Which Lie Did I Tell? (42 page)

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Authors: William Goldman

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IV.
The Big A

What follows is an original screenplay I wrote for this book. I knew for a long time that I wanted to have you read something of mine that was new. That you could look at with entirely fresh eyes.

I hope you
think
about it as you read it—what works, what doesn’t, why doesn’t it, how would you improve it? It’s very important to me that you take the time to do that.

But I also thought
you
would benefit from learning what some top screenwriters thought of it. So I sent the script—
exactly
what you are going to read—to some screenwriters I know and respect. Between them they’ve won a couple of Oscars, had a lot of hits, doctored a bunch more. Here they are, billing alphabetical:

Peter and Bobby Farrelly

Scott Frank

Tony Gilroy

Callie Khouri

John Patrick Shanley

I’ll give you their specific credits later. This is the letter I sent them:

21 June 99

To my fellow pit dwellers—

—
thank you.

What you have received is the last part of my sequel to
Adventures in the Screen Trade,
entitled
Which Lie Did I Tell?
More specifically, this chunk is part original screenplay, part outline, part thoughts about writing screenplays. It is the very first draft.

What I want you to do is this:
criticize the shit out of it.
It does me no good if you take pity. I thought in the beginning I would tape you all but we are scattered and we are writers, so I now think it might be easier for you to jot your thoughts down.

I think what I want you to do is this: a studio has sent you these 90 pages for doctoring. What do you think works, what do you think doesn’t, what are the strengths, tell me the weaknesses.

In other words, you are going in to talk to, I guess, the producer or the studio exec, and you are going to explain how, if possible, you are going to make this, if not wonderful, at least better. (Note: you have the job if you want it.)

Their comments will be printed later in the book. And they’re all real smart, but for now, what I care about is you. You judge it. And remember, there is no wrong answer. We all have our own stories to tell. Here’s one of mine.

The Big A

Original Screenplay By
William Goldman
July, 1999
For Our Eyes Only
FADE IN ON:
This--we are maybe fifty feet up and looking straight down along the side of a tenement toward a crummy New York City alley. This is not Park Avenue, folks. We’re in a crappy slum.
Dark summer night.
Now, as we watch, A GUY comes into view, making his slow way climbing up the side of the old brick building. He travels light--no equipment, just his fingers digging into the old brick.
Hello to CLIMBER JONES. (Born Ralph, but known since a kid by the nickname. Used to spend days in the small apartment he grew up in without ever touching the floor.)
Clearly, as he comes toward camera, he’s still at it. The only difference is that when he was little, it was pleasure, it was adventure. Now, mid-thirties, it’s business, and we can tell this much from his face: he hates it. It scares him shitless.
And if he lives through this-- and he will, my God, he’s the star--he will earn probably five hundred dollars and in the morning he will wake up to be what he was: as honest a private detective as the city has to offer. We are looking, in other words, at a guy who comes as close as anyone alive to being the Bogart of
The Maltese Falcon
. A good man in a bad world.
Now he takes a breather, hanging there, breathing as silently as he can, on the top floor of the building.
He glances into the nearest window and as he does we
CUT TO
THREE MEN. Armed and swarthy. They sit around a table on which a telephone rests. Staring at it.
CUT TO
CLIMBER, glancing done. He takes a breath, glances back down now to the street--
CUT TO
ANOTHER MAN. He waits by a phone booth. From a distance we could be looking at the great Jimmy Cagney of
Love Me or Leave Me
, mid-fifties, but you still don’t want to mess with him. This guy’s name, incidentally,
is
JIMMY. Several more men range behind him in the darkness.
JIMMY shrugs his shoulders in a questioning way, staring up through the darkness at THE CLIMBER. He seems to be asking: yes?
CUT TO
THE CLIMBER. He waves his arm back and forth--no.
Then he resumes climbing but this time he goes down a few hand holds, till he is below the window where the THREE MEN wait.
Now he goes crab-like, sideways, till he is past the window. Then back up again, till he is at the next window, glances in.
CUT TO
A YOUNG GIRL. Twenty maybe. She’s bound and gagged, blindfolded, and has been tossed into a corner on the floor. Her clothes, nice once, are now ripped and dirty. She lies taut, dry-eyed. Probably she realizes this--that she is very soon going to die.
CUT TO
THE CLIMBER. He is now doing something kind of interesting--hanging by one hand in space. The other hand takes stuff from his pocket, a small box-cutter with a razor, a small gun.
CUT TO
THE PHONE BOOTH AND JIMMY staring up through the darkness. For a moment it’s too horrible to contemplate and he has to turn away.
CUT TO
THE SWARTHY GUYS, the kidnappers, and there is a lot of strain on their faces as they mutter, continue to wait for the phone and
CUT TO
CLIMBER, and he has managed to wedge his body against the sill and, with the cutter, is removing the glass near the window lock. Silently, he pulls the piece of glass loose, reaches carefully in, unlocks the window.
Then he takes a very deep breath.
CUT TO
THE GIRL. She is aware that something is going on, has no idea what it is, but her head is turned toward the window now.
CUT TO
THE THREE SWARTHY GUYS and two of them are up now, starting to pace almost mystically about the table and
CUT TO
CLIMBER, taking a breath. Then he takes a long look down in the direction of the phone booth, gestures strongly with his right hand:
Go
! And on that--
CUT TO
JIMMY, immediately going into the booth, inserting a coin, starting to dial and
CUT TO
CLIMBER, waiting, waiting-- and the
instant
he hears the phone start to ring in the next room, he starts to raise the window and
CUT TO
THE PHONE as the THREE GUYS react, all reach at the same time. The HEAD KIDNAPPER slaps the others’ hands away, all but rips the phone from its cradle.
HEAD KIDNAPPER
(pissed)
Where the fokk you been, man?
CUT TO
JIMMY, as he inserts a huge handkerchief into his mouth.
JIMMY
Traffic.
CUT TO
THE HEAD KIDNAPPER. What he can make out is this: nothing that sounds like a word.
HEAD KIDNAPPER
Never fokking mind, you got the money?
CUT TO
CLIMBER, kneeling by the girl now, expertly setting her free, first the ropes around her feet, then her hands, then the gag, finally the blindfold and as she turns to face him, he puts his fingers to his lips as we
CUT TO
ECHO SINCLAIR. (Real name Jennifer but known since a kid by the nickname. Used to spend hours when she was little walking up behind people and repeating whatever they said.)
She has had a terrible time these last days, ECHO. So she’s sure not looking her best.
Still not exactly a dog. It’s just one of those faces, folks. We are looking at Audrey Hepburn in
Roman Holiday
.
CUT TO
CLIMBER, and he has to react to what he sees, but only briefly. Then he whispers, fast and low.
CLIMBER JONES
Hang tough, Miss Sinclair; you’ll be home in no time. Stay
right
behind me. Can you do that?
(she manages a nod)
CUT TO
JIMMY IN THE PHONE BOOTH, mouth still full.
JIMMY
I’ve got ten million dollars in this satchel here.
CUT TO
THE KIDNAPPERS. THE HEAD GUY is holding the receiver out to the others. They shake their heads.
HEAD KIDNAPPER
What fokking country you calling from, asshole?
(we can’t make out JIMMY’S reply)
How many million?
(we hear JIMMY making a sound that could be ten. He looks at the others)
Ten you think?
(they nod. He cannot help but smile)
Ten is fokking good.
(the others nod)
CUT TO
CLIMBER AND ECHO by the door that leads to the other room. ECHO is right behind him.
CLIMBER JONES
(his hand on the door now--very soft)
You’re doing great. Now do me a favor and try not to scream, I hate screaming.
ECHO
(nods. Then whispers)
Why would I want to scream?
(and on that)
CUT TO
CLIMBER JONES, and here he comes, throwing the door wide, bolting through, opening fire and the HEAD KIDNAPPER
cries out, hit in the shoulder and he falls over the table, but still reaching for his gun and now here comes the SECOND KIDNAPPER charging for them and
ECHO is screaming like a banshee now
because this is one big motherfucker and CLIMBER times it just right, backhands him in the mouth with his pistol barrel, and his teeth fly all over and the THIRD KIDNAPPER has his gun out and is about to fire, he looks like he knows how to use it and he’s got the advantage and the HEAD KIDNAPPER is back on his feet and he has his gun too--
--which is when CLIMBER grabs ECHO, puts an arm around her, and as the bullets come closer and closer, they dive straight
into
the closed glass window, straight
through
the closed glass window and as we watch, they start to fall, their bodies turning in space, down the sixty feet to the alley pavement below.
CUT TO
ECHO IN SPACE, IN SLOW MOTION, holding on to him as they fall, and it sounds nuts, but this is probably when she falls in love with CLIMBER because men had always been after her, always for their own reasons, and she knows many who were kind and some who were brilliant and the occasional one who was beautiful--
--but no one had ever taken her on this kind of journey.
CUT TO
CLIMBER IN SPACE, IN SLOW MOTION. And he’s been in love with her for, oh, at least three minutes, since he uncovered her eyes.
Now slow motion starts to end--
--they are going faster--
--faster still--
--rocketing now--
-- and then it’s over--
--they have fallen into a fireman’s trampoline, and half a dozen firemen hold it stretched taut.
JIMMY is right there with them while behind him, dozens of cops pour through the front door of the tenement building.
JIMMY looks pale and taut. CLIMBER helps ECHO out of the trampoline, looks at the other man.
CLIMBER JONES
What have
you
got to be nervous about?
JIMMY
I wasn’t sure which window you said you were coming out of.
(and on that)
CUT TO
CLIMBER’S PLACE. The West Village, not the chic part.
Early morning.
Not much. Clean, but if you were asked the decorating style, you would have to answer “none.”
A small bedroom with a big TV, a small living room with a big TV, a kitchenette with a small TV. Not much else.
CLIMBER lies there alone, slowly coming to life. He gets up, sits on the side of his bed, rubbing his sore arms. His body aches from last night’s exercise. He
stands, stretches, winces. He takes the TV clicker, turns the tube to ESPN. Now he moves gamely to the living room, clicks that TV on to ESPN. When he arrives at his kitchenette, he gets that tube going right off. It was already set to ESPN.
With all three sets on, he seems somehow more at peace. As he gets out some instant coffee--
CUT TO
A LONG ISLAND LANE.
Très fucking fancy. And how do you know that? Because you cannot see the mansions. Only perfectly trimmed hedges rising ten feet.
Perfect summer day.
CUT TO
THE CLIMBER, driving along in his three-year-old Toyota, the radio to WFAN. When he was working, he was not well dressed. Slacks and a shirt, neither Armani.
Now here’s the thing--he looks even crummier today. Slacks and a shirt, sure, but even more weathered. His loafers probably have holes in the bottom.
He squints at a number, turns into a driveway as we

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