to peer down into our helmet. He extends a
hand to help us up.
HUDDLE
We are looking back and forth around the circle at our
gathered teammates.
QUARTERBACK
Delta thirty-seven. On four!
All, with a simultaneous hand clap:
TEAM
Huh!
LINE OF SCRIMMAGE
Lined up opposite us is a snarling defender.
Once again, over loud breathing, we can just hear the shouted
count.
At "Hike!" we straighten to meet the defensive lineman lunging
at us. His mouthpiece clatters against ours and in horrific
CLOSE-UP he strains against us, his animal gurgles of effort
audible over our own ragged breath.
With a primal roar from the defenseman our POV tips back and
up, BOOMING DOWN to stop with a CRUNCH against the ground,
staring up. Once again our breathing has stopped.
After a beat a foot is planted on our helmet as a looming
running back steps on us in his charge downfield. He is
pursued by defenders some of whom leap over us and some of
whom by the sound of it step on various body parts.
HUDDLE
The same back-and-forth PAN.
QUARTERBACK
Okay, Epsilon twenty-two! You the
man!... Hey! BUTTHEAD!
This brings our wandering attention PANNING back to the
quarterback:
QUARTERBACK
You the man!
A very, very present VOICE (HUDSON):
HUDSON (O.S.)
Me the man?
TEAM
Huh!
LINE OF SCRIMMAGE
The same breathing and count.
On "Hike!" we sprint downfield.
The same distant defender sprinting toward us.
We hear low but very present a dismayed:
HUDSON (O.S.)
Unh... oh no...
Our breathing is torn by rasping wheezes of effort as we
continue to run.
We look back.
Every player is looking directly at us.
A huge spiralling football coming at us -- too close, too
soon -- and--
BONK!
It bounces off our mouth guard and flies up.
HUDSON (O.S.)
...shit...
We are looking forward just as
CRUNCH!
We are hit by the defender.
We once again land face-up.
Very steeply FORESHORTENED, right over us, we see the defender
juggling the live ball.
With a moan, our own hand reaches weakly up towards the ball
and the high, distant defender.
He finally gathers in the ball and securely tucks it, and
starts back upfield.
We climb wearily to our feet. We look back upfield just in
time to see the defender start an elaborate victory dance in
the end zone. He pauses for a moment to point a gloved hand
directly at us, then resumes his strut.
Shouting from the sidelines brings our PANNING attention
over.
The coach, face twisted with fury, is shouting at us and
using his clipboard to wave us off the field.
We trot toward the sidelines.
All of our teammates stare at us –- some in shock, some in
anger, some in pity.
At the sideline bench our POV swings round as we seat ourself.
A hand reaches up to the mouth guard to pull off the helmet
and we
MATCH CUT TO:
Our first OBJECTIVE SHOT as the player (HUDSON) finishes
pulling off his helmet. He is a big blond boy. His entire
body, including his face, is solidly built.
An offscreen Voice:
COACH (O.S.)
Hudson!
The boy, Hudson, turns to look, and we cut to one last
POV
The COACH is striding up, swinging his clipboard at the
camera: with a loud CRUNCH! it brings on:
BLACK
EXT. MINI-MALL / HI-HO DONUT - DAY
HIGH ANGLE
It is a typical sunbaked concrete strip mall with a Seven-
Eleven, a launderette, and a Hi-Ho Donut. The Hi-Ho Donut
sign shows a pink donut with sprinkles and says in much
smaller lettering: And Croissants.
A beat-up Impala pulls into the lot, pulsing hip-hop music.
After a long rumbling idle the ignition is killed. Both front
doors open. Two BLACK KIDS get out and look around with a
manner that is if anything too casual.
INT. HI-HO DONUT - DAY
There is faint muzak and loud air-conditioner hum. Glass
cases display donuts identified as GLAZED, JELLY, and FANCIES.
Fancies ooze yellow goo. The jelly on the jelly donuts is
developing a crust of age. The glazed also look moth-eaten.
One customer, a disheveled older man, sits at one of the
little formica tables staring into a coffee cup. Next to the
coffee is a brown paper bag from which a straw protrudes.
Behind the counter is a middle-aged VIETNAMESE WOMAN in a
neat white blouse.
The two youths enter pulling out enormous handguns from
underneath their windbreakers.
YOUTH #1
All right Dragon Lady, give us all
the fuckin' money!
The woman stares blankly.
YOUTH #1
We want that donut money!
VIETNAMESE WOMAN
Yao gin nyap!
A man appears from the kitchen in back. He is a middle-aged
Vietnamese gentleman in a crisply pressed khaki leisure suit.
An ascot is knotted at his neck. He wears aviator eyeglasses.
In his mouth smolders a half-burned-down filterless cigarette.
This, we shall learn later, is THE GENERAL.
YOUTH #2
Okay papa-san, we want that donut
money.
YOUTH #1
And we ain't fuckin' around, Mr. Hi-
Ho.
VIETNAMESE WOMAN
Hi-Ho.
The two youths look at her briefly. Nothing else is
forthcoming.
The drunk looks up from his paper bag.
YOUTH #2
Look, this fuckin' thing, it ain't
complicated. You give us all the
fuckin money, you don't get shot in
the head, you make more donuts, get
more money. That's how it works,
see?
The General stares at him. As with his wife, none of it seems
to register; unlike his wife, he seems unperturbed.
YOUTH #1
Give us the money!
He is pointing the gun directly at the General's head.
YOUTH #1
...You got three fuckin' seconds.
You understand one-two-three? I'm
gonna count one-two-three and then
shoot. Okay? Three sec–- huh!
The General has swung his fist up to hook two fingers inside
the youth's nostrils. His gun clatters to the floor. The
fingers are way, way up his nose. Only one knuckle shows on
each finger.
The youth is staring cross-eyed at his own nose.
His friend is also stupefied.
YOUTH #1
(very nasal)
His fingers are way the fuck up my
nose.
YOUTH #2
GET... YA FINGAS... OUT... THE
MAN'S... NOSE!
The General still impassively sucks on his cigarette. The
first youth is on the verge of tears:
YOUTH #1
I think they're in my brain, man...
YOUTH #2
MOTHERFUCK!
He raises his gun to start firing.
As he does so the General uses his hook-hold on the other
youth's nose to slam his head backwards, down into some
Fancies.
The door opens and a customer walks in, a semi-elderly lady
with a cane.
Youth #2, eyes rolling, wildly swings to cover the door,
then back to the General who has his friend's head pressed
into the Fancies, then uncertainly over to the Vietnamese
woman who is loudly yelling at him in Vietnamese.
Cigarette still dangling from his lower lip, the General
calmly plucks a pot of coffee from the coffee warmer and
tosses it into Youth #2's face.
Youth #2 screams.
EXT. HI-HO DONUT - DAY
HIGH ANGLE
The car is still pulsing hip-hop music. Youth #2 stumbles
out of the Hi-Ho, hands covering his face and sinks to his
knees.
INT. HI-HO DONUT - DAY
The General now has the first youth's face pressed into the
Fancies from behind. Without disturbing his smoking, the
General repeatedly kicks the youth in the ass.
His wife, muttering irritably in Vietnamese, is wheeling a
water bucket and mop to where the floor is covered with
coffee.
INT. CHURCH - DAY
At the CUT many voices are swelling in a song of worship. It
is a black Baptist church, and the music has great energy.
The white-robed choir finishes singing; a preacher takes the
podium.
PREACHER
I know you all remember that when
Moses came down the mountain, carrying
the word a God, come down that Sinai
peak, he caught those Israelites red-
handed. What he catch 'em doin'? He
caught 'em worshipping a golden calf.
Shouts of "That's right!"
PREACHER
...He caught 'em with their backs
turned on God!
More shouts of "That's right!"
PREACHER
...He caught 'em worshipping a FALSE
God! A God of EARTHLY things! He
caught them Israelites in DECLINE!
"He caught 'em!"
PREACHER
...Because backslidin' is DECLINE,
brothers and sisters! You hear talk
these days, and I know you've heard
this talk, you hear talk of DECLINE,
well all that means is we done turned
our back on God!
"That's right!"
PREACHER
...People say civilization doin'
this, civilization doin' that,
civilization in DECLINE! Well it
ain't no civilization! It ain't no
them! It's US, brothers and sisters!
"Amen!"
We are TRACKING among the congregants, disproportionately
women, mostly of middle age and elderly, mostly wearing
elaborate go-to-church hats.
PREACHER
...It's what's in our hearts, each
and every one of us when we like
them Israelites! Slidin' awa-a-a-ay
down that Godly slope, slippin' and
slidin' toward the mire and muck a
the stinkhole of greed -- that's
DECLINE!
"That's decline!"
The CONTINUING TRACK brings us onto Mrs. Munson, wearing,
like most of her peers, an oversized hat; hers is adorned
with a great deal of plastic fruit.
PREACHER
...And what did Moses do when he saw
those declinin' backslidin' never-
mindin' sinners?
"What he do?"
PREACHER
...Moses SMOTE those sinners in his
wrath yes he did!
"Yes he did!"
PREACHER
...Y'all know what smote is! I smite!
You smite! He smites! We done smote!
"That's right!"
PREACHER
...To smite is to go UPSIDE the head!
"Uh-huh!"
PREACHER
...Because sometimes, brothers and
sisters, that is the ONLY way!
"Yes it is!"
PREACHER
...To smite is to reMIND! We got to
STOP that decline! And scramble back
UP to the face a the almighty Gyod!
"Amen!"
PREACHER
...'Stead a worshippin' that GOLDEN
calf, that earthly TRASH on that
GARBAGE island! That GARBAGE island
in that shadowland WAY outside the
Kingdom a God!
"Way outside!"
PREACHER
...That GARBAGE island where scavenger
birds feast on the bones a the
backslidin' damned!
"Yes they do!"
PREACHER
...And so, let us pray...
EXT. CHURCH - DAY
It is a white clapboard country church. The preacher stands
at the door chatting with the congregants filing out.
WOMAN #1
You preach a wonderful sermon, Brother
Cleothus.
PREACHER
Why thank you, Sister Rose.
MRS. MUNSON
That man has a lot to say.
WOMAN #1
Yes he does.
MRS. MUNSON
And every word of it the truth.
WOMAN #2
Mm-mm. Jesus well pleased with him.
WOMAN #3
Deed he is.
PREACHER
Oh now ladies...
WOMAN #3
Pleased as he can be.
WOMAN #1
Mm-mm.
MRS. MUNSON
Stout, too.
WOMAN #1
Mm-mm.
PREACHER
Oh now you gracious ladies.
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - KITCHEN - DAY
Mrs. Munson is at the kitchen table. She folds a five dollar
bill into a sheet of paper, raising her voice as she does
so:
MRS. MUNSON
It was a good sermon. That man has a
lot to say.
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY
We have CUT to the portrait of Othar over the mantel. He
does not answer.
From the kitchen:
MRS. MUNSON'S VOICE (O.S.)
...Stout, too. It would've been a
comfort to you...
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - KITCHEN - DAY
Mrs. Munson has stuffed the paper-enclosed bill into an
envelope, which she is now laboriously addressing to Bob
Jones University.
MRS. MUNSON
And the choir was all in good voice.
Mm-mm-
There is a knock at the door.
MRS. MUNSON
...Who could that--
The cat yowls and hisses.
I/E. MUNSON HOUSE - FOYER - DAY
As Mrs. Munson swings open the door.
G.H. Dorr stands on the stoop mournfully dry-washing his
hands and obsequiously ducking his head.
DORR
My dear Mrs. Munson, I do so hope
this is not an inopportune time for
our first practice--
MRS. MUNSON
Somebody die?
DORR
I beg your-- Oh!
He looks back at the long black vintage Lincoln hearse parked
at the curb behind him.
DORR
...No no, no bereavement, though it
is so kind of you to enquire. No,
the hearse is simply a vehicle
commodious enough to accommodate all
of the members of our ensemble. And
of course our instruments, contrived
in an age ignorant of
miniaturization...
He turns and gestures at the vehicle.
At his sign, Gawain, the custodian, emerges from the driver's
side.
Clark Pancake emerges from the front passenger side.
The General, wearing a different but equally pressed khaki
suit and ascot, and with a smoking cigarette in his lips,
emerges from a back door.
Gawain goes to the back of the hearse and opens its hatch to
let out Lump Hudson, the football player.
Lump helps unload five large and oddly shaped instrument
cases, each man taking one except for Lump himself, who
carries two. As the parade of losers and misfits winds its
way up the walk:
DORR
...Let me introduce you to my friends,
my colleagues, these devoted and
passionate musicians... This is Gawain
MacSam, our bassoonist...
Gawain nods as he passes by.
DORR
...General Nguyen Pham Doc, viola da
gamba...
MRS. MUNSON
No smoking in this house.
The General tosses his cigarette away and bows stiffly as he
passes.
GENERAL
So sorry.
DORR
...Clark Pancake -- a multi-
instrumentalist, but with his
remarkable embosser Clark specializes
in wind instruments, and is especially
accomplished on the French horn...
He nods, passes.
DORR
...And, finally, Aloysius "Lump"
Hudson. Lump is our sackbuttist and --
thank you, Lump -- I see you've also
brought my fiddle...
As he hands Dorr the violin case:
LUMP
Here's your fiddle, Doctor.
Mrs. Munson sizes up the group.
MRS. MUNSON
You ain't gonna make a racket, are
ya?
DORR
Oh no. Oh no no no no no. No, we
shall recuse ourselves to the basement
where we shall be -- I think here
the expression is uniquely
appropriate...
He gives a sickly smile.
DORR
...as quiet as the crypt.
MRS. MUNSON
Hmph.
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - CELLAR - DAY
The General stands stock still, his nose an inch away from
the earthen wall, studying it, squinting through the smoke
of the cigarette pinched between his lips.
The rest of the men are opening their cases and taking out
the instruments. Gawain's case contains, however, not a
musical instrument but a boombox and several tapes. He loads
one of the tapes into the machine.
DORR
What do you think, General? Present
any problems?
After a beat the General turns away from the wall to give
Dorr a look into which one might read anything, or nothing.
Gawain hits play on the boombox and the cellar is filled
with the fussy strains of baroque chamber music.
Dorr nods.
DORR
...Good then.
He spreads a map open on the sackbutt case.
DORR
...All right, gentlemen, why don't
we all crowd around and go over the
plan.
The biggest feature on the map is a wavy, roughly north-south
pair of lines: a river. A boat icon sits at one edge and
from it a dotted rectangle extends inland.
Dorr taps at the boat icon with his fiddle bow.
DORR
...This, gentlemen, is the Lady Luck,
gambling den, cash cow, Sodom of the
Mississippi delta -- and the focus
of our little exercise. Here is
Orchard Street...
He is tracing a street that parallels the dotted rectangle
extending from the boat. The street is lined by small house
icons on either side; the bow comes to rest on one of those
icons.
DORR
...and here is the residence of Marva
Munson, the charming lady whom y'all
met moments ago. Gentlemen...
Bow taps emphasize:
DORR
...You... are... here. Now. This
brings us to this square...
The bow indicates it, and then withdraws.
Dorr uses the bow as a swagger stick to punctuate as he begins
to pace.
DORR
...Gentlemen, I believe you are all
aware that the Solons of the State
of Mississippi, to wit, its
legislature, have decreed that no
gaming establishment shall be erected
within its borders upon dry land.
They may, however, legally float
upon any watercourse defining a state
boundary. But while the gambling
activity itself is restricted to
riverboats, no such restriction
applies to the functions ancillary
to this cash besotted bidnis. The
casino's offices, locker rooms,
facilities to cook and clean, and
most importantly its counting houses-
the reinforced, secret, and super
secure repositories of the lucre --
may all be situated... wherever.
Gawain -- where is wherever?
GAWAIN
Say wha?
Dorr's smug smile fades. Testily:
DORR
Where is the money?
GAWAIN
Oh. End of every shift pit boss brings
the cash down to the hold of the
ship in the locked cash box; once a
day all the cash boxes're moved to
the counting room.
DORR
And where is the counting room?
GAWAIN
Well, uh... in that square there.
Where you pointing.
DORR
And what, to flog a horse that if
not at this point dead is in mortal
danger of expirin', does the dotted
square represent?
Gawain hesitates, the question's obviousness suggesting to
him some trick.
GAWAIN
...Offices. Underground.
Dorr's eyes close. A smile of feline contentment curls his
lips. He murmurs:
DORR
Underground... Mmm... During the
casino's hours of operation the door
to the counting room is fiercely
guarded, and the door itself is of
redoubtable Pittsburgh steel; when
the casino is closed the entire
underground complex is locked up and
the armed guard retreats to the
casino's main entrance. There, then,
far from the guard, reposes the money,
cosseted behind a five-inch-thick
steel portal, yes, but the walls,
gentlemen, the walls of that room,
are but humble masonry, behind which
is only the soft loamy soil deposited
over the centuries by Ol' Man, the
meanderin' Mississip', as it fanned
its way back and forth across this
great alluvial plain...
He has pried a fistfull of dirt from the cellar wall.
DORR
...This earth.
He crumbles it, letting it sift to the floor, and then,
pleased with himself, he smiles.
DORR
...Any questions?
Lump looks around, then hesitantly raises his hand.
DORR
...Yes, Lump?
LUMP
What, uh... what does "cosseted"
mean?
Once again Dorr's smile fades. He does not dignify the
question with answer.
DORR
The General here, whose curriculum
vitae compahends massive tunneling
experience thoo the soil of his native
French-Indochina, will direct our
little ol' tunnelin' operation.
The General acknowledges with a curt nod.
DORR
...Clark Pancake, while a master of
none, is a jack of all those trades
corollary to our aim. He will be
doin' such fabricatin' and demolition
work as our little caper shall
require.
Clark acknowledges verbally:
PANCAKE
Happy to be on board.
DORR
Gawain is the proverbial "inside
man". He has managed to secure a
berth on the custodial staff of the
Lady Luck, thereby placin' himself
in a position to perform certain
chores whose precise nature needn't
detain us here, but whose performance
shall guide this expedition to its
happy conclusion.
GAWAIN
Ya damn skippy.
DORR
And this brings us to Lump. To look
at Lump you might wonder, what
function could he possibly fill,
what specialized expertise could he
possibly offer, to our merry little
ol' band a miscreants. Well gentlemen,
in a project of such magnitude and
such risks, it is traditional --
nay, it is imperative -- to enlist
the services of a hooligan, a goon,
an ape, a physical brute, who will
be our security, our fist, our
batterin' ram. Lump is our blunt
instrument, and on all our behalfs I
wish him a warm Mississippi welcome.
LUMP
Thanks, Professor.
DORR
Well gentlemen, here you are, men of
different backgrounds and differing
talents, men with, in fact only two
things in common: one, you all saw
fit to answer my little advertisement
in the Memphis Scimitar, and, two,
you are all going to be, in
consequence, very very incredibly
rich. Let us revel in our adventure,
gentlemen. Let us make beautiful
music together. And above all,
gentlemen, let us keep it to
ourselves. What we say in this root
cellar, let it stay in this root
cellar.
LUMP
There's no "I" in "team".
All stare at him.
DORR
...Lump has a very excellent point.
The music swells, supported now by a male chorus that has
the spirited manliness of the Red Army choir. We
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - BASEMENT - NIGHT
The men at work, tunneling.
The cat sits on the cellar floor, head cocked, gazing at the
hole now opened in the wall.
Lump, in a sleeveless undershirt, glistening with sweat,
wields a pickaxe at the forward point.
At the mouth of the hole Clark Pancake shovels dirt into a
heavy plastic refuse bag held open by Gawain.
G.H. Dorr sits on a camp chair, one hand idly waving time to
the music, reading an old and yellowed tome with half-glasses
perched midway down his nose.
The General hops nimbly out of the tunnel and unzips and
steps out of his all-in-one to reveal, underneath, his neatly
pressed leisure suit and ascot.
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
Later, Dorr stands at the head of the cellar stairs, looking
around the empty parlor. He gives a nod down the stairs and
the men troop up past him, carrying sacks of earth.
Over the mantelpiece, the eternal flame of the devotional
candle almost animating his features, Othar seems to watch
the men as they cross to the front door.
EXT. MUNSON HOUSE - NIGHT
The men load the earth into the hearse.
EXT. MISSISSIPPI RIVER - NIGHT
We are at the Mississippi bridge that we saw in the prologue
to the movie, but now, in dead of night, deserted.
The hearse is pulling up at the middle of the bridge and
dimming its lights. The men emerge; when they open the back
of the hearse to pull out the sacks, the cat bounds out to
watch from a distance.
We watch the men from HIGH, ANGLED DOWN along the masonry of
a tower that stands in the middle of the suspension bridge.
An ornamental gargoyle leers in the foreground.
The garbage scow is approaching. We hear the low toot of its
horn as it nears the bridge.
Lump is poised with the first sack hugged to his chest,
leaning over the railing.
The nose of the barge enters below us.
Lump releases the sack.
We watch it drop dead away like a bomb from an airplane.
It thuds distantly onto the barge. The next sack has been
passed up to Lump and is released.
The cat watches. Its orange eyes blink. Its pupils adjust.
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - CELLAR - NIGHT
A PULL BACK shows that the cat is in fact back in the
basement.
Its POV: continued tunneling.
Back to the cat, watching, then turning its head at a noise:
At the head of the stairs, the cellar door is opening.
A whistle from the General and Lump and Clark Pancake scramble
from the tunnel. They whip a curtain over its opening and
all men grab up their instruments as Dorr, covering with a
cough, turns off the CD player.
The General, his ever-present cigarette smoldering between
his lips, tongue-and-lips it up and backwards so that it is
inside his mouth, which he now closes.
Marva Munson is heavily and carefully descending the stairs.
As the men come into view they are looking up at her, Lump
holding his sackbutt but still glistening with sweat and
smeared with dirt.
MRS. MUNSON
That's okay, don't stop on account
of me.
Lump looks around, saucer-eyed, then blows gamely into his
sackbutt. It sounds like goose farts until Dorr waves him
down.
DORR
No no, madam, we were about to take
a break anyway. The glissandi on
this particular piece are technically
very demanding and I think we would
all welcome a moment of relaxation.
MRS. MUNSON
Huh. I just thought you might like
to see-what a you gotten up to, honey?
Why you sweatin' like that.
It is directed at Lump, who looks down at his own sweat-
stained undershirt.
LUMP
I, uh...
GAWAIN
That man plays one bitch barrelful a
sackbutt. Ain't no one can blow the
tenor sackbutt like Lump, hoowee!
goes at that thing like it was a pu--
uh, like it was a woman! Goddamn! He--
She cuffs him on the head.
MRS. MUNSON
You mind! I don't want that kind of
talk in my home, even in the root
cellar. This is a Christian house,
boy, none of that hippity-hop
language.
DORR
Sadly, Gawain is given to--
WHAP! She slaps Gawain again.
MRS. MUNSON
Sometimes it's the only way!
He untenses after what seemed like the final blow, but --
WHAP! -- she slaps him again.
MRS. MUNSON
...I'm tryin' to help you, son!
WHAP!
MRS. MUNSON
...Better yaself!
DORR
As well you should, ma'am. But Gawain
at times is so far transported by
his love of the music of the early
Renaissance as to--
MRS. MUNSON
Don't make no never-mind he's
transported!
Dorr has her by the elbow and is ushering her back up the
stairs.
DORR
I understand your--
She pulls her elbow away and sniffs.
MRS. MUNSON
You been smokin'?
DORR
Certainly not, madam. I understand
your indignation. And I was offering
explanation, not excuse. I myself am
offended by those who cannot find
the proper words to express themselves
and have recourse to--
Gawain calls up the stairs:
GAWAIN
Don't you be explainin' me, dawg!
You can't look into my mind, cape
man!
DORR
Yes, yes...
Dorr's tone is soothing as he shuts the door at the top of
the stairs.
DORR
...A fiery lad! But then Youth is
fiery! A fact often remarked upon by
the poets of the Romantic era.
MRS. MUNSON
My youth I was in church, I wasn't
walkin' around fiery. Youth ain't no
excuse for nothin'! Well, anyway...
only came down to show you the fife.
She hands him a thick, roughly whittled piece of cane. Dorr
holds it, looks at it dumbly. He is, for the first time that
we have seen anyway, non-plussed.
MRS. MUNSON
...Othar's fife. He burned his own.
Dorr tries to summon conversation as the two sit with their
backs to the fireplace:
DORR
...Did he?
MRS. MUNSON
Mm-hm. I thought maybe bein' a musical
man you'd be interested.
DORR
Oh, I am indeed--
MRS. MUNSON
Cut it himself and burned the holes.
Israelites called it a kalil.
DORR
Ah.
MRS. MUNSON
Kalil, fife, same thing. You can
read about it in the Bible. Ain't
nothin' new under the sun.
DORR
Indeed not.
MRS. MUNSON
Gone these twenty years. He was some
kind of man.
From Othar's POV, slightly high, we see them both twist in
their chairs to look up at the portrait.
REVERSE of the portrait, LOW ANGLE. Othar looks down at us
with what appears to be bemusement.
Marva Munson and Dorr gaze up at the portrait for a motionless
beat. At length, Marva Munson sighs:
MRS. MUNSON
...Blowed the kalil.
Dorr's eyes remain on the picture as he inquires:
DORR
...I don't suppose Othar ever turned
his hand -- or, uh, heh-heh-heh,
turned his lip -- to the shofar?
Prompted by her silence, he adds:
DORR
...The ceremonial ram's horn, sounded
by the priests of the Hebrews?
MRS. MUNSON
I don't know nothin' 'bout that.
Othar didn't study no shofar, to the
extent a my knowledge. The kalil was
good enough for my Othar...
She gazes at the portrait.
MRS. MUNSON
...Some kind of man.
INT. CASINO - DAY
TRACKING BEHIND A SASHAYING ASS
following a woman in a red dress.
GAWAIN (O.S.)
Hey baby, don't be cruel. Jus' sneak
one little peek...
The woman looks back over her shoulder, smiling, as she
continues to walk.
GAWAIN
...Don't let this uniform fool ya--
REVERSE PULLING TRACK
leads Gawain MacSam, pushing his wheeled trash bin.
GAWAIN
You don't need to be gamblin', honey,
you lookin' at a sure thing. They
call me Mr. 21, baby, 'cause that's
how I measure up. I am the original
black Jack, honey, accept no
substitutions. You can pull my lever
all day long, sweet mama, I ain't
never gonna come up lemons. That's
right, sugar, you can blow on my
dice any ol' time.
INT. CASINO - GUDGE'S OFFICE - DAY
Gudge has his feet up on the desk and is filing his nails
with an emery board.
GAWAIN
But Mr. Gudge, she had an ass that
could pull a bus. This lady was fine,
fine, dandy, divine.
GUDGE
I don't care how big her ass was,
MacSam. You're fired.
GAWAIN
Say what?
GUDGE
There is no fraternizing with
customers on the Lady Luck. Clean
out your locker.
GAWAIN
But Gudge–-
GUDGE
Get out of here. You're fired.
GAWAIN
You can't fire me. I sue your ass!
GUDGE
Sue me? For what?
GAWAIN
Sue you for fuckin' punitive damages,
man!
GUDGE
Punitive damages.
GAWAIN
Ya damn skippy. I know you firin' my
ass 'cause I'm black!
GUDGE
Everyone on the custodial staff is
black, MacSam. Your replacement's
gonna be black. His replacement will
no doubt be black.
GAWAIN
Fuckin' judge is gonna be black,
motherfucker, that's who gonna be
black! You gonna stand tall before
the man!
EXT. WAFFLE HOUSE - DAY
VERY HIGH ANGLE
We are looking down past the distinctive pylon-mounted yellow
letters: WAFFLE.
INT. WAFFLE HOUSE - DAY
The band of miscreants is seated around a table with cups of
coffee. Dorr's wardrobe makes no concession to the informality
of the setting; he still wears his cape and a black string
tie. His manner is more mournful even than usual:
DORR
Oh my. Oh my my my my my. This is a
severe setback. I am distraught. I
am more than distraught, I am
devastated. Oh my, this is quite the
monkey-wrench heaved into the
meticulously engineered construct of
our little escapade.
LUMP
Yeah, it fucks things up.
DORR
I am beside myself. I am at a positive
loss for words.
GAWAIN
You still talkin' okay though.
WAITRESS
Have you all decided?
Dorr's intensely mournful agitation is brought to bear upon
her:
DORR
Oh madam, we must have waffles. We
must all have waffles forthwith!
They hand in their menus.
DORR
...Oh we must think. We must all
have waffles and think, each and
every one of us to the very best of
his ability! Perhaps if you apologized
to the man and gave him flowers, or
perhaps a fruit basket, with a card
depicting a misty seascape and
inscribed with a sentiment.
GAWAIN
Shit, man, it ain't about apologizin'!
He fired me 'cause I'm black!
PANCAKE
He can't do that. You could sue him.
Open and shut case.
GAWAIN
Fuckin' A.
PANCAKE
This is not 1952.
GAWAIN
Man's a fuckin' bigot.
DORR
Well then, perhaps, surely, a
chocolate assortment has been known
to warm the heart of even the most
hardened misanthrope, especially if
it's a premium chocolate, imported,
say, from Switzerland, or the
Netherlands, or some other of the so-
called "Low" countries be they Dutch
or Flemish or Walloon--
GAWAIN
Walloon my ass, the man ain't gonna
roll over for a fuckin' candy bar!
PANCAKE
I'm afraid there's a setback on the
tunneling front too. We've run into
a pretty large rock, and--
GENERAL
-- Rock!
All turn to look at the General. He continues to stare at a
spot in space. He slowly releases some inhaled cigarette
smoke, murmuring:
GENERAL
...Very bad.
DORR
Oh my my, it seems that the poet was
right: Troubles never singly come.
PANCAKE
Oh, we can get through the rock, no
worries there. Simplest thing in the
world. Why we blow right through it;
I've got a pyro license, we bore a
hole in the rock, pack in a little
plastique; igneous blows pretty good,
and we--
LUMP
Is he gonna want a piece of the
action?
All turn to look at Lump.
PANCAKE
...Who?
Lump hesitates, looking at the inquiring faces that surround
him.
LUMP
...Igneous?
A female Voice:
MOUNTAIN GIRL (O.S.)
Hello Clark. Am I ordering the prima
cord?
The men look up at her.
PANCAKE
Yes, Mountain, we were just talking
about that, and some plastique.
All the men are staring at her, agog.
GAWAIN
...The fuck is this?
PANCAKE
This is Mountain Girl. Mountain is
my right hand. She helps me with
ordnance. Helps me with damn near
everything.
The men stare.
GAWAIN
...You brought your bitch to the
waffle house?!
There is tension in the air. Dorr clears his throat.
DORR
I confess myself to be puzzled as
well. I thought we all understood
that, so far as our little enterprise
is concerned, mum, as the saying
would have it, is the word--
PANCAKE
Of course. I understand that. But
this is Mountain...
He chuckles.
PANCAKE
...I don't keep secrets from Mountain.
That's not how you maintain a loving,
caring relationship.
GAWAIN
...You brought your bitch to the
waffle house?
He looks around.
GAWAIN
...Man brings his bitch to the waffle
house!
PANCAKE
Look, you, I'll thank you to stop
referring to Mountain that way. She's
the other half of my life.
GAWAIN
Everybody lookin' at me like I'm a
fuck-up, losin' that sorry-ass job,
and this motherfucker bring his bitch
to the waffle house!
Pancake lunges across the table, sending dishes clattering
to the floor as he grabs Gawain by the shirt.
PANCAKE
You son of a bitch punk! Shut your
goddamn mouth!
He shakes him vigorously and rears back to take a swing at
him.
Gawain draws a gun.
GAWAIN
Come and get me motherfuck! Come on,
baby, let's get it on!
Mountain starts screaming.
People look, aghast.
DORR
Gentlemen, please!
The other men pry Pancake and Gawain apart.
DORR
...Gentlemen, this sort of behavior
does you no credit in the eyes of
your colleagues, or in those of the
other patrons of this waffle house!
Pancake grumbles as he composes himself and straighten his
clothes.
PANCAKE
...Nobody talks to Mountain Girl
that way. She had an abusive family!
GAWAIN
Fuck you, man.
PANCAKE
Little punk. I got syrup on my safari
jacket.
He embraces Mountain, who continues to sob quietly.
DORR
Gentlemen, I propose that we consider
the matter of this woman, Mountain
Water, to be--
PANCAKE
Mountain Girl.
DORR
I am so very sorry. I propose that
we consider this matter to be closed,
and we shall chose to trust her,
since we now have no choice, and
since she shall share only in Mr.
Pancake's portion of the booty.
Over the shoulder of the quietly weeping Mountain Girl:
PANCAKE
Of course. Wouldn't have it any other
way.
GAWAIN
Damn right you won't.
PANCAKE
Up yours, punk.
DORR
Gentlemen! And the manner of disposing
of our igneous impediment is also
settled. That leaves only the question
of Gawain retrieving his job.
LUMP
Couldn't you just bribe the guy?
All turn to look at Lump.
INT. MUNSON LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
Othar looks serenely down from his spot over the mantelpiece.
Marva Munson knits; G.H. Dorr sits nodding over an ancient
volume of half-forgotten lore, reading glasses perched midway
down his nose. Curtains waft lazily in the summer night
breeze.
MRS. MUNSON
...You just a readin' fool, ain't
you Mr. Dorr.
DORR
Yes yes, I must confess, madam, that
often I feel more at home in these
ancient volumes than I do in the
hustle-bustle of our modern world.
To me, paradoxically, the literature
of the so-called "dead tongues" has
more currency than this mornin's
newspaper.
MRS. MUNSON
Mm-mm.
DORR
In these books...
He removes his glasses and lazily twirls them.
DORR
...In these volumes, there is the
accum'lated wisdom a mankind which
succours me when the day is hard or
the night lonely and long.
MRS. MUNSON
Wisdom of mankind, what about the
wisdom of the Lord?
DORR
Oh yes, the Good Book, mm. I have
found reward in its pages. But for
me there are other good books as
well; the heavy volumes of Antiquity,
freighted with the insights of Man's
glorious age. And then of course I
love, love, love the works of Mr. Ed
G'Allan Poe.
MRS. MUNSON
I know who he is. Kinda creepy.
DORR
Oh no, madam, noooo. Not of this
world, true; he lived in a dream, an
ancient dream...
Dorr himself is lost in a dream:
DORR
"Helen, they beauty is to me Like
those Nicean barks a yore That gently,
o'er a perfumed sea, The weary,
wayworn wanderer bore To his own
native shore... "
MRS. MUNSON
Who was Helen? She wasn't a loose
woman, was she? Some kinda whore a
Babylon?
Dorr is still lost:
DORR
One doesn't know who Helen was, though
I picture her as bein' very, very
extremely... pale.
He comes to himself, focuses on Mrs. Munson.
DORR
...Miz Munson, I was tryin' to think
of some way of expressin' my gratitude
to you for takin' in...
He chuckles.
DORR
...this weary, wayworn wanderer...
The Professor takes a small ticket envelope from where it
had served as bookmark, and hands it across.
DORR
...It's just a modest little ol'
present, why it's practically nothing
at all.
Beaming, she takes two tickets out of the envelope and
inspects them.
MRS. MUNSON
Oh Mr. Dorr, why you are such a
gallant man...
DORR
Oh no madam, I blush. I melt. No, I
just happened to hear of this gospel
concert tomorrow night, The Mighty
Mighty Clouds of Joy, and I thought
you and a friend from church,
perhaps...
MRS. MUNSON
Othar loved that music... Yes, I got
a widow-lady friend...
DORR
The concert is up in Memphis, but I
have arranged for a car service to
transport you thither and, needless
to say, back home at the concert's
termination. My friends and I will
be rehearsing here tomorrow evening
so you needn't worry about the
security of your charming little old
house...
There is a knock at the door.
MRS. MUNSON
Huh? Excuse me.
I/E. MUNSON HOUSE - FOYER - NIGHT
Mrs. Munson swings the door open to Sheriff Wyner. His squad
car is parked at the curb.
MRS. MUNSON
Sheriff Wyner, how you doin'...
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
The Professor's eyes widen with concern as he hears the
voices, off:
SHERIFF (O.S.)
Evenin', Miz Munson, I just came
by...
I/E. MUNSON HOUSE - FOYER - NIGHT
The sheriff is tipping his hat and already backing away,
trying to make his visit brief:
SHERIFF
...to let you know I had a word with
WeeMack. He says he gonna comply
with your request, keep the music
down and neighborly.
MRS. MUNSON
Mm-hm.
He calls from the bottom of the stoop:
SHERIFF
So you have a pleasant evening now,
and just let us know--
MRS. MUNSON
Hang on there, Sheriff, somebody I
want you to meet.
SHERIFF
Ma'am, I'm a little pressed for time--
MRS. MUNSON
Why, you chasin' a gang of bank
robbers? Get on in here say hello.
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
The Voices approach:
MRS. MUNSON
...We was just havin' tea, talkin'
about Othar--
The two enter and Mrs. Munson stops short, looking.
The living room is empty. Even the Professor's teacup is
gone.
MRS. MUNSON
...Hm... Bussed his own dishes. You
can always tell a gentleman.
The sheriff, hat in hand, gazes about.
SHERIFF
Someone was here, ma'am?
MRS. MUNSON
Mm-hm, with me'n Othar.
Once again, he tries to excuse himself:
SHERIFF
Well, maybe I'll catch him next
time...
MRS. MUNSON
Come on up to his room.
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - DORR'S BEDROOM - NIGHT
The door opens and the two look in.
The neatly made bed next to the small, barren dresser.
MRS. MUNSON
Mm, he's neat.
SHERIFF
Very neat.
MRS. MUNSON
Probably went down to the cellar to
play with his friends.
She turns.
SHERIFF
Ma'am, I really have to...
POV FROM UNDER THE BED
Top-teased by a dust ruffle in the foreground, we see Mrs.
Munson's heavy orthopedic shoes turning to pass Sheriff
Wyner's shiny black boots.
REVERSE
shows Dorr, cheek pressed to the floor, his teacup and saucer
under the bed with him.
SHERIFF
...be gettin' back...
BACK TO NORMAL PERSPECTIVE
Mrs. Munson is about to go out the door but notices something:
A corner of the Professor's cape, protruding from under the
end of the bed.
MRS. MUNSON
What the...
BACK TO DORR
fearfully watching.
HIS POV
The heavy orthopedic shoes approach, and then, with loud Mr.
Mogul sounds of effort, Mrs. Munson's hands and knees hit
the floor.
Her head drops in to view to peer in, her own cheek against
the floorboards.
MRS. MUNSON
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