SCRIPTS.  

TREATMENTS.  

PRESENTATIONS.    

 

Stealing  Michael  Treatment    OLIVIA  winces  in  pain  as  an  instance  of  clarity  breaks  through  the  fog  she’s  been  experiencing,  for  what  now  seems  like  hours.  She  looks  up  at  the  corroded,  rust-­‐colored  pipes  running  across  the  ceiling  above  her,  hears  the  pitter-­‐pattering  of  slowly  dripping  sediment,  splashing  onto  the  dirty  tarpaulin  she’s  lying  on.    The  drops  splash  up  red  with  blood,  her  blood.    She  knows  something  is  not  right  –  she  doesn’t  belong  here,  but  can’t  figure  it  out,  just  too  listless,  drugged  .  .  .  her  mind  flashes  on  a  dimly  remembered  all-­‐white  space,  surrounded  by  curtains,  nice  people  running  in  and  out,  the  sounds  of  beeping  machines  –  now,  only  the  deafening  silence.        Silence,  except  for  that  woman  admonishing  her  to  push  again.    And  again.      

____________    CYNTHIA  is  getting  impatient.    The  woman’s  damned  cervix  is  still  shut  tight  as  a  drum.  Squatting  between  the  woman’s  legs,  she  wipes  her  arm  across  her  sweaty  brow,  and  adjusts  into  a  more  comfortable  position,      The  murky  light  is  not  helping  matters  much.    She  licks  her  dry  lips,  and  looks  around  at  the  sinister  shadows,  wondering  yet  again  if  she’s  doing  the  right  thing.    She  then  picks  up  the  knife  with  an  exasperated  sigh.  

Olivia  is  stricken  by  one  final  paroxysm  of  intense  pain.      The  last  thing  she  hears  before  lapsing  into  unconsciousness  is  the  high-­‐pitched  shriek  of  a  newborn  baby.      

12  years  later    Cynthia’s  eyes  snap  open  at  the  sound  of  the  piercing  alarm  clock  on  her  bedside  table.    Jerking  forward  in  alarm,  she  throws  her  covers  off  and  searches  for  something  with  her  hands,  all  the  while  trying  to  unravel  the  sheets  twisted  around  her  legs.    Now  fully  awake,  she  sighs  with  relief,  or  is  it  resignation,  as  she  wipes  away  the  sweaty  hair  matted  to  her  forehead,  but  her  expression  is  anything  but  serene.    As  she  hits  the  alarm  button,  stopping  the  sound,  her  fingers  twist  a  stray  strand  of  hair,  a  comfortable  habit.    Standing  at  the  counter  in  her  tiny,  functional  kitchen  Cynthia  finishes  making  her  sandwich  –  spreading  mayo  on  the  bread,  then  folding  it  over  the  turkey  slices,  careful  not  to  let  the  cranberries  scatter  -­‐  neatly  wraps  it  in  Saran  and  places  it  in  a  paper  lunch  bag,  along  with  an  apple  and  a  yogurt.    She  does  so  by  rote,  as  her  attention  is  riveted  to  the  Superman  cartoon  playing  on  her  small  TV  set.    

____________    

Cynthia  methodically  and  hastily  finishes  placing  lunch  items  in  a  paper  bag.    “Shit!”  she  mumbles  under  her  breath.    She  grabs  a  sandwich  back  out  of  the  bag  and  unwraps  it  on  the  counter.    Turning  around,  she  grabs  a  canister  off  the  shelf  behind  her,  opens  it  and  proceeds  to  count  out  12  cranberries,  placing  them  on  the  turkey  slices.    Licking  a  dab  of  mayo  off  her  finger,  she  yells,  “Michael!    Time  for  school!”    MICHAEL  sighs,  but  makes  no  move,  his  attention  drawn  to  the  same  Superman  cartoon  playing  on  a  large  screen  TV.  He  is  lying  on  the  couch,  almost  invisible  in  his  sweatshirt,  hood  up  around  his  head,  his  fingers  playing  with  a  stray  curl  of  hair.    

____________    !!

IN-THEATRE SOFT DRINK AD The movie theater seats fill up with a wide assortment of people (hitting every !Coke demographic); the camera zooms in on the different stereotypical groups: !the young couple in love, looking adoringly at each other, oblivious to everyone !around them; a group of wisecracking high school jocks, pushing and shoving, !making lots of noise; an older couple holding hands, the woman with crutches; a !dad with his young daughter, a couple of nuns, a group of valley girls, etc. . . . ! Some time has passed. The theatre is dark; the movie is playing onscreen, in black & white - a boring Dickensian scene of people sitting around a table, just talking – old fashioned, monochromatic, spartan decaying set, starkly lit, floating dust motes, etc. – drab and depressing. The actors are blasé and spiritless. !! Quick shots of the audience members we saw at the beginning: all of them are now sitting slumped down in their chairs – totally bored, slack jawed, eyes glazed over, weary and disinterested, seemingly not believing what they’ve gotten themselves into . . . the old couple are asleep, the nuns are in shock, etc. Cut to the girlfriend looking up as her boyfriend returns from the concession stand and hands her a bottle of Coke. !! She takes a sip and suddenly, a wide sunny smile breaks out on her face. Her boyfriend sits down and takes a sip of his Coke, and also smiles. They then pass their Coke bottles to the person sitting next to them, who smiles, and passes on the bottles to the next person, and so on down the rows . . . Each seat is set aglow as that person takes a sip of their bottle, until the entire section is ignited in multi-colored light. !! The audiences has now come alive, laughing and talking, sharing and enjoying each other in a new environment of pandemonium and bedlam, totally ignoring the movie onscreen. !! Cut back to the screen, where the same boring scene continues to play out. The actors look at one another as if something is amiss. One of them, now clearly annoyed at the noisy interruption looks out at the audience, then directly at the camera; he is angry . . . he raps on the table loudly, which gets the attention of the theatre audience. ! Silence. The boyfriend raps on the chair in front of him in answer. The actor onscreen stands up and bangs his chair on the floor, making a louder !noise.

The woman from the older couple takes her crutch and bangs IT on the floor to! match. In the meantime, the other members of the audience begin to clap their hands / stamp their feet in unison. The actor now rolls up his sleeves as if he means business and wants to do damage, then steps out of the screen to confront the theatre audience in person. He stands menacingly in front of the audience. !! The little girl timidly approaches him and hands him a bottle of Coke. !All noise stops as the entire audience watches, waiting for his reaction. ! He smiles broadly, takes the little girl by the hand and walks her back to her seat next to her dad (right in the center of the audience). She sits down and gestures for him to sit down in the empty seat next to her. !! As he does so, extremely upbeat music begins to swell up and a fast-paced, seated Zigfield Follies-style hand-leg routine ensues. Each member of the audience includes their bottle of Coke in their moves (so that the product is shown in almost every frame). The music builds to a crescendo, and the seated dance climaxes (with pyrotechnics); huge Coke banners unravel, falling from the ceiling behind the audience to prominently display the Coke logo / slogan (TBD). !! The actor high fives excited, happy laughing audience members as he heads down the rows, and steps back into the movie screen – the split second he crosses through the “line”, his clothing changes from Dickensian to modern, fashionable club wear. The movie scene is now in full gorgeous, exaggerated color! !! Everyone still sits around a table, but they’re all drinking bottles of Coke amidst a sexy, ultra modern nightclub, full of imaginative set design, neon lights, LED tables, very cool space age furniture, etc. Each actor is now dressed in similar current chic and stylish garb. !! An updated electronic version of the music plays in the background. The main actor takes his seat after high-fiving his fellow screen actors. He looks straight into the camera, winks and holds up his bottle of Coke.

____________    

Dark  Comedy  Treatment  Scorsese  style  

 Frankie  DeCatta  was  a  real  anomaly  in  his  family.      Either  that,  or  he  was  the  lone  normal  offspring  of  a  deviant,  unconventional  father  and  confused  but  doting  mother.      (The  A-­‐type  son  of  atypical  parents)    Only  child  to  the  last  remaining  Don  in  America,  Frankie  unfortunately  witnessed  firsthand  many  incidents  that  no  young  child  should  ever  have  to  encounter  –  not  without  permanent  psychological  damage.    His  father,  Don  Jules  DeCatta  was  responsible  for  much  murder  and  mayhem,  both  on  and  off  the  record,  but  he  had  one  pure,  shining  truth  in  his  dismal  life  –  he  brought  into  the  world,  and  raised  his  sole  son  and  heir,  Frankie.      As  difficult  as  it  was  to  blind  and  protect  young  Frankie  from  all  of  the  horrors  that  came  with  the  territory  of  the  Mafiosa,  Jules  desperately  tried  to  raise  his  son  uncorrupted,  and  hoped  that  young  Frankie  could  grow  up  with  at  least  some  integrity  and  innocence  –  an  upright  citizen  and  a  man  with  unflagging  moral  fiber  –  what  any  man  hopes  for  his  son.      The  film  starts  with  Frankie’s  VO  narration  of  growing  up,  as  still  photos  pan  across  the  screen:  the  usual  life  pictures  of  first  steps,  communion,  birthday  parties,  with  dad  doing  archery,  playing  soccer,  swimming  in  a  lake,  fishing,  making  pasta  w/  mom,  big  family  around  the  dinner  table,  mom  in  her  garden  sanctuary,  pruning  her  Azaleas,  dad  picking  tomatoes  off  the  vine  in  the  backyard,  etc.  .  .  .      “Other  dads  borrowed  lawn  mowers;  MY  dad  borrowed  chain  saws.    While  other  dads  were  using  their  weed  wackers,  MY  dad  was.  .    .  well.”    

The  entire  neighborhood  would  turn  out  in  force  to  watch  us  kids  in  Little  League  –  relaxed  in  their  weekend  attire,  my  dad’s  friends  (associates,  as  he  called  them  and  as  he  was  ALWAYS  “working”)  would  show  up  looking  like  Silvio  from  The  Sopranos.  Wearing  their  shiny  sharkskin  suits,  they’d  sit  apart  from  the  other  parents,  talking  and  gesturing  in  a  tight  group,  betting  on  players’  stats  and  the  outcome  of  the  games.        When  my  dad  did  try  to  fit  in  one  time,  he  wore  black  knee  socks,  sandals  and  shorts  that  exposed  his  skinny  white  legs,  black  t-­‐shirt  and  enough  gold  chains  to  catch  the  sun  and  reflect  it  into  the  opposing  pitcher’s  eyes  .  .  .  accompanied  by  my  Uncle  Vito  in  a  t-­‐shirt  that  said  “My  parents  went  to  Sicily  and  all  they  brought  back  was  this  lousy  t-­‐shirt.”    Embarrassing?    ‘Ya  think?      Photos  pan  by  of  a  coach  arguing  a  play  with  the  umpire,  being  thrown  out,  then  my  dad  throwing  out  the  umpire  .  .  .  ice  cream  vendor  bicycle,  family  spread  out  on  picnic  blanket,  a  mom  pulling  sandwiches  out  of  a  Styrofoam  cooler  at  picnic  table,  a  complete  Expresso  machine.      Yah,  I  definitely  began  to  notice  the  “subtle”  differences.        Other  frames  deliver  the  dark,  almost  imperceptible  alternate  rapport  that  exists  between  father  and  son  –  few  and  far  between  sparse  hints  of  the  other  world  in  this  life  of  a  family:    Frankie  running  into  his  dad’s  office  with  a  report  card,  only  to  be  immediately  shunted  out  by  Jule’s  business  associates  “henchman”  (zoom  into  hurt  look  on  Frankie’s  face  as  his  dad’s  office  door  close  in  his  face  .  .  .);  Frankie  getting  a  snack  late  at  night,  hidden  in  the  shadows  watching  his  father  slam  the  receiver  down  on  the  phone  with  a  scowl  and  throwing  his  coffee  cup  against  the  wall  where  it  shatters  into  pieces  ;  Scenes  of  Jules  reacting  to  bad  news  by  dumping  out  a  vase  of  fresh  flowers  that  Frankie’s  mother  has  happily  and  painstakingly  arranged  all  morning,  or  stomping  on  a  papier  mache  school  project  as  he  barges  out  of  the  house,  one  that  Frankie  has  stayed  up  all  night  working  on;    

Frankie  shrinking  away  from  the  light-­‐hearted  cuff  to  the  shoulder  from  one  of  his  dad’s  business  cronies,  as  they  all  laugh  (menacingly  in  Frankie’s  eyes)  and  good-­‐naturedly  make  fun  of  Frankie’s  small  stature  in  size  (in  Italian  which  Frankie  doesn’t  understand,  with  subtitles  for  the  audience’s  benefit).    Here,  Jules  will  defend  his  son,  by  suddenly  threatening  the  guy,  grabbing  him  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  throwing  him  up  against  the  wall.        As  much  as  he’d  like  to  hide  it  and  keep  it  completely  separate  from  his  “normal”  family  life,  Jules  does  have  a  dark  side  that  he  inadvertently,  and  unknowingly,  shows  to  his  son,  time  and  time  again  .  .  .  this  alternate  ego  ticks  at  the  center  of  the  ongoing  conflict  like  a  time  bomb,  the  one  within  the  family  members,  and  the  one  inside  Jules  himself,  and  no  one,  especially  the  audience,  knows  when  all  of  the  drama  and  opposing  emotions  between  the  main  characters  will  blow  up  –  and  who  will  ultimately  pay  the  price  and  get  hurt  the  most.        It  makes  for  a  harrowing  ride,  as  it  can  always  go  either  way,  and  the  audience  still  feels  for  Jules  and  wants  him  to  succeed  in  furthering  the  greatest  thing  he  has  going  in  his  life  –  his  relationship  with  his  son  .  .  .  and  then  .  .  .    Then,  Frankie’s  mother  dies,  and  he  feels  it  was  him  that  killed  her.    (Some  accident  occurs  for  which  Frankie  feels  wholly  responsible;  “if  only  I’d  been  there  in  time”  –  in  fact,  there  was  no  way  he  could  have  changed  anything,  but  he  still  feels  deep  guilt  and  shame  over  the  circumstances  of  her  death.    His  father  has  to  deal  with  this  as  well  –  in  prison,  without  knowing  all  of  the  facts  surrounding  his  wife’s  death,  he  has  only  Frankie  to  blame,  or  believe.    An  inner  struggle  ensues,  as  he  holds  this  against  Frankie  while  at  the  same  time  wanting  desperately  to  steer  his  son  towards  the  right  path,  make  sure  he  doesn’t  make  the  same  bad  choices;  to  love  him  and  be  accepted  by  him,  as  Frankie  is  all  he  has  for  salvation  in  his  own  miserable  life).          

Frankie  starts  his  story  at  his  present  age  of  19.    He  is  sophisticated,  creative,  and  awkwardly  handsome.  Frankie  is  a  brooding  introvert  who  conceals  his  deep  depth  and  intelligence  from  the  world.  He  is  a  misunderstood  teen  who  can  show  pure  emotion  with  just  one  quick  glance,  and  a  burning  in  the  pupils  of  his  eyes;  a  present  day  Michael  Corleone  .  .  .  an  angry  James  Dean  as  Jim  Stark  from  Rebel  Without  a  Cause.        There  are  two  things  that  can  be  considered  legitimate  anchors  that  keep  Frankie  going,  and  partially  hopeful;  they  are  his  childhood  sweetheart  Kim,  and  his  father’s  virtuous  intentions.      Kim  was  the  love  of  young  Frankie’s  life,  and  she  unfortunately  broke  his  heart  by  cutting  the  romance  short,  yet  still  wants  to  stay  in  contact,  and  on  friendly  terms.    His  father  rests  in  prison  awaiting  parole.      Anything  and  everything  can  be  an  easy  escape  for  Frankie,  or  set  him  off  in  a  rage;  he  constantly  switches  moods,  back  and  forth  between  reality  and  optimism,  and  the  darker  façade  that  has  stung  him  periodically  while  shaping  his  childhood.      Encounters  as  a  child  are  memories  of  a  tragic,  ominous  world.  His  father’s  words  of  wisdom,  and  the  gut  pull  to  win  the  heart  of  Kim  back  keep  the  19-­‐year-­‐old  Frankie  optimistic  and  stable.  Even  though  Frankie  is  medically  normal,  his  personality  exhibits  symptoms  of  hypochondria,  ADD  and  bipolar  behavior  that  result  in  a  very  precarious  immediate  future  for  Frankie  as  he  struggles  to  deal  with  these  polarizing  effects  on  his  life.  With  motivation  to  win  approval  from  his  two  loves,  Kim  and  his  father,  there  is  much  hope  for  Frankie  to  be  an  exception  to  the  Noir  world,  and  become  a  man  who  can  finally  break  free  of  tragedy.          

Title  Card    Fathers  are  the  powers  that  be,  and  with  their  power  and  might  must  shelter,  guard,  and  hold  and  teach  and  love...  All  men  with  sons  must  learn  to  do  these  things...      Too  soon,  too  soon,  a  small  son  grows  and  leaves  his  father's  side  to  test  his  manhood's  wings.      Before  being  imprisoned,  Jules  was  bounded  to  his  NY  urban  estate,  completely  tethered  to  his  life  as  Don.    He  makes  a  decision  to  change  the  setting  for  his  son,  hoping  to  create  a  new  life  for  him.        Jules  sends  Frankie  to  a  California  University  (UC  school).  Perhaps  the  different  lifestyle  can  destroy  the  awful  childhood  memories,  so  Frankie  can  leave  them  behind  in  NY.    However,  as  Kim’s  connection  further  deteriorates,  Frankie  experiences  confrontations  with  many  local  California  bred  kids  (classic  case  of  assimilation  from  outsiders).    Frankie  begins  his  descent  in  a  downward  spiral  –  the  soft-­‐spoken,  stand  up  Italian  kid  has  an  interior  breakdown.  His  heart  and  gut  battle  for  control  of  his  mind,  and  split  him  down  the  middle.      Now,  a  powerful,  vengeful  and  excessive  Italian  brute  takes  over.  The  more  uncertain  his  relationship  with  Kim  becomes,  coupled  with  increasingly  less  contact  with  his  imprisoned  father,  begin  to  make  rehabilitation  seem  impossible.  The  demons  from  his  childhood  experiences  in  NY  take  control.    After  further  and  further  confrontations  arise  due  to  his  father’s  name  and  his  Italian  roots,  a  slow  transition  takes  place  as  Frankie,  the  sincere,  serene  boy  becomes  a  selfish,  misogynistic  bully.        Frankie  becomes  dangerous.  It  is  frightful  and  disturbing  to  watch,  as  the  Frankie  we  once  knew  and  pitied  turns  into  an  introverted  monster.    

As  a  result,  the  young  Don  takes  all  of  the  repressed  feelings  and  emotions  he  was  confronted  with  as  a  child,  and  proceeds  to  twist  his  father’s  inspirational  advice.    He  creates  a  newfound  perception  and  knowledge,  resulting  in  actions  with  an  immoral  set  of  rules,  and  no  comprehension  of  right  and  wrong.  His  modified  mind  pushes  Frankie  to  start  his  own  syndicate  organization,  a  small  replication  of  his  father’s  dynasty,  one  that  will  create  havoc  and  misdemeanors  around  the  college  campus.  His  gang  is  organized  Italian,  yet  collaborates  with  the  Blacks  and  Hispanics  from  the  neighboring  hoods  around  the  school.    An  Italian  Don  with  Black/Hispanic  muscle,  it’s  almost  a  parody.      As  long  as  the  connections  with  Kim  and  his  father  remain  dim,  the  contorted  advice  from  his  father  will  continue  to  affect  his  degenerate  behavior,  getting  further  in  intensity  and  danger,  perhaps  permanently.    Even  more  telling  is  the  palpable  sense  of  unease  that  seethes  just  under  the  surface,  as  a  menacing  undercurrent  to  the  action  onscreen  -­‐  those  subtle  signs  of  conflict  experienced  by  the  characters  earlier,  come  back  into  play  now,  deftly  and  deceptively  leading  the  audience  in  unforeseen  directions  .  .  .      Frankie  continues  to  act  with  the  twisted  notion  that  his  actions  will  eventually  make  his  father  proud,  as  he  continues  to  organize  and  grow  a  band  of  misfit,  rejects  and  local  gang  members  from  the  surrounding  hood  (Bloods  or  Crypts).    An  exaggerated  caricature  of  the  notorious  Italian  mafia  organization  combined  with  a  lampooned  South  Central  disorganization  in  crime  can  be  made.    Boyz  in  the  Hood  and  Don’t  be  a  Menace  meet  Don  Vito  and  the  Corleones.      Wise  cracks  about  the  difference  in  crimes  and  iconography  between  the  two  syndicates  can  be  made  (Some  of  the  Muscle  upgrade  their  thuggish  look  as  Frankie  buys  them  some  nice  Italian  suits  -­‐  Cuba  Gooding  Jr.  looking  like  James  Cagney).    

This  can  be  considered  as  some  dark  humor  /  comic  relief  to  loosen  up  the  seriousness  of  the  film.        With  every  mob  organization  there  is  a  business  to  run,  and  with  college  campuses,  it’s  bicycles,  then  drugs.    Frankie’s  syndicate  takes  over  the  local  bike  business  action.  Their  crew  steals  and  resells  bikes  for  substantial  profit.    Soon,  Frankie  is  able  to  begin  squeezing  the  local  bike  shop  and  repair  stores.    Now  his  name  becomes  almost  mythic,  and  notorious  around  campus,  especially  for  the  top-­‐grade  drugs  he  has  access  to.  His  infamous  title  is  almost  glorified,  like  that  of  a  respected  vigilante,  and  he  enjoys  the  misguided,  unjustified  obeisance.      The  deeper  he  gets,  the  more  subtly  hidden  a  role  he  must  play.    Frankie’s  business  continues  to  grow  as  he  squeezes  other  organizations:  the  Fraternities,  the  Sororities  and  sport  teams.    They  all  pay  their  dues,  and  their  bikes  aren’t  touched.      The  corrupt  conspiracy  of  a  Mafiosa  on  Campus  gets  the  attention  of  the  University  public  safety  department  and  eventually,  police  from  the  surrounding  neighborhood  begin  to  take  a  closer  look.    The  University  makes  it  a  priority  to  infiltrate  Frankie’s  organization.  With  mob  business  (frats/bike  shops  paying  dues,  drugs  all  over  the  place)  leaks  are  to  be  expected,  and  with  leaks  come  an  escalation  of  violence  and  the  excessive  use  of  power.      Frankie  becomes  so  deeply  entwined  in  crime,  he  can’t  even  believe  the  horror  he  himself  is  causing.  Inside  he  wants  to  stop,  but  his  mind  disallows  it.  Tragedy  is  just  around  the  corner,  even  more  ill-­‐timed  with  his  father  so  close  to  parole,  and  his  ex  girlfriend  beginning  to  warm  to  him  as  she  realizes  her  loss  across  the  their  distance  (both  romantically,  and  geographically  as  they  begin  to  slowly  rekindle  their  love  affair  from  opposite  coasts).    

 It  is  too  late.        Frankie’s  mob  eventually  gets  entangled  with  other  gangs  in  the  same  businesses  –  he  begins  to  lose  control  of  the  situation.  Unlike  Frankie,  who  only  roughs  up,  beats  up  and  destroys  college  student’s  careers,  these  gangs  kill.      As  things  really  begin  to  steadily  go  downhill  for  Frankie,  and  get  increasingly  more  dangerous,  he  unknowingly  gets  in  too  deep  with  someone  who  his  father  once  crossed  (the  son  is  becoming  his  father).    In  the  lead  up  to  the  film’s  climax,  Frankie’s  right-­‐hand  man  and  close  friend  is  shot  dead,  and  that’s  all  it  takes  for  Frankie  to  snap  out  of  his  deceitful  coma.      Frankie,  only  recently  a  man  on  a  mission  again  becomes  the  scared  little  boy  in  desperate  need  of  his  father.  When  the  news  becomes  national,  his  father  gets  word  of  it,  just  days  before  his  parole.    Even  though  the  last  Don  is  stuck  in  prison,  he  makes  some  calls  and  gets  some  of  the  old  boys  to  get  the  fuck  out  to  LA  and  provide  salvage  for  his  only  son.      BUT,  this  is  what  the  audience  is  expecting,  that  the  dad  saves  the  day  and  his  son,  they  reunite,  and  live  happily  ever  after  (Frankie  marrying  Kim,  etc.)  .  .  .        In  LA,  there  is  a  small  underground  war  between  the  real  NY  Italians  and  the  ghetto-­‐surrounding  gangs.            

 The  climax:    The  scene  is  a  grimy,  dilapidated  LA  garage  interior  (like  Reservoir  Dogs).      The  final  confrontation  between  Jule’s  "henchmen",  Frankie  and  the  lead  villain  (character  to  be  developed)  backed  by  his  gang  .  .  .      

-­‐  Cut  back  to  Jules  pacing  his  cell  -­‐    -­‐  Cut  back  to  LA  –  

   The  discussion  /  threats  /  go  back  and  forth  (perhaps  some  ‘Yo  Mama  jokes  to  offset  the  violence  /  lighten  the  mood  /  maintain  the  black  humor  and  comic  relief  running  through  the  otherwise  dark  film).                              -­‐  Cut  back  to  JULES  LOOKING  AT  HIS  WATCH  –                            -­‐  Cut  back  to  LA  –    Frankie  is  acting  cocky  because  of  his  dad's  cronies’  protection  surrounding  him;  he  starts  to  approach  his  adversary  -­‐  a  gun  is  drawn,  but  the  audience  doesn’t  know  whose  hand  and  gun  it  is  (Frankie’s?    One  of  his  dad’s  mobsters?    A  gang  member?)      The  shooter  suddenly  turns  and  puts  a  bullet  right  into  Frankie's  forehead;  the  small  hole  begins  to  stream  blood  above  the  still-­‐open,  shocked  eyes  of  Frankie.                              -­‐  Cut  back  to  Jules  repeatedly  hitting  his  head  against  HIS  cell                    wall,  drawing  blood  as  well  -­‐          

V.O.    "It  doesn't  matter  who  my  father  was;  it  matters  who  I  remember  he  was.  "    END  CREDITS.    

 Jules  ends  up  having  to  make  the  "ultimate"  choice  while  in  prison  -­‐  either  saving  his  son,  or  saving  himself,  as  he  knows  he  is  about  to  be  set  free.    Jules  chooses  to  pay  off  his  own  debts,  to  make  good  and  save  his  OWN  life,  rather  than  Frankie’s.    As  much  as  Frankie  looked  up  to  his  old  man,  and  aspired  to  be  just  like  him,  he  ends  up  dying  for  it.    Not  such  a  great  man  /  role  model  after  all  .  .  .  the  son's  rise  becomes  the  father's  ultimate  failure  -­‐  and  adds  a  kick-­‐ass  twist  at  the  end  of  the  movie.    Jules'  men  end  up  taking  out  Frankie!!!      The  audience  will  still  feel  deeply  for  Frankie  so  HE  becomes  a  tragic  figure,  while  his  father  has  to  live  with  the  undeniable  fact  that  he  killed  his  only  son.    Kim  (secondary  character)  drifts  away  as  well  -­‐  the  bittersweet  romance  ended  for  good.    There  are  a  few  scenes  showing  her  writing  Frankie  (V.O.  of  her  as  she  writes,  explaining  that  while  she  hates  his  father  and  will  always  consider  him  a  criminal,  no  matter  how  much  love  he  professed  for  his  son,  she  strangely  feels  a  grudging  respect  for  Frankie  as  he  rises  through  the  ranks  out  in  LA,  finally  making  something  of  himself  –  even  if  it  IS  crime-­‐driven,  and  she  plans  to  make  amends  with  Jules  for  Frankie’s  sake)    

 A  late-­‐night  telephone  call  between  the  two  of  them,  discussing  their  differences  /  coming  to  some  terms  .  .  .  Frankie  fondly  tracing  the  lines  of  Kim’s  face  in  a  photograph  of  her  he  keeps  in  his  wallet  .  .  .  Kim  reading  local  LA  newspaper  accounts  of  Frankie’s  exploits,  keeping  track  of  his  life  (perhaps  cutting  out  clippings  about  him)  .  .  .  watching  TV  (split  screen  or  cutting  from  one  to  the  other)  –  Kim  watching  a  newscast  about  Frankie,  or  about  Jule’s  upcoming  parole  and  release  from  prison  /  Frankie  watching  a  television  rerun  of  Good  Fellas  .  .  .  perhaps  a  scene  of  Kim  gathering  up  the  nerve  to  finally  visit  Jules  while  he’s  still  in  prison,  making  amends  with  him  through  the  glass  partition  (for  Frankie’s  sake,  and  hers,  as  they  plan  to  get  back  together).        Or  spitting  against  the  glass.        Note:  Just  a  skeleton          

____________                        

Shooters'  Gallery      INT.  WATCHTOWER  -­‐  DAY    MICHAEL  BUICK  (13)  gazes  through  his  “binoculars”;  hands  steady,  tracking  the  current  object  of  his  affections.    

NARRATOR    There  was  a  time  when  he  would  have  approached  her  in  school,  right  after  their  English  class,  up  close  and  personal.  But  now,  he  could  only  contemplate  her  from  afar,  way  atop  his  favorite  place  to  hang  out.    

Michael  sits  atop  the  watchtower,  the  cornerstone  of  his  family's  palatial  estate  that  served  as  his  observatory,  the  only  spot  he  felt  truly  comfortable,  where  he  could  command  a  panoramic  view  of  his  own  immediate  world.    

NARRATOR  (CONT’D)    Of  course,  he  thought,  his  old  man  wouldn't  even  call  them  binoculars,  as  that  was  too  “modern”  a  term  for  his  old  man.  

 MICHAEL  (mockingly)  

No  no,  my  dear  boy,  those  are  your  great  granddad's  field  glasses  you  have  there.  They  were  a  very  important  factor,  instrumental  indeed,  in  leading  us  to  victory  at  The  Battle  of  Rich  Mountain  back  in  1861,  don't  you  know.  (back  to  self)__  Enunciating  every  fucking  word  with  his  proper  New  England  damn  inflection.  

 Michael  pulls  his  eye  away  briefly  to  readjust  his  “scope”  and  dips  down  to  reengage  with  her.  

MICHAEL  (CONT’D)  (mockingly)  Aim  high  my  boy,  aim  high  and  the  world  will  be  yours!  

(back  to  self)  Ya,  maybe  YOUR  world,  not  mine!  Mister  Asshole  Industrialist,  with  your  perfect  prim  and  proper  wife.  I’m  up  on  my  own  fucking  Rich  Mountain,  don’t  YOU  know?!  

 INT.  BUICK  ESTATE  -­‐  MORNING    The  next  morning,  Michael  was  up  early  as  usual.  He  quietly  made  his  way  past  his  parent's  bedroom,  pausing  to  listen  to  the  both  of  them  snoring  away.  Then  he  remembered  that  they  were  gone  again,  having  left  on  yet  another  foray  to  wherever  they  happened  to  visit  every  week.  

NARRATOR    Michael  was  born  with  the  proverbial  silver  spoon  in  his  mouth;  some  people  even  thought  it  might  be  platinum.  Over  time  though,  as  Michael  grew  older  and  lonelier,  that  spoon  began  to  taste  like  gunmetal.  Their  son  was  the  classic  “chip  off  the  old  block”.  

 INT.  BUICK  ESTATE  KITCHEN  -­‐  MOMENTS  LATER    At  this  hour,  only  the  cook  was  up.  ISAAC  (42)  was  kneading  the  dough  for  that  day's  fresh  bread.    

NARRATOR  Isaac  weighed  at  least  350  lbs.  He  knew  how  much  time  Michael  spent  in  the  watchtower.  He  also  under-­‐  stood  why  the  boy  sought  the  solitude  afforded  up  there.    

He  looked  up  as  Michael  entered  his  spacious  domain.  Still  had  the  staff  to  feed,  after  all.      As  well  as  the  young  heir.    

ISAAC    Ah,  if  it  isn't  the  Master  of  the  House.  Good  morning  young  man!  Shall  I  bring  your  breakfast  up  to  your  steeple  in  the  sky  this  fine  day?  (wink)  

 MICHAEL    

Not  today  Isaac.  I  fear  it  might  be  a  trifle,  too  windy  up  there  for  you.  Besides,  you  have  your  morning  work  to  do.  What  have  you  planned  for  their  menu  this  morning?  Arsenic  omelets  with  toxic  toast?  

 ISAAC  

Sure...and  camphor  cupcakes  for  a  sweet  dessert!    Michael  smiles,  the  old  cook  his  favorite  person  in  the  world.    

NARRATOR    It  was  a  standing  joke  between  them  that  if  Isaac  ever  DID  climb  to  the  top  with  Michael,  the  tower  would  topple  immediately  over.  Michael  liked  to  think  that  it  would  crash  right  onto  his  parents'  bedroom,  thus  doing  away  with  the  both  of  them  in  one  foul  swoop.  

 ISAAC    

Well  here,  take  some  biscuits  to  eat  up  there,  and  I  brewed  some  nice  hot  tea.  

 MICHAEL  

Thanks  Isaac.  See  you  later.    Isaac  fondly  but  sadly  shakes  his  head,  as  he  watches  Michael  exit  the  room.    

INT.  BUICK  ESTATE  STUDY  -­‐  MOMENTS  LATER    The  kitchen  happened  to  be  way  over  in  the  east  wing  of  the  mansion,  far  away  from  the  bedrooms,  so  Michael  knew  he  was  safe  to  enter  his  father's  study  to  get  his  “field  glasses”.    He  made  his  way  past  the  paintings  of  his  ancestors,  thinking  all  the  while  of  slashing  each  of  their  throats,  ripping  the  canvases  beyond  redemption.  Of  course  without  his  forbears,  he  himself  wouldn't  exist;  but  in  his  current  state  of  mind,  maybe  that  wouldn't  be  such  a  bad  thing    He  approached  his  father's  gun  cabinet,  and  pulled  out  his  favorite  set  of  “binoculars”,  making  sure  that  the  telescope  was  solidly  affixed.    EXT.  BUICK  ESTATE  -­‐  MOMENTS  LATER    Soundlessly  closing  the  massive  oak  door  behind  him,  Michael  swiftly  hiked  across  the  great  lawn  towards  his  watchtower,  his  only  company  a  few  black  crows  circling  above  him  through  the  early  morning  mist.    

NARRATOR  He  knew  that  he  had  to  get  there  early  enough  to  see  Ellen,  that  was  her  name,  Ellen.  It  was  his  one  chance  on  the  weekends  to  see  her  from  atop  his  aerie  before  she  stepped  inside  to  work  for  the  day.  

 Michael  arrives  at  the  base  of  the  tower,  “binoculars”  fasted  over  his  shoulder.    

NARRATOR  (CONT’D)  By  now,  he  knew  exactly  where  to  look,  and  when,  to  seek  out  those  he  had  built  up  the  biggest  disdain  for.    

Yes,  the  ones  who  exhibited  the  same  airs  of  goddam  superiority  his  own  father  did,  and  his  mother,  meekly  adoringly  following  his  example.  

 As  he  easily  climbed  up  the  tower  and  settled  himself  in  his  customary  position,  he  placed  the  “binoculars”  on  the  stone  ledge,  aimed  it  and  focused  the  scope.    

MICHAEL  (whispering)    Ah,  there  she  is,  right  on  time.  

 NARRATOR    

What  a  beautiful  girl  she  was.    

As  he  trailed  her  path,  he  noticed  that  some  guy  was  shadowing  Ellen.  Michael  zoomed  in  and  recognized  a  boy  that  went  to  his  school.  He  didn't  know  him  well  at  all,  given  that  he  dressed  practically  in  rags  and  wasn't  very  bright,  but  rumor  had  it  that  he  lived  way  outside  of  town  in  some  old  shack,  and  that  he  was  also  an  only  child.    

MICHAEL  What  the  fuck  is  HE  doing  following  my  girl?  

 Michael  zooms  in  ever  closer  until  the  guy's  head  is  right  in  the  middle  of  the  bulls-­‐eye,  and  slowly  pulls  on  the  trigger.    

MICHAEL  (CONT’D)    Bang.  You’re  dead.  

 INT.  BECKLEY  SCHOOL  HOUSE  -­‐  MORNING    Monday  morning  at  school  was  business  as  usual  for  Michael.  

He  avoided  the  very  kids  that  he  had  grown  up  with,  because  he  had  gradually  grown  apart  from  them  as  his  confidence  eroded.  They  now  laughed  behind  his  back  as  he  made  his  way  towards  his  class.    He  got  about  halfway  down  the  hallway  when  a  couple  of  his  old  friends  teamed  up  on  him.  As  one  knelt  on  the  ground  behind  Michael;  the  other  shoved  him,  hard.  Michael  hit  the  ground  with  a  grunt,  his  books  flying  all  over  the  place.    Already  having  learnt  that  it  was  best  to  just  ignore  the  two  assholes  as  they  ambled  off  laughing  hysterically,  Michael,  crestfallen,  started  to  pick  up  his  books.  As  he  stood  up,  a  large  shadow  completely  blocked  out  the  weak  shaft  of  sunlight  filtering  through  the  only  window  in  the  long  corridor.    

NARRATOR    The  BOY  was  really  HUGE  up  close.  A  veritable  BOHEMOTH,  from  his  steel-­‐toed  boots  up!  The  guy  also  looked  incredulous  and  scornful  at  the  same  time.  

 BOY    

Man  o  man,  you  are  one  sorry  ass  little  wimp,  ya  know  that?  Why'd  you  let  those  guys  get  away  with  that  shit?  

 MICHAEL  

Basically  because  I  don’t  GIVE  a  shit,  that’s  why!    Michael  noticed  that  besides  a  big  gut,  the  guy  was  sporting  a  black  eye  the  size  of  a  massive  port  wine  stain.    

MICHAEL  (CONT’D)  You  wouldn't  know  how  to  deal  with  them  anyway!  Looks  like  you  lost  your  last  brawl  big  time!  What's  with  the  shiner?  

 

BOY    I  um  ...  I  got  in  a  fight  with  a  Chevy!  It's  none  of  your  fuckin'  business  anyway.  I  still  woulda  beat  the  crap  out  of  those  two  guys  if  they  tried  that  stunt  on  me.  

 MICHAEL  

Yah  well,  you  deal  with  your  life  your  way,  and  I'll  deal  with  mine!  

 Michael  started  to  turn  away  and  walk  off  to  class,  but  then  paused  as  if  making  up  his  mind.  He  turned  around  again  and  looked  up  into  the  other  guy's  face,  still  unsure  whether  to  exhibit  friendliness  to  the  big  lug.  At  that  point,  the  other  guy  grinned.  With  a  matching  grin,  Michael  extended  his  hand,  which  was  swallowed  up  in  the  other's  gigantic  mitt.    

MICHAEL  (CONT’D)    Michael  Buick.  

 BOY  

Danny  Hannigan.    What’ya  say  we  get  the  hell  outta  this  joint?    The  two  of  them  started  to  amble  off,  the  physical  difference  between  them  instantly  apparent  to  any  passersby.    EXT.  BUICK  ESTATE  -­‐  AFTERNOON    Michael  leads  Danny  through  the  gates  to  his  mansion  estate,  Michael  visibly  embarrassed  as  Danny  looks  around  in  wonder.  The  two  make  there  to  base  of  the  watchtower.    

DANNY  Are  you  sure  this  thing  is  strong  enough  to  hold  both  of  us?  

   

MICHAEL  Actually,  I  DON'T  know.    I  never  brought  anyone  else  up  with  me  before.  

 EXT.  WATCHTOWER  -­‐  MOMENTS  LATER      Danny  does  a  slow  360    

DANNY    Are  you  fucking  kiddin'  me?!    You  could  fit  everyone  in  a  prison,  PLUS  a  hundred  chain  gangs  in  this  joint,  with  room  to  spare!  I  live  in  a  shitty  one-­‐room  shack!  

 MICHAEL  

I  thought  you  said  that  you  lived  with  your  dad?    

DANNY  I  do,  but  he's  hardly  even  home...and  when  he  IS  home,  he's  either  falling  down  drunk  as  a  skunk,  or  itching  for  a  scrap.  

 MICHAEL  

You  mean  your  own  father  picks  fights  with  you?  Is  that  where  you  received  your  black  eye?  

 DANNY  

Yah,  this  and  a  few  other  cuts  and  scrapes.  But  I  tell  you,  I  get  in  one  good  punch,  inflict  just  a  little  pain  on  his  sorry  ass,  and  I'm  good  to  go!  

 Michael  takes  a  few  seconds  to  reply,  as  he  gazes  forlornly  out  into  the  distance.        

MICHAEL    I  sure  wish  I  had  the  backbone  to  challenge  my  father  to  a  duel.  He  surely  deserves  a  beating.  

 DANNY  

What  are  you  talkin'  about?    Look  where  you  live!  What  could  your  old  man  have  done  to  you  to  deserve  a  beating.  

 MICHAEL  

It's  just  a  big  empty  space  .  .  .  full  of  things  that  mean  the  world  to  my  parents,  but  absolutely  nothing  to  me.  Antiques  and  artifacts  and  photographs  from  THEIR  world,  mementos  of  the  many  vacations  they've  gone  on,  leaving  me  all  alone  yet  again  and  again!  

 DANNY  

Hey,  I  bet  a  lotta  that  shit  is  worth  big  money,  huh?!    

MICHAEL  Ah,  I  guess  I  never  really  thought  about  it.  

 It  seems  Danny  has  hit  upon  an  uncomfortable  nerve.    

MICHAEL  (CONT’D)    Hey,  would  you  like  to  get  something  to  eat?  

 DANNY    

Sure  I’m  starvin’.    Danny,  thinking  that  he'd  get  a  chance  to  case  the  joint  and  inspect  the  goods  on  offer.    INT.  BUICK  ESTATE  STUDY  -­‐  MOMENTS  LATER  

The  boys  are  sitting  in  Michael's  father’s  richly  furnished  study.  Description  banker's  lights,  soft  leather  chairs,  lots  of  antiques.  Empty  plates  sit  on  his  dad's  massive  desk,  as  Daniel  walks  around  the  room  picking  up  things,  then  putting  them  back  as  his  attention  is  drawn  to  something  else.  Then,  he  notices  the  gun  cabinet.    

DANNY  (mumbling)    Now  we're  talkin’...  

 Danny  has  a  real  gleam  in  his  eye.  He  makes  to  open  the  cabinet,  but  it  is  locked.    

DANNY  (CONT’D)  Michael,  'ya  got  a  key  for  this  thing?  

 Michael,  distractedly  going  through  some  papers  on  his  father's  desk  looks  up.    

MICHAEL  Huh?    Sure.  But  you  better  let  me  do  it.  My  parents  give  me  pretty  much  free  reign  around  here,  but  it  is  not  unusual  for  my  father  to  notice  when  things  are  amiss.  

 He  walks  over  to  the  cabinet,  shifting  a  small  jade  sculpture  that  Danny  had  held  up  back  into  it's  proper  position,  then  pulls  a  small  key  chain  from  his  pocket.    Danny  steps  aside  to  give  him  room,  and  Michael  unlocks  the  cabinet,  swinging  the  glass  door  open.  Danny  immediately  rushes  forward  to  grab  the  first  weapon  he  puts  his  hands  on,  but  Michael  puts  a  hand  on  his  arm.        

MICHAEL  (CONT’D)  Easy  Danny...Here,  let  me  show  you  my  favorite  set  of  “binoculars”.  

 He  slowly  eases  a  rifle  out  of  its  niche,  stroking  it  reverently  for  a  second  before  handing  it  to  Danny.    

MICHAEL  (CONT’D)    Be  careful  with  it.  

 Danny  looks  at  Michael  with  utter  confusion  and  incredulousness.    

DANNY  Are  you  fucking  crazy  Michael?  This  ain't  no  binoculars!  It's  a  gun!  

 MICHAEL  

Well,  I  only  utilize  it  for  the  telescopic  scope  on  the  side,  just  like  binoculars.  

 Danny  grabs  the  rifle  out  of  Michael's  hands  and  makes  like  he's  taking  aim,  pointing  at  objects  all  around  the  room.    

DANNY  (shouting)    BANG!  BANG!  BANG!  

 Michael  looks  startled.  Danny  then  turns  full  around  and  points  the  rifle  directly  at  Michaels  face.    

DANNY  (CONT’D)  (softly)    Bang.  

 MICHAEL  

There  aren't  any  bullets  in  it,  so  back  off  Danny.  

Michael  grabs  back  the  rifle.  As  the  two  boys  escape  the  study,  Danny  slips  something  into  his  pocket.  A  jewel-­‐encrusted  ceremonial  dagger,  one  of  many  laying  on  Michael’s  father’s  desk.    Isaac  sees  him  slip  it  into  his  pocket.  Isaac  enters  the  room  to  clear  the  boys'  plates,  but  he  says  nothing,  locking  away  the  information  for  later  use.    

INT.  DANNY’S  HOME  -­‐  NIGHT    Danny  sits  on  an  old  crate,  slowly  fondling  the  dagger.  His  mind  begins  to  wander.    

CUT  TO:  INT.  DANNY’S  HOME  -­‐  PAST    Danny  sits  on  the  crate  with  the  dagger,  witnessing  his  memories  unfold.    

NARRA  TOR  My  only  “friends”  were  the  other  unkempt  drunks  my  father  hung  out  with,  passing  around  a  cruddy  bottle  of  moonshine.  

 Danny  watches  himself  being  forced  to  take  swigs.    

NARRATOR  (CONT’D)    Other  “friends”  were  the  ugly  whores  my  father  managed  to  find  in  some  places.  

 Danny  watches  himself  outside  his  father’s  room  in  a  dingy  hallway,  his  knees  are  drawn  up  to  his  chest  as  he  tries  to  ignore  the  obnoxious  sounds  emanating  from  inside  the  room.  

The  women  would  invariably  look  down  at  him  on  the  way  out,  smiling  sympathetically  and  patting  him  on  the  head,  as  she  left  him  to  wait  for  his  father  to  sleep  it  off  on  the  blotchy,  disheveled  bed.    

MAN’S  VOICE  (O.S.)    What  the  hell  you  got  there  boy?!  

 INT.  DANNY’S  HOME  –  NIGHT  

CUT  TO:    Danny  is  startled  out  of  his  reverie.  His  FATHER  bellows  at  him.    

DANNY’S  FATHER    Gimme  that!  

 Danny  jumps  up  and  answers  meekly.    

DANNY  Hey  dad,  I  was  just  waitin'  for  you  to  git  home  so's  I  could  show  this  to  you.  

 He  hands  the  dagger  to  his  dad,  who  immediately  makes  like  he's  going  to  slice  up  his  son.  Danny  reflexively  throws  up  his  arm  and  gets  a  bad  gash  for  his  effort.  He  wipes  away  the  blood.    

DANNY  (CONT’D)  And  I  know  where  to  get  a  hell  of  a  lot  more  shit,  just  as  hot  and  expensive.  

 His  father,  less  belligerent  lends  out  an  ear.    EXT.  WATCHTOWER  -­‐  AFTERNOON  

Michael  and  Danny  climb  back  up  to  the  top  of  the  watchtower.  Michael  unstraps  the  rifle.  Danny  is  far  more  subdued  then  he  was  a  day  earlier  and  continuously  glances  at  the  entrance  gate.    Michael  hands  Danny  the  rifle  and  Danny  focuses  the  scope,  tracking  the  township  denizens  as  they  scurry  like  ants.    

MICHAEL  By  the  way,  this  is  where  I  saw  you  from  the  other  day,  when  you  were  pursuing  Ellen.  Why  were  you  following  her?  

 DANNY  

How  do  you  know  Ellen?    

MICHAEL  Ellen  is  the  only  classmate  that  still  smiles  at  me.  

 Michael  smiles  as  he  treasures  the  thought  of  her.    

MICHAEL  (CONT’D)  Used  to  be,  we  would  share  interests  in  school...discuss  the  books  that  we  had  both  read.  We  even  sat  together  several  times  for  lunch!  

 DANNY  

Wow...For  a  little  man,  you  sure  got  closer  to  first  base  with  Ellen  than  I  ever  did!  Did  you  ever  kiss  her?  

 MICHAEL  

Are  you  crazy,  you  big  idiot?  I  would  never  have  had  the  courage  to  even  TRY  something  like  that!  

 (beat)  What  about  you?  Danny  lowers  the  rifle.  

 

DANNY  Honestly?  I  never  spoke  a  word  to  her.  She  just  looks  down  on  me  anyway;  you  know...I  don’t  blame  her.  

 Michael  retorts.    

MICHAEL    Not  Ellen!    She’s  way  too  nice  to  look  down  on  ANYONE!  

 DANNY  

I  sure  do  think  she’s  the  prettiest  girl  in  town,  though.    They  both  sit  there,  deep  in  their  own  thoughts.  Danny  glances  again  at  the  gates.  As  Michael  looks  away.  Danny  rummages  through  his  pocket  and  grasps  a  single  bullet.      With  Michael  still  entranced,  Danny  surreptitiously  inserts  the  bullet.    Unbeknownst  to  Danny  though,  Isaac  has  followed  the  boys  outside  this  time.    Danny  places  the  rifle  in  Michael’s  hands.  Michael  takes  his  turn  to  voyeur.    Suddenly,  Danny  spots  his  father  sneak  onto  the  premises.  Danny’s  eyes  widen.    

DANNY  (CONT’D)    Intruder!  Shoot  him  Michael!  

 Michael,  startled,  fumbles  the  rifle  and  then  takes  aim.    

DANNY  (CONT’D)    SHOOT  HIM!  

As  Michael  pulls  the  trigger,  the  entire  watchtower  lurches  like  an  earthquake  erupts  immediately  below  them.    As  the  camera  shows  Danny’s  father  running  for  his  life  out  of  the  gates,  it  slowly  pans  back  to  the  base  of  the  tower,  where  Isaac  has  used  his  great  bulk  to  push  the  tower  at  the  very  moment  the  shot  rings  out.  Michael  jitters  as  he  holds  the  smoking  rifle.  The  two  boys  stare  at  each  other  in  shock.    INT.  BUICK  ESTATE  KITCHEN    The  dagger  is  found  on  Danny  and  he's  led  away  from  the  mansion  in  handcuffs.    In  the  meantime,  MICHAEL’S  FATHER  is  outside  amidst  the  flashing  lights  and  hullabaloo  of  the  crime  scene,  he  holds  his  shaking  son.    

MICHAEL’S  FATHER    My  dear  boy,  what  were  you  thinking,  bringing  the  rifle  up  there?  

 MICHAEL  

I  only  used  it  as  “binoculars”.    Michael’s  father  is  pleasantly  perplexed.    

MICHAEL’S  FATHER  Well  then,  it  appears  we  need  to  find  you  a  real  set  of  binoculars.  Would  you  object  to  aiding  the  construction  of  our  watch  tower?  I  believe  it’s  time  we  Buick’s  get  our  hands  dirty.  

 Michael’s  father  lifts  his  boy.    

MICHAEL’S  FATHER  (CONT’D)  

Isaac.  Would  you  prepare  some  biscuits  for  my  son?    

ISAAC    Yessir!  

 As  they  walk  back  into  the  house  together,  Isaac  winks  at  Michael.      

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RAZZLE  DAZZLE    “OK  gang,  take  five.”    The  crew  takes  off,  &  Jim  relishes  the  moment,  left  alone  for  a  change,  instead  of  being  constantly  catered  to  &  harangued  by  legions  of  yes  men,  ass  lickers,  technicians,  hair  &  make-­‐up,  script  people,  co-­‐stars  .  .  .      Jim  takes  a  deep,  cleansing  breath,  and  decides  to  take  a  walk  outside  to  enjoy  his  unexpected  solitude.    Walking  through  the  vast  lot,  he  happens  upon  a  soundstage  notable  for  the  many  musicals  that  were  shot  within  its  cavernous  space,  way  back  when  the  studio  churned  them  out  in  a  string  of  successful  money-­‐makers.        Furtively  looking  around  to  make  sure  that  no  is  watching,  he  slips  inside,  just  to  experience  that  Golden  Age  ambience  for  a  moment,  before  he  is  needed  back  on  his  own  set.    The  space  is  dark,  the  silence  deafening.        Suddenly,  a  powerful  klieg  light  shines  directly  into  his  eyes,  momentarily  blinding  him.    “Hey,  who’s  there?”    No  one  answers.    “C’mon  Nicole,  if  you  wish  to  shower  me  with  your  brilliance,  just  come  on  to  me  in  the  usual  fashion  .  .  .  there’s  no  need  for  these  theatrics!”    He  fingers  the  lapel  of  the  Hugo  Boss  suit  he’s  wearing  for  that  days’  shoot,  absently  brushing  off  some  lint  as  he  looks  around  the  vast  room.    Shrugging,  he  turns  towards  the  entrance  when  another  strong  light  ignites  to  the  left  of  him,  planting  him  squarely  in  the  illuminated  crossfire.    

“What  the  fuck?”    Jim  hears  the  distinct  sounds  of  fingers  snapping,  as  a  series  of  gelled  spotlights  turn  on  in  sequence    .  .  .  now,  the  swish  of  a  brush  on  a  snare  drum  arises  seemingly  out  of  thin  air.    Jim  now  notices  his  shadow  cast  on  the  floor,  surprised  by  a  weird  protrusion  atop  his  head.    He  feels  and  finds  a  top  hat.        Really  startled  now,  he  looks  down  to  discover  that  he’s  no  longer  clothed  in  Boss,  but  is  now  wearing  tails,  spats  and  is  carrying  a  cane!    A  backbeat  begins  to  play,  and  individual  musicians,  set  behind  music  stands  on  an  immense  Art  Deco  bandstand  are  illuminated  one  by  one,  their  instruments  joining  in  as  they  are  set  alit,  the  now  full-­‐fledged  musical  number  filling  the  soundstage  with  glorious  sound.    Jim  can’t  help  but  tap  his  toe,  as  the  beat  is  now  infectious.      Throwing  caution  to  the  wind,  he  pivots  once,  twice.        Now  completely  caught  up  in  the  music,  he  turns  again,  and  is  confronted  by  an  entire  line  of  dancers,  girls  in  Fosse-­‐style  black  leotards,  heels  and  bowler  hats,  men  dressed  just  like  he  is  creeping  out  from  the  dark  perimeter.    Somehow,  Jim  instinctively  knows  exactly  what  to  do,  as  all  the  bodies  rush  forward  to  whisk  him  up  onto  their  shoulders  amidst  a  sudden  infusion  of  dry  ice  creeping  along  the  floor  at  their  feet.    Colored  lights  now  flash  in  unison  with  the  upbeat  music,  following  the  dance  troupe  through  their  choreographed  moves.    Jim  is  in  the  lead,  enjoying  his  newfound  freedom  and  talent  with  total  abandon,  dancing  up  a  storm  with  his  chorus  line.    

One  final  razzle  dazzle  swivel  of  the  hips,  and  Jim,  now  sweating  profusely  from  his  energetic  efforts,  does  a  classic  shoulder  roll,  looks  behind  him  and  is  shocked  to  discover  no  one  there.    Total  silence,  palpable,  again  surrounds  him  as  the  last  notes  echo  off  into  the  darkness.    A  camera  crane  descends  out  of  the  air  close  to  Jim.    Seated  in  it,  a  director  gestures  towards  him,  saying,”  "Great  sequence,  Jim!    A  few  close-­‐ups  and  a  little  editing,  and  we’ll  have  another  hit  on  our  hands.    Congratulations.”      

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