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invitations to the ball that he
first conceived the fantastic scheme of attending the ball himself. Mr
Duncalf was, fussily and deferentially, managing the machinery of the
ball for the Countess. He had prepared a little list of his own of
people who ought to be invited. Several aldermen had been requested to
do the same. There were thus about half-a-dozen lists to be combined
into one. Denry did the combining. Nothing was easier than to insert the
name of E.H. Machin inconspicuously towards the centre of the list!
Nothing was easier than to lose the original lists, inadvertently, so
that if a question arose as to any particular name, the responsibility
for it could not be ascertained without inquiries too delicate to be
made. On Wednesday Denry received a lovely Bristol board, stating in
copper-plate that the Countess desired the pleasure of his company at
the ball; and on Thursday his name was ticked off as one who had
accepted.
IV
He had never been to a dance. He had no dress-suit, and no notion of
dancing.
He was a strange, inconsequent mixture of courage and timidity. You and
I are consistent in character; we are either one thing or the other but
Denry Machin had no consistency.
For three days he hesitated, and then, secretly trembling, he slipped
into Shillitoe's, the young tailor who had recently set up, and who was
gathering together the _jeunesse dorée_ of the town.
"I want a dress-suit," he said.
Shillitoe, who knew that Denry only earned eighteen shillings a week,
replied with only superficial politeness that a dress-suit was out of
the question; he had already taken more orders than he could execute
without killing himself. The whole town had uprisen as one man and
demanded a dress-suit.
"So you're going to the ball, are you?" said Shillitoe, trying to
condescend, but, in fact, slightly impressed.
"Yes," said Denry; "are you?"
Shillitoe started and then
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do not interest me. So what can we do?
Nothing! There ought to be a summer garden here, open at night, where a
man could listen to good music while drinking beneath the trees. It
would be a pleasant lounging place. You could walk in alleys bright
with electric light and seat yourself where you pleased to hear the
music. It would be charming. Where would you like to go?"
Duroy did not know what to reply; finally he said: "I have never been
to the Folies Bergeres. I should like to go there."
His companion exclaimed: "The Folies Bergeres! Very well!"
They turned and walked toward the Faubourg Montmartre. The brilliantly
illuminated building loomed up before them. Forestier entered, Duroy
stopped him. "We forgot to pass through the gate."
The other replied in a consequential tone: "I never pay," and
approached the box-office.
"Have you a good box?"
"Certainly, M. Forestier."
He took the ticket handed him, pushed open the door, and they were
within the hall. A cloud of tobacco smoke almost hid the stage and the
opposite side of the theater. In the spacious foyer which led to the
circular promenade, brilliantly dressed women mingled with black-coated
men.
Forestier forced his way rapidly through the throng and accosted an
usher.
"Box 17?"
"This way, sir."
The friends were shown into a tiny box, hung and carpeted in red, with
four chairs upholstered in the same color. They seated themselves. To
their right and left were similar boxes. On the stage three men were
performing on trapezes. But Duroy paid no heed to them, his eyes
finding more to interest them in the grand promenade. Forestier
remarked upon the motley appearance of the throng, but Duroy did not
listen to him. A woman, leaning her arms upon the edge of her loge, was
staring at him. She was a tall, voluptuous brunette, her face whitened
with enamel
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<title>Pi - By Darren Aronosfsky</title>
</head>
<pre>
<b>Pi</b>
by
Darren Aranofsky
<b>
</b>
Originally featured at: <a href="http://screensource.wurde.com">Screensource</a>
Shooting Script
September, 1996
<b> TITLES EXPLODE TO WHITE
</b>
<b> SLOW FADE TO:
</b>
EXTREME CLOSE-UP of MAXIMILIAN COHEN'S eyes popping open.
<b> INT. MAX'S APARTMENT -CHINATOWN FLAT NEW YORK CITY - NIGHT
</b>
Max jolts his head from his desk and tries to orient him-self
in the darkness. He has intelligent eyes set in an exhausted,
good-looking face.
Then he notices the blood dripping from his nose. Max wipes
it.
Max's voiceover begins:
<b> MAX (V.O.)
</b> Monday, September first.
Six-fifteen.
<b> INT. BATHROOM - DAWN
</b>
A pull-string light flips on. Max examines his bloody nose in
the mirror.
<b> MAX (V.O.)
</b> The alchemist awakes.
(Imitating)
"Turn lead into gold, Max,
lead into gold." Today, I find it.
<b> TIGHT ON
</b>
Max's hand as three unmarked, circular pills hit his palm.
Then, he slams the pills into the back of his mouth.
Max replaces the cap on a plastic bottle of unmarked
|
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|
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| 0
|
b> LOST IN TRANSLATION
</b>
Written by
Sofia Coppola
Shooting Draft
Lost in Translation, Inc.
September 2, 2002
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> EXT. NARITA AIRPORT - NIGHT
</b>
We hear the sound of a plane landing over black.
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
<b> INT. CHARLOTTE'S ROOM - NIGHT
</b>
The back of a GIRL in pink underwear, she leans at a big
window, looking
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we sha'n't soon get together again, all of us."
"And you say," suggested Bartley, "that you stayed right along on the
old place, when the rest cleared out West?"
"No o-o-o," said Lapham, with a long, loud drawl; "I cleared out West
too, first off. Went to Texas. Texas was all the cry in those days.
But I got enough of the Lone Star in about three months, and I come
back with the idea that Vermont was good enough for me."
"Fatted calf business?" queried Bartley, with his pencil poised above
his note-book.
"I presume they were glad to see me," said Lapham, with dignity.
"Mother," he added gently, "died that winter, and I stayed on with
father. I buried him in the spring; and then I came down to a little
place called Lumberville, and picked up what jobs I could get. I
worked round at the saw-mills, and I was ostler a while at the hotel--I
always DID like a good horse. Well, I WA'N'T exactly a college
graduate, and I went to school odd times. I got to driving the stage
after while, and by and by I BOUGHT the stage and run the business
myself. Then I hired the tavern-stand, and--well to make a long story
short, then I got married. Yes," said Lapham, with pride, "I married
the school-teacher. We did pretty well with the hotel, and my wife she
was always at me to paint up. Well, I put it off, and PUT it off, as a
man will, till one day I give in, and says I, 'Well, let's paint up.
Why, Pert,'--m'wife's name's Persis,--'I've got a whole paint-mine out
on the farm. Let's go out and look at it.' So we drove out. I'd let
the place for seventy-five dollars a year to a shif'less kind of a
Kanuck that had come down that way;
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><html>
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<title>GROSSE POINTE BLANK</title>
</head>
<pre>
<b> GROSSE POINTE BLANK
</b> First Draft: Tom Jankiewicz Revised
Draft: D.V. deVincentis & S.K. Boatman
& John Cusack
<b> NEW CRIME PRODUCTIONS
</b> Registered WGA
--address deleted --for privacy --
phone deleted
<b> MAY 4, 1994
</b>
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> ROLL CREDITS OVER:
</b>
<b> EXT. GOLF COURSE - DAWN
</b>
VARIOUS EXTRA CLOSE-UPS of this luxurious patchwork of
brilliant greens:
<b> A POLISHED BRASS SPRINKLER HEAD
</b>
pops up from the ground and begins to water the already dew-
soaked lawn.
<b> FLEET OF DUCKLINGS
</b>
No mother in sight, cruise through the thrushes.
<b> GRAVEYARD OF GOLF BALLS, UNDERWATER
</b>
At the bottom of a water hazard.
<b> PALM FRONDS
</b>
After a neat they sway, revealing the barren desert that
surrounds the artificial oasis. The sun already bakes the
air. We hear the opening guitar strains of the Kim Deal-Kurt
Cobain suet of "WHAT I DID FOR LOVE," as we CRANE DOWN the
palms to
<b> A BRAND-NEW TITLEIST 3 BALL.
</b>
Just on the edge of the
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you were the pink of all
puritans, and the saint of all saints, you are my wife, and must do as
I command you."
"Sir, I will sooner lay down my life than be subjected to your godless
will; therefore I say, desist, and begone with you."
But the laird regarded none of these testy sayings: he rolled her in a
blanket, and bore her triumphantly away to his chamber, taking care to
keep a fold or two of the blanket always rather near to her mouth, in
case of any outrageous forthcoming of noise.
The next day at breakfast the bride was long in making her appearance.
Her maid asked to see her; but George did not choose that anybody
should see her but himself. He paid her several visits, and always
turned the key as he came out. At length breakfast was served; and
during the time of refreshment the laird tried to break several jokes;
but it was remarked that they wanted their accustomed brilliancy, and
that his nose was particularly red at the top.
Matters, without all doubt, had been very bad between the new-married
couple; for in the course of the day the lady deserted her quarters,
and returned to her father's house in Glasgow, after having been a
night on the road; stage-coaches and steam-boats having then no
existence in that quarter.
Though Baillie Orde had acquiesced in his wife's asseveration regarding
the likeness of their only daughter to her father, he never loved or
admired her greatly; therefore this behaviour nothing astounded him. He
questioned her strictly as to the grievous offence committed against
her, and could discover nothing that warranted a procedure so fraught
with disagreeable consequences. So, after mature deliberation, the
baillie addressed her as follows:
"Aye, aye, Raby! An' sae I find that Dalcastle has actually refused to
say prayers with you when you ordered him; an' has guidit you in a rude
indelicate manner, outstepping the respect due to my daughter--as my
daughter. But, wi' regard to what is due to his own wife, of that he's
a
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GRAVITY
</b>
Written by
May 29, 2012
<b> BLACK.
</b>
<b> SILENCE.
</b>
<b> CARD 1
</b><b> AT 600 KM ABOVE PLANET EARTH THE
</b><b> TEMPERATURE FLUCTUATES BETWEEN 120 AND
</b><b> -100 DEGREES CELSIUS.
</b>
<b> SILENCE.
</b>
<b> CARD 2
</b><
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"'danger.' Ha!
Ha! Capital! Put that down, Watson. 'There is danger--may--come--very
soon--one.' Then we have the name 'Douglas'--'rich--country--now--at
Birlstone--House--Birlstone--confidence--is--pressing.' There, Watson!
What do you think of pure reason and its fruit? If the green-grocer had
such a thing as a laurel wreath, I should send Billy round for it."
I was staring at the strange message which I had scrawled, as he
deciphered it, upon a sheet of foolscap on my knee.
"What a queer, scrambling way of expressing his meaning!" said I.
"On the contrary, he has done quite remarkably well," said Holmes. "When
you search a single column for words with which to express your meaning,
you can hardly expect to get everything you want. You are bound to leave
something to the intelligence of your correspondent. The purport is
perfectly clear. Some deviltry is intended against one Douglas,
whoever he may be, residing as stated, a rich country gentleman. He is
sure--'confidence' was as near as he could get to 'confident'--that it
is pressing. There is our result--and a very workmanlike little bit of
analysis it was!"
Holmes had the impersonal joy of the true artist in his better work,
even as he mourned darkly when it fell below the high level to which he
aspired. He was still chuckling over his success when Billy swung open
the door and Inspector MacDonald of Scotland Yard was ushered into the
room.
Those were the early days at the end of the '80's, when Alec MacDonald
was far from having attained the national fame which he has now
achieved. He was a young but trusted member of the detective force, who
had distinguished himself in several cases which had been intrusted
to him. His tall, bony figure gave promise of exceptional physical
strength, while his great cranium and deep-set, lustrous eyes spoke no
less clearly of the keen intelligence which twinkled out from behind his
bushy eyebrows. He was a silent, precise man with
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<title>Top Gun - by Chip Proser</title>
<b></HEAD>
</b><BODY><pre>
<b>
</b><b> TOP GUN
</b><b>
</b> by
<b>
</b> Chip Proser
<b>
</b><b> REVISED
</b><b>
</b> April 4, 1985
<b>
</b> Registered, WGAw.
<b>
</b> NOTE: Aerial dialogue in CAPS is UHF radio;
plane to plane, plane to carrier.
<b>
</b> Aerial dialogue in small case is ICS;
an inter-cockpit system; a live mike,
heard by pilot and RIO only.
<b>
</b><b> TG1 REVISED 04APR85 .
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 1. EXT. NIGHT. - THE PACIFIC IS ANYTHING BUT
</b><b>
</b> WINDS HOWL. Rain drives horizontal. The sea surges up,
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s favourite dishes; our coals and candles were painfully
economizedâthe pair of candles reduced to one, and that most sparingly
used; the coals carefully husbanded in the half-empty grate: especially
when my father was out on his parish duties, or confined to bed through
illnessâthen we sat with our feet on the fender, scraping the perishing
embers together from time to time, and occasionally adding a slight
scattering of the dust and fragments of coal, just to keep them alive.
As for our carpets, they in time were worn threadbare, and patched and
darned even to a greater extent than our garments. To save the expense
of a gardener, Mary and I undertook to keep the garden in order; and all
the cooking and household work that could not easily be managed by one
servant-girl, was done by my mother and sister, with a little occasional
help from me: only a little, because, though a woman in my own
estimation, I was still a child in theirs; and my mother, like most
active, managing women, was not gifted with very active daughters: for
this reasonâthat being so clever and diligent herself, she was never
tempted to trust her affairs to a deputy, but, on the contrary, was
willing to act and think for others as well as for number one; and
whatever was the business in hand, she was apt to think that no one could
do it so well as herself: so that whenever I offered to assist her, I
received such an answer asââNo, love, you cannot indeedâthereâs nothing
here you can do. Go and help your sister, or get her to take a walk with
youâtell her she must not sit so much, and stay so constantly in the
house as she doesâshe may well look thin and dejected.â
âMary, mamma says Iâm to help you; or get you to take a walk with me; she
s
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similar epitaph for my wife, though still living, in which I extolled
her prudence, oeconomy, and obedience till death; and having got
it copied fair, with an elegant frame, it was placed over the
chimney-piece, where it answered several very useful purposes. It
admonished my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity to her; it
inspired her with a passion for fame, and constantly put her in mind of
her end.
It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often recommended, that
my eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his affections upon the
daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, who was a dignitary in the church,
and in circumstances to give her a large fortune: but fortune was her
smallest accomplishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all,
except my two daughters, to be completely pretty. Her youth, health,
and innocence, were still heightened by a complexion so transparent, and
such an happy sensibility of look, as even age could not gaze on with
indifference. As Mr Wilmot knew that I could make a very handsome
settlement on my son, he was not averse to the match; so both families
lived together in all that harmony which generally precedes an expected
alliance. Being convinced by experience that the days of courtship
are the most happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen the
period; and the various amusements which the young couple every day
shared in each other's company, seemed to encrease their passion. We
were generally awaked in the morning by music, and on fine days rode a
hunting. The hours between breakfast and dinner the ladies devoted to
dress and study: they usually read a page, and then gazed at themselves
in the glass, which even philosophers might own often presented the page
of greatest beauty. At dinner my wife took the lead; for as she always
insisted upon carving every thing herself, it being her mother's way,
she gave us upon these occasions the history of every dish. When we had
dined, to prevent the ladies leaving us, I generally ordered the table
to be removed; and sometimes, with the music master's assistance, the
girls would give us a very agreeable
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b> FANTASTIC FOUR
</b>
by
Mark Frost and Michael France
<b>
</b>
based on the Marvel comic book by
Stan Lee and Jack Kirby
Shooting Script
<b>
</b>
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> CLOSE ON A MASSIVE STEEL HEAD
</b>
Our first thought: DR. DOOM? But it's not moving. A
welder's torch sparks into frame in the hands of a sculptor
on scaffolding. This is art, an epic 20 foot statue going up
of a business mogul (VICTOR VON DOOM) in whose generously
extended hands sit two intertwined columns
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class="scrtext">
<pre>
<b> THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER
</b>
Written by
Larry Ferguson & Tom Clancy
<b> ON A BLACK SCREEN, THE FOLLOWING CRAWL:
</b>
<b> MOSCOW, 17 JULY 1991. THE KREMLIN
</b>
<b> ANNOUNCED THE 'RETIREMENT' OF
</b>
<b> MIKAHIL, GORBACHEV AS WELL AS
</b>
<b> POLITBURO MEMBERS YAVOLEV,
</b>
<b> MENDVENDEV AND BIRKOVO.
</b>
<b> DEFENSE MINISTER ULINOV ASSUMED
</b>
<b> THE ROLE OF CHAIRMAN. KGB HEAD
</b>
<b> LIGACHEV BECAME PREMIER VOWING
</b>
<b> "A RESTORATION OF DISCIPLINE."
</b>
<b> WESTERN LEADERS BRACED FOR
</b>
<b> A NEW ROUND OF COLD WAR.
</b>
<
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an air of pensive resignation about Tom that was both comic
and pathetic; for he was in earnest, and kept on giving hints of this
sort, without the least encouragement.
Nan frowned; but she was used to it, and knew how to treat him.
'She is curing it in the best and only way; but a more refractory
patient never lived. Did you go to that ball, as I directed?'
'I did.'
'And devote yourself to pretty Miss West?'
'Danced with her the whole evening.'
'No impression made on that susceptible organ of yours?'
'Not the slightest. I gaped in her face once, forgot to feed her, and
gave a sigh of relief when I handed her over to her mamma.'
'Repeat the dose as often as possible, and note the symptoms. I predict
that you'll "cry for it" by and by.'
'Never! I'm sure it doesn't suit my constitution.'
'We shall see. Obey orders!' sternly.
'Yes, Doctor,' meekly.
Silence reigned for a moment; then, as if the bone of contention was
forgotten in the pleasant recollections called up by familiar objects,
Nan said suddenly:
'What fun we used to have in that wood! Do you remember how you tumbled
out of the big nut-tree and nearly broke your collar-bones?'
'Don't I! and how you steeped me in wormwood till I was a fine mahogany
colour, and Aunt Jo wailed over my spoilt jacket,' laughed Tom, a boy
again in a minute.
'And how you set the house afire?'
'And you ran off for your band-box?'
'Do you ever say "Thunder-turtles" now?'
'Do people ever call you "Giddy-gaddy"?'
'Daisy does. Dear thing, I haven't seen her for a week.'
'I saw Demi this morning, and he said she was keeping house for Mother
Bhaer.'
'She always does when Aunt Jo gets into a vortex. Daisy is a model
housekeeper; and
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<b> THE MATRIX
</b>
Written by
Larry and Andy Wachowski
April 8, 1996
<b> FADE IN ON:
</b>
<b> COMPUTER SCREEN
</b>
So close it has no boundaries.
A blinking cursor pulses in the electric darkness like a
heart coursing with phosphorous light, burning beneath
the derma of black-neon glass.
A PHONE begins to RING, we hear it as though we were
making the call. The cursor continues to throb,
relentlessly patient, until --
<b> MAN (V.O.)
</b> Hello?
Data now slashes across the screen, information flashing
faster than we read.
<b> SCREEN
</b> Call trans opt: received.
2-19-96 13:24:18 REC:Log>
<b> WOMAN (V.O.)
</b> I'm inside. Anything to report?
We listen to the phone conversation as though we were on
a third line. The man's name is CYPHER. The woman,
<b> TRINITY.
</b>
<b> CYPHER (V.O.)
</b> Let's see. Target left work at
<b> 5:01 PM.
</b>
<b> SCREEN
</b> Trace program: running.
The entire screen fills with racing columns of numbers.
Shimmering like green-electric rivets, they rush at a 10-
digit phone number in the top corner.
<b> CYPHER (V.O.)
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away beyond my ken--mysterious as he came. But, for the
moment, this being appearing as if he had risen from the bottom of the
sea (it was certainly the nearest land to the ship) wanted only to know
the time. I told him. And he, down there, tentatively:
"I suppose your captain's turned in?"
"I am sure he isn't," I said.
He seemed to struggle with himself, for I heard something like the low,
bitter murmur of doubt. "What's the good?" His next words came out with
a hesitating effort.
"Look here, my man. Could you call him out quietly?"
I thought the time had come to declare myself.
"I am the captain."
I heard a "By Jove!" whispered at the level of the water. The
phosphorescence flashed in the swirl of the water all about his limbs,
his other hand seized the ladder.
"My name's Leggatt."
The voice was calm and resolute. A good voice. The self-possession of
that man had somehow induced a corresponding state in myself. It was
very quietly that I remarked:
"You must be a good swimmer."
"Yes. I've been in the water practically since nine o'clock. The
question for me now is whether I am to let go this ladder and go on
swimming till I sink from exhaustion, or--to come on board here."
I felt this was no mere formula of desperate speech, but a real
alternative in the view of a strong soul. I should have gathered from
this that he was young; indeed, it is only the young who are ever
confronted by such clear issues. But at the time it was pure intuition
on my part. A mysterious communication was established already between
us two--in the face of that silent, darkened tropical sea. I was
young, too; young enough to make no comment. The man in the water began
suddenly to climb up the ladder, and I hastened away from the rail to
fetch some clothes.
Before entering the cabin I stood still, listening in the lobby at the
foot of the stairs. A faint
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|
<b> ROUGHSHOD
</b>
Written by
Hugo Butler & Geoffrey Homes
Story by
Peter Viertel
<b>
</b>
<b> EXT. DESERT - DAWN
</b>
FULL SHOT. The sun, spinning up from behind the dark rim of
eastern hills, is bleaching the cloudless, morning sky. This
is volcanic country, barren, desolate, forbidding. There is
no sign of life, no sound. Then on a distant hill, a man
appears, to be followed by two others. They walk steadily
forward.
<b>
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the direct guarantee of an ideal delicacy
of feeling. She supposed it would be found that the state of being noble
does actually enforce the famous obligation. Romances are rarely worked
out in such transcendent good faith, and Euphemia's excuse was the prime
purity of her moral vision. She was essentially incorruptible, and she
took this pernicious conceit to her bosom very much as if it had been a
dogma revealed by a white-winged angel. Even after experience had given
her a hundred rude hints she found it easier to believe in fables,
when they had a certain nobleness of meaning, than in well-attested but
sordid facts. She believed that a gentleman with a long pedigree must
be of necessity a very fine fellow, and enjoyment of a chance to
carry further a family chronicle begun ever so far back must be, as
a consciousness, a source of the most beautiful impulses. It wasn't
therefore only that noblesse oblige, she thought, as regards yourself,
but that it ensures as nothing else does in respect to your wife. She
had never, at the start, spoken to a nobleman in her life, and these
convictions were but a matter of extravagant theory. They were the
fruit, in part, of the perusal of various Ultramontane works of
fiction--the only ones admitted to the convent library--in which the
hero was always a Legitimist vicomte who fought duels by the dozen but
went twice a month to confession; and in part of the strong social scent
of the gossip of her companions, many of them filles de haut lieu who,
in the convent-garden, after Sundays at home, depicted their brothers
and cousins as Prince Charmings and young Paladins. Euphemia listened
and said nothing; she shrouded her visions of matrimony under a coronet
in the silence that mostly surrounds all ecstatic faith. She was not
of that type of young lady who is easily induced to declare that her
husband must be six feet high and a little near-sighted, part his hair
in the middle and have amber lights in his beard. To her companions her
flights of fancy seemed short, rather, and poor and untutored;
|
were
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| 1
|
a
score of crucified Gods and sin-atoning Saviors, who, we have equal
proof, died for the sins of mankind.
Thus, the two prime articles of the Christian faith--Revelation and
Crucifixion--are forever established as human and heathen conceptions.
And the hope might be reasonably entertained that the important
historical facts disclosed in this work will have the effect to open the
eyes of the professors of the Christian religion to see their serious
error in putting forth such exalted claims for their bible and their
religion as that of being perfect products of infinite wisdom, did
not the past history of all religious countries furnish sad proof that
reason and logic, and even the most cogent and convincing facts of
science and history often prove powerless when arrayed against a
religious conviction, enstamped upon the mind for thousands of years in
the past, and transmitted from parent to child until it has grown to a
colossal stature, and become a part of the living tissues of the soul.
No matter how glaringly absurd, how palpably erroneous, or how
demonstrably false an opinion or doctrine is shown to be, they
cannot see it, but will still continue to hug it to their bosoms as a
divinely-revealed truth. No facts or evidence can prove an overmatch for
the inherited convictions of a thousand generations. In this respect the
Mahomedan, the Hindoo and the Christian all stand upon a level. It is
about as easy to convince one as the other of their easily demonstrated
errors.
RELIGION OF NATURAL ORIGIN.
Among the numerous errors traceable in the history of every religious
sect, commemorated in the annals of the world, none possesses a
more serious character, or has been attended with more deplorable
consequences, than that of assigning a wrong origin to religion. Every
bible, every sect, every creed, every catechism, and every orthodox
sermon teaches that "religion is the gift of God," that "it is infused
into the soul by the spirit and power of the Lord." Never was a greater
mistake ever committed. Every student of anthropology, every person who
has read any of the numerous modern works on mental science, and tested
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| 5
|
As we threaded the
streets, I remember how the buildings on either side seemed to press
too closely upon us, insomuch that our mighty hearts found barely room
enough to throb between them. The snowfall, too, looked inexpressibly
dreary (I had almost called it dingy), coming down through an
atmosphere of city smoke, and alighting on the sidewalk only to be
moulded into the impress of somebody's patched boot or overshoe. Thus
the track of an old conventionalism was visible on what was freshest
from the sky. But when we left the pavements, and our muffled
hoof-tramps beat upon a desolate extent of country road, and were
effaced by the unfettered blast as soon as stamped, then there was
better air to breathe. Air that had not been breathed once and again!
air that had not been spoken into words of falsehood, formality, and
error, like all the air of the dusky city!
"How pleasant it is!" remarked I, while the snowflakes flew into my
mouth the moment it was opened. "How very mild and balmy is this
country air!"
"Ah, Coverdale, don't laugh at what little enthusiasm you have left!"
said one of my companions. "I maintain that this nitrous atmosphere is
really exhilarating; and, at any rate, we can never call ourselves
regenerated men till a February northeaster shall be as grateful to us
as the softest breeze of June!"
So we all of us took courage, riding fleetly and merrily along, by
stone fences that were half buried in the wave-like drifts; and through
patches of woodland, where the tree-trunks opposed a snow-incrusted
side towards the northeast; and within ken of deserted villas, with no
footprints in their avenues; and passed scattered dwellings, whence
puffed the smoke of country fires, strongly impregnated with the
pungent aroma of burning peat. Sometimes, encountering a traveller, we
shouted a friendly greeting; and he, unmuffling his ears to the bluster
and the snow-spray, and listening eagerly, appeared to think
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| 1
|
he's my cousin many times
removed."
"Of course, of course. Don't I know everything that concerns your
family? I should hope so, indeed."
"Will he come to see us--what do you think?"
"One would suppose so; though, they say, he is intending to go home to
his country place."
Mary Dmitrievna lifted her eyes to heaven.
"Ah, Sergei Petrovitch, Sergei Petrovitch, when I think how careful we
women ought to be in our conduct!"
"There are women and women, Marya Dmitrievna. There are unhappily such
... of flighty character... and at a certain age too, and then they
are not brought up in good principles." (Sergei Petrovitch drew a blue
checked handkerchief out of his pocket and began to unfold it.) "There
are such women, no doubt." (Sergei Petrovitch applied a corner of the
handkerchief first to one and then to the other eye.) "But speaking
generally, if one takes into consideration, I mean...the dust in the
town is really extraordinary to-day," he wound up.
"Maman, maman," cried a pretty little girl of eleven running into the
room, "Vladimir Nikolaitch is coming on horseback!"
Marya Dmitrievna got up; Sergei Petrovitch also rose and made a bow.
"Our humble respects to Elena Mihalovna," he said, and turning aside
into a corner for good manners, he began blowing his long straight nose.
"What a splendid horse he has!" continued the little girl. "He was at
the gate just now, he told Lisa and me he would dismount at the steps."
The sound of hoofs was heard; and a graceful young man, riding a
beautiful bay horse, was seen in the street, and stopped at the open
window.
Chapter III
"How do you do, Marya Dmitrievna?" cried the young man in a pleasant,
ringing voice. "How do you like my new purchase?"
Marya Dmitrievna went up to the window.
"How
|
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|
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| 4
|
over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in "quite a
decent little hotel" near Fitzroy Square.
"But, my dear!" said Ann Veronica's aunt.
"You see," said Ann Veronica, with the air of one who shares a
difficulty, "I've promised to go. I didn't realize--I don't see how I
can get out of it now."
Then it was her father issued his ultimatum. He had conveyed it to her,
not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly
ignoble method of prohibition. "He couldn't look me in the face and say
it," said Ann Veronica.
"But of course it's aunt's doing really."
And thus it was that as Ann Veronica neared the gates of home, she said
to herself: "I'll have it out with him somehow. I'll have it out with
him. And if he won't--"
But she did not give even unspoken words to the alternative at that
time.
Part 3
Ann Veronica's father was a solicitor with a good deal of company
business: a lean, trustworthy, worried-looking, neuralgic, clean-shaven
man of fifty-three, with a hard mouth, a sharp nose, iron-gray hair,
gray eyes, gold-framed glasses, and a small, circular baldness at the
crown of his head. His name was Peter. He had had five children at
irregular intervals, of whom Ann Veronica was the youngest, so that as
a parent he came to her perhaps a little practised and jaded and
inattentive; and he called her his "little Vee," and patted her
unexpectedly and disconcertingly, and treated her promiscuously as of
any age between eleven and eight-and-twenty. The City worried him a good
deal, and what energy he had left over he spent partly in golf, a game
he treated very seriously, and partly in the practices of microscopic
petrography.
He "went in" for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as
his "hobby." A birthday present of a microscope had
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partly
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| 1
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with the Viscount of Chartres, and one of the greatest
heiresses of France, her father died young, and left her to the
guardianship of Madam de Chartres his wife, whose wealth, virtue, and
merit were uncommon. After the loss of her husband she retired from
Court, and lived many years in the country; during this retreat, her
chief care was bestowed in the education of her daughter; but she did
not make it her business to cultivate her wit and beauty only, she took
care also to inculcate virtue into her tender mind, and to make it
amiable to her. The generality of mothers imagine, that it is
sufficient to forbear talking of gallantries before young people, to
prevent their engaging in them; but Madam de Chartres was of a
different opinion, she often entertained her daughter with descriptions
of love; she showed her what there was agreeable in it, that she might
the more easily persuade her wherein it was dangerous; she related to
her the insincerity, the faithlessness, and want of candour in men, and
the domestic misfortunes that flow from engagements with them; on the
other hand she made her sensible, what tranquillity attends the life of
a virtuous woman, and what lustre modesty gives to a person who
possesses birth and beauty; at the same time she informed her, how
difficult it was to preserve this virtue, except by an extreme distrust
of one's self, and by a constant attachment to the only thing which
constitutes a woman's happiness, to love and to be loved by her husband.
This heiress was, at that time, one of the greatest matches in France,
and though she was very young several marriages had been proposed to
her mother; but Madam de Chartres being ambitious, hardly thought
anything worthy of her daughter, and when she was sixteen years of age
she brought her to Court. The Viscount of Chartres, who went to meet
her, was with reason surprised at the beauty of the young lady; her
fine hair and lovely complexion gave her a lustre that was peculiar to
herself; all her features were regular, and her whole person was full
of grace.
The
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the child that lay asleep in her
lap, with expressions of curiosity and delight. Nor were they wanting
in praises for the great Ak's kindness in allowing Necile to keep the
babe and to care for it. Even the Queen came to peer into the innocent
childish face and to hold a helpless, chubby fist in her own fair hand.
"What shall we call him, Necile?" she asked, smiling. "He must have a
name, you know."
"Let him be called Claus," answered Necile, "for that means 'a little
one.'"
"Rather let him be called Neclaus,"** returned the Queen, "for that
will mean 'Necile's little one.'"
The nymphs clapped their hands in delight, and Neclaus became the
infant's name, although Necile loved best to call him Claus, and in
afterdays many of her sisters followed her example.
Necile gathered the softest moss in all the forest for Claus to lie
upon, and she made his bed in her own bower. Of food the infant had no
lack. The nymphs searched the forest for bell-udders, which grow upon
the goa-tree and when opened are found to be filled with sweet milk.
And the soft-eyed does willingly gave a share of their milk to support
the little stranger, while Shiegra, the lioness, often crept stealthily
into Necile's bower and purred softly as she lay beside the babe and
fed it.
So the little one flourished and grew big and sturdy day by day, while
Necile taught him to speak and to walk and to play.
His thoughts and words were sweet and gentle, for the nymphs knew no
evil and their hearts were pure and loving. He became the pet of the
forest, for Ak's decree had forbidden beast or reptile to molest him,
and he walked fearlessly wherever his will guided him.
Presently the news reached the other immortals that the nymphs of
Burzee had adopted a human infant, and that the act had been sanctioned
by the great Ak. Therefore many of them came to visit the little
str
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>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 2012
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b> Written by
<b>
</b> Roland Emmerich & Harald Kloser
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b> Second Draft
February 19th, 2008
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
|
emmerich
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| 0
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suddenness as his cure had been effected,
the young man started, uttering a piercing cry, and placed his hand to
his side.
"Caitiff!" he cried, fixing his blazing eyes on the gatekeeper, "why do
you torture me thus? Finish me at once--Oh!"
And overcome by anguish, he sank back again.
"I have not touched you, sir," replied Baldred. "I brought you here to
succour you. You will be easier anon. Doctor Lamb must have wiped the
halberd," he added to himself.
Another sudden change. The pain fled from the sufferer's countenance,
and he became easy as before.
"What have you done to me?" he asked, with a look of gratitude; "the
torture of my wound has suddenly ceased, and I feel as if a balm had
been dropped into it. Let me remain in this state if you have any
pity--or despatch me, for my late agony was almost insupportable."
"You are cared for by one who has greater skill than any chirurgeon in
London," replied Baldred. "If I can manage to transport you to his
lodgings, he will speedily heal your wounds."
"Do not delay, then," replied Auriol faintly; "for though I am free from
pain, I feel that my life is ebbing fast away."
"Press this handkerchief to your side, and lean on me," said Baldred.
"Doctor Lamb's dwelling is but a step from the gateway--in fact, the
first house on the bridge. By the way, the doctor declares he is your
kinsman."
"It is the first I ever heard of him," replied Auriol faintly; "but take
me to him quickly, or it will be too late."
In another moment they were at the doctor's door. Baldred tapped against
it, and the summons was instantly answered by a diminutive personage,
clad in a jerkin of coarse grey serge, and having a leathern apron tied
round his waist. This was Flapdragon.
Blear-eyed, smoke-begrimed, lantern-jawed
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lamb
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take orders, and was to
remain after me at Amiens to complete the requisite studies for his
sacred calling. He had a thousand good qualities. You will recognise
in him the very best during the course of my history, and above all, a
zeal and fervour of friendship which surpass the most illustrious
examples of antiquity. If I had at that time followed his advice, I
should have always continued a discreet and happy man. If I had even
taken counsel from his reproaches, when on the brink of that gulf into
which my passions afterwards plunged me, I should have been spared the
melancholy wreck of both fortune and reputation. But he was doomed to
see his friendly admonitions disregarded; nay, even at times repaid by
contempt from an ungrateful wretch, who often dared to treat his
fraternal conduct as offensive and officious.
"I had fixed the day for my departure from Amiens. Alas! that I had
not fixed it one day sooner! I should then have carried to my father's
house my innocence untarnished.
"The very evening before my expected departure, as I was walking with
my friend, whose name was Tiberge, we saw the Arras diligence arrive,
and sauntered after it to the inn, at which these coaches stop. We had
no other motive than curiosity. Some worn men alighted, and
immediately retired into the inn. One remained behind: she was very
young, and stood by herself in the court, while a man of advanced age,
who appeared to have charge of her, was busy in getting her luggage
from the vehicle. She struck me as being so extremely beautiful, that
I, who had never before thought of the difference between the sexes, or
looked on woman with the slightest attention--I, whose conduct had been
hitherto the theme of universal admiration, felt myself, on the
instant, deprived of my reason and self-control. I had been always
excessively timid, and easily disconcerted; but now, instead of meeting
with any impediment from this weakness, I advanced without the
slightest reserve towards her, who had thus become, in a moment
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| 4
|
duties to describe a
Christian prize-giving in a back-slum of a perfectly inaccessible
village; Colonels who have been overpassed for commands sit down and
sketch the outline of a series of ten, twelve, or twenty-four leading
articles on Seniority versus Selection; missionaries wish to know why
they have not been permitted to escape from their regular vehicles of
abuse and swear at a brother-missionary under special patronage of the
editorial We; stranded theatrical companies troop up to explain that
they cannot pay for their advertisements, but on their return from New
Zealand or Tahiti will do so with interest; inventors of patent
punkah-pulling machines, carriage couplings and unbreakable swords and
axle-trees call with specifications in their pockets and hours at their
disposal; tea-companies enter and elaborate their prospectuses with the
office pens; secretaries of ball-committees clamor to have the glories
of their last dance more fully expounded; strange ladies rustle in and
say:ââI want a hundred ladyâs cards printed at once, please,â
which is manifestly part of an Editorâs duty; and every dissolute
ruffian that ever tramped the Grand Trunk Road makes it his business to
ask for employment as a proof-reader. And, all the time, the
telephone-bell is ringing madly, and Kings are being killed on the
Continent, and Empires are saying, âYouâre another,â and Mister
Gladstone is calling down brimstone upon the British Dominions, and the
little black copy-boys are whining, âkaa-pi chayha-yehâ (copy
wanted) like tired bees, and most of the paper is as blank as
Modredâs shield.
But that is the amusing part of the year. There are other six months
wherein none ever come to call, and the thermometer walks inch by inch
up to the top of the glass, and the office is darkened to just above
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<pre>
<b> SAVING MR. BANKS
</b>
Written by
Kelly Marcel & Sue Smith
<b> EXT. MARYBOROUGH PARK - AUSTRALIA - DAY (1906)
</b>
<b> OVER BLACK:
</b> MUSIC - string violins treat us to a familiar song opening
and then a voice - male.
<b> TRAVERS (V.O.)
</b>
<b> (SINGING)
</b> Winds in the East
Mist coming in--
<b> FADE IN:
</b> A whoosh of wind spins us around in a blue sky, spinning,
spinning until we slow to a stop and find ourselves amongst
white fluffy clouds. A shadow (oddly shaped like an umbrella)
dances amongst the nimbus.
<b> TRAVERS (V.O.)
</b>
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| 0
|
%"><tr><td class="scrtext">
<pre><html>
<head>
<script>
<b><!--
</b>if (window!= top)
top.location.href=location.href
<b>// -->
</b></script>
<title>The Day the Clown Cried</title>
</head>
<pre>
<b> THE DAY THE CLOWN CRIED
</b><b> ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY
</b> By
<b> JOAN O'BRIEN
</b> And
<b> CHARLES DENTON
</b> Based on a Story Idea by
<b> JOAN O'BRIEN
</b> Additional Material by Jerry Lewis
<b> I TOOK A CHILD BY THE HAND...
</b><b> TO LEAD HIM ON HIS WAY.
</b><b> I TOLD HIM OF THE LOVE OF GOD...
</b><b> AND TAUGHT HIM HOW TO PRAY.
</b><b> AND AS I SEARCHED FOR BETTER WAYS HIS GUIDE AND HELP TO BE...
</b><b> I FOUND, AS WE WALKED HAND IN HAND, THAT HE WAS LEADING ME.
</b><b> "THE DAY THE CLOWN CRIED"
</b>
<b> COLD OPENING
</b>
<b> EXT. PARIS CIRCUS - NIGHT
</b>
The normal activity and excitement of showtime around the
circus is in evidence where we see the half dark street and
alley directly adjacent to the circus tent which (in Paris
is an enclosure)... the animals, the midgets, the people and
the roustabouts moving with a fixed speed and getting faster
as we now know showtime is momentarily due.
We MOVE TOWARD the action, slowly but definitely picking up
SOUNDS and actions of the busy people
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| 2
|
>
<b> FROM HERE TO ETERNITY
</b>
Written by
Daniel Taradash
(Second Draft - 8/29/1952)
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> EXT. QUADRANGLE - DAY
</b>
<b>
|
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|
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|
opposed to the end
derived from sensible impulses; then this gives the notion of an end
which is in itself a duty. The doctrine of this cannot belong to
jurisprudence, but to ethics, since this alone includes in its
conception self-constraint according to moral laws.
For this reason, ethics may also be defined as the system of the
ends of the pure practical reason. The two parts of moral philosophy
are distinguished as treating respectively of ends and of duties of
constraint. That ethics contains duties to the observance of which one
cannot be (physically) forced by others, is merely the consequence
of this, that it is a doctrine of ends, since to be forced to have
ends or to set them before one's self is a contradiction.
Now that ethics is a doctrine of virtue (doctrina officiorum
virtutis) follows from the definition of virtue given above compared
with the obligation, the peculiarity of which has just been shown.
There is in fact no other determination of the elective will, except
that to an end, which in the very notion of it implies that I cannot
even physically be forced to it by the elective will of others.
Another may indeed force me to do something which is not my end (but
only means to the end of another), but he cannot force me to make it
my own end, and yet I can have no end except of my own making. The
latter supposition would be a contradiction- an act of freedom which
yet at the same time would not be free. But there is no
contradiction in setting before one's self an end which is also a
duty: for in this case I constrain myself, and this is quite
consistent with freedom. * But how is such an end possible? That is
now the question. For the possibility of the notion of the thing
(viz., that it is not self-contradictory) is not enough to prove the
possibility of the thing itself (the objective reality of the notion).
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|
<pre> FADE IN:
<b>EXT. A JAIL IN MEXICO - DAY
</b>
It's an early Friday morning and a patrol car drives up an
unpaved road and parks next to a gutted police car on cinder
blocks. The camera pans with the OFFICER as he exits his car
and walks up to a ramp leading to the babay blue JAIL HOUSE.
He is carrying a greasy bag of fast food.
<b>INT. JAIL LOBBY - DAY
</b>
The Officer enters the lobby, tosses the bag of food to his
PARTNER who is sitting at a desk. He grabs a tin cup and
walks over to barred entrance to Block A. Twenty or so
CRIMINALS, from drunks to drug dealers are sleeping
peacefully in their cell on Block A. The Officer rattles the
tin cup between the entrance bar.
<b>INT. JAIL CELLS - DAY
</b>
The inmates stir, rubbing their dirty faces and trying to sit
up. The camera dollies slowly down the narrow hallway of the
block which has three cells: Two small ones side by side, and
one bigger cell that faces the block entrance. The sound of
scribbling and business dealing can be heard from inside the
cell. It is AZUL jottin ginto a business ledger while
chatting on his cellular phone. His cell is equipped with a
small desk and a refridgerator. He hangs up the phone and
continues writing.
<b>INT. JAIL LOBBY - DAY
</b>
The Officer with the tin cup sits in a couch across from his
partner, who is now eating, and reads a magazine.
<b>INT. JAIL CELLS - DAY
</b>
Azul picks up his phone and makes another call. He talks
business. In the other cell, prisoners are getting up and
looking around. Azul hangs up
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|
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| 5
|
><html>
<head>
<script>
<b><!--
</b>if (window!= top)
top.location.href=location.href
<b>// -->
</b></script>
<title>GROSSE POINTE BLANK</title>
</head>
<pre>
<b> GROSSE POINTE BLANK
</b> First Draft: Tom Jankiewicz Revised
Draft: D.V. deVincentis & S.K. Boatman
& John Cusack
<b> NEW CRIME PRODUCTIONS
</b> Registered WGA
--address deleted --for privacy --
phone deleted
<b> MAY 4, 1994
</b>
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> ROLL CREDITS OVER:
</b>
<b> EXT. GOLF COURSE - DAWN
</b>
VARIOUS EXTRA CLOSE-UPS of this luxurious patchwork of
brilliant greens:
<b> A POLISHED BRASS SPRINKLER HEAD
</b>
pops up from the ground and begins to water the already dew-
soaked lawn.
<b> FLEET OF DUCKLINGS
</b>
No mother in sight, cruise through the thrushes.
<b> GRAVEYARD OF GOLF BALLS, UNDERWATER
</b>
At the bottom of a water hazard.
<b> PALM FRONDS
</b>
After a neat they sway, revealing the barren desert that
surrounds the artificial oasis. The sun already bakes the
air. We hear the opening guitar strains of the Kim Deal-Kurt
Cobain suet of "WHAT I DID FOR LOVE," as we CRANE DOWN the
palms to
<b> A BRAND-NEW TITLEIST 3 BALL.
</b>
Just on the edge of the
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|
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| 0
|
HEAT
by
Michael Mann
<b> FOR EDUCATIONAL PURPOSES ONLY
</b>
<b>REVISED DRAFT
</b>March 3, 1994
Converted to PDF by SCREENTALK
www.screentalk.org
<b>
</b><b>EXT. CEDARS-SINAI - WIDE - DAY
</b>
A monolith with alienating foregrounds. A bus pulls in on
Beverly. NEIL McCAULEY and a nurse get off. Neil carries
a paper bag and wears white pants like a hospital attendant.
Neil is an ice-cold professional: very big, very tough.
At 42 his short black hair is graying. He spent eight
years in McNeil and three in San Quentin. He got out and
hit the street in 1987. Four of the McNeil years were
spent in the hole. Neil's voice is street, but his language
is precise like an engineer's. He's very careful and very
good. Neil runs a professional crew that pulls down high
line, high number scores and does it anyway the score has
to be taken down: if on the prowl (a burglary), that's
fine; if they have to go in strong (armed), that's fine
too. And if you get in their way, that's got to be your
problem. His lifestyle is obsessively functional. There's
no steady woman or any encumbrance. Neil McCauley keeps
it so there's nothing he couldn't walk from in 30 seconds
flat.
<b>ANGLE
</b>
Right now, he enters the big double doors and pulls a white
intern's coat from his paper bag.
<b>
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very
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| 3
|
width="100%"><tr><td class="scrtext">
<pre><html>
<body><h1>Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2003)
</h1><h2>by Charlie Kaufman.
</h2><pre>
<b>INT. PUBLISHING HOUSE RECEPTION AREA - DAY
</b>
It's grand and modern. Random House-Knopf-Taschen is etched
on the wall in large gold letters. An old woman enters
carrying a tattered manuscript, maybe a thousand pages. She
seems haunted, hollow-eyed, sickly. The young receptionist,
dressed in a shiny, stretchy one-piece pantsuit, looks up.
<b> RECEPTIONIST
</b> Oh, hi.
<b> OLD WOMAN
</b> (apologetically)
Hi, I was in the neighborhood and thought
I'd see --
<b> RECEPTIONIST
</b> I think he's in a conference.
Unfortunately. I'm really sorry.
<b> OLD WOMAN
</b> Would you just try him? You never know.
As long as I'm here. You never know.
<b> RECEPTIONIST
</b> Of course. Please have a seat.
The old woman smiles and sits, the bulky manuscript on her
lap. She stares politely straight ahead.
<b> RECEPTIONIST (CONT'D)
</b> (quietly into headset)
It's her -- I know, but couldn't you just
-- Yes, I know, but -- I know, but she's
old and it would be a nice -- Yes, sorry.
(to old woman)
I'm sorry, ma'am, he's not in right now.
It's a crazy time of year for us.
The receptionist gestures toward a Christmas tree in the
corner. Its ornaments are holograms.
<b> OLD WOMAN
|
carrying
|
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| 0
|
front undefended.
The religious revolt against marriage is a very old one. Christianity
began with a fierce attack on marriage; and to this day the celibacy
of the Roman Catholic priesthood is a standing protest against its
compatibility with the higher life. St. Paul's reluctant sanction of
marriage; his personal protest that he countenanced it of necessity and
against his own conviction; his contemptuous "better to marry than to
burn" is only out of date in respect of his belief that the end of the
world was at hand and that there was therefore no longer any population
question. His instinctive recoil from its worst aspect as a slavery to
pleasure which induces two people to accept slavery to one another has
remained an active force in the world to this day, and is now stirring
more uneasily than ever. We have more and more Pauline celibates whose
objection to marriage is the intolerable indignity of being supposed
to desire or live the married life as ordinarily conceived. Every
thoughtful and observant minister of religion is troubled by the
determination of his flock to regard marriage as a sanctuary for
pleasure, seeing as he does that the known libertines of his parish are
visibly suffering much less from intemperance than many of the married
people who stigmatize them as monsters of vice.
A FORGOTTEN CONFERENCE OF MARRIED MEN
The late Hugh Price Hughes, an eminent Methodist divine, once organized
in London a conference of respectable men to consider the subject.
Nothing came of it (nor indeed could have come of it in the absence of
women); but it had its value as giving the young sociologists present,
of whom I was one, an authentic notion of what a picked audience
of respectable men understood by married life. It was certainly a
staggering revelation. Peter the Great would have been shocked; Byron
would have been horrified; Don Juan would have fled from the conference
into a monastery. The respectable men all regarded the marriage ceremony
as a rite which absolved them from the laws of health and temperance;
inaugurated a life-long honeymoon; and placed their pleasures on exactly
the same footing as their prayers. It seemed entirely proper and natural
to them that out of every
|
married
|
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| 3
|
corn; and
their names and business were written down on a tablet, which was taken
to the keeper of the granaries.
Word soon came that they must go before the keeper; and they were
warned to be careful what they said, for he was one of the king's chief
officers. Taking off their sandals and cloaks at the steps, the ten
Hebrew shepherds went between the pillars at the door and stood waiting.
Within sat a young Egyptian, dressed in a robe of white linen, and
wearing a great black wig of horsehair with many small plaits. His
scribes sat at tables below him, writing down any orders he might wish
to give.
An Egyptian soldier told the sons of Jacob to go forward. Then the ten
men went in and knelt down humbly before the young Egyptian; nor did
they rise until he gave them leave. He looked at them and frowned, and
they were afraid.
"Where do you come from?" the officer asked sharply.
"From the land of Canaan, to buy corn," was the humble answer.
"You are spies!" he cried in a passion. "You have come to spy out the
weakness of the land. What is your calling? Who are your friends?"
The ten Hebrews could scarcely speak for terror. They had heard
terrible stories of how these fierce Egyptians never allowed spies to
get out of their country alive.
"No, my lord; thy servants have come to buy food," said one. "We are
all one man's sons," cried another. "We are honest men; thy servants
are no spies," pleaded a third.
But the great Egyptian only listened with a frown to their whining
voices. "No," he replied firmly; "you have come to spy out the
weakness of Egypt. Is your father alive? Have you another brother?"
Why was this man so angry with them? they wondered.
"We belong to one family of twelve brothers," Judah replied. "We have
a father, an old man, and another brother, the child of his old age,
and he alone is left of his mother's children, and
|
cried
|
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| 1
|
you open your
medicine chest, your razor is expected to be on the second shelf; when
you lock your front door, you expect to have to give it a slight extra
tug to make it latch.
It isn't the things that are right and perfect in your life that make
it familiar. It is the things that are just a little bit wrong--the
sticking latch, the light switch at the head of the stairs that needs
an extra push because the spring is old and weak, the rug that
unfailingly skids underfoot.
It wasn't just that things were wrong with the pattern of Burckhardt's
life; it was that the _wrong_ things were wrong. For instance, Barth
hadn't come into the office, yet Barth _always_ came in.
Burckhardt brooded about it through dinner. He brooded about it,
despite his wife's attempt to interest him in a game of bridge with
the neighbors, all through the evening. The neighbors were people he
liked--Anne and Farley Dennerman. He had known them all their lives.
But they were odd and brooding, too, this night and he barely listened
to Dennerman's complaints about not being able to get good phone
service or his wife's comments on the disgusting variety of television
commercials they had these days.
Burckhardt was well on the way to setting an all-time record for
continuous abstraction when, around midnight, with a suddenness that
surprised him--he was strangely _aware_ of it happening--he turned
over in his bed and, quickly and completely, fell asleep.
II
On the morning of June 15th, Burckhardt woke up screaming.
[Illustration]
It was more real than any dream he had ever had in his life. He could
still hear the explosion, feel the blast that crushed him against a
wall. It did not seem right that he should be sitting bolt upright in
bed in an undisturbed room.
His wife came pattering up the stairs. "Darling!" she cried. "What's
the matter?"
He mumbled, "Nothing. Bad dream."
She relaxed, hand on heart. In an angry
|
wrong
|
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| 2
|
got about half through his
recapitulation, and was stopping at the end of a sentence to see the
impression he was making, that uncouth fellow, Lively, moved by what
happy inspiration he did not know, suddenly broke in, apropos of
nothing, nodding his head, and speaking in a clear cackle, with, "Pray,
sir, what is your opinion of the infallibility of the Pope?" Upon which
every one but Jennings did laugh out: but he, _au contraire_, began to
look very black; and no one can tell what would have happened, had he
not cast his eyes by accident on his watch, on which he coloured, closed
his book, and _instanter_ sent the whole lecture out of the room.
Charles laughed in his turn, but added, "Yet, I assure you, Sheffield,
that Jennings, stiff and cold as he seems, is, I do believe, a very good
fellow at bottom. He has before now spoken to me with a good deal of
feeling, and has gone out of his way to do me favours. I see poor bodies
coming to him for charity continually; and they say that his sermons at
Holy Cross are excellent."
Sheffield said he liked people to be natural, and hated that donnish
manner. What good could it do? and what did it mean?
"That is what I call bigotry," answered Charles; "I am for taking every
one for what he is, and not for what he is not: one has this excellence,
another that; no one is everything. Why should we not drop what we don't
like, and admire what we like? This is the only way of getting through
life, the only true wisdom, and surely our duty into the bargain."
Sheffield thought this regular prose, and unreal. "We must," he said,
"have a standard of things, else one good thing is as good as another.
But I can't stand here all day," he continued, "when we ought to be
walking." And he took off Charles's cap, and, placing his hat on him
instead, said, "Come, let us be going."
"Then must I give up my
|
good
|
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| 4
|
"BAMBINO"
</b>
<b> [ PRODUCED AS "BREAKING AWAY" ]
</b>
Written by
Steve Tesich
June 9, 1978
<b> FADE IN
</b>
<b> EXT. QUARRY OUTSKIRTS - DAY 1
</b>
A narrow dirt road totally surrounded by thick vegetation.
Here and there we see a huge block of stone blocking the
road. The sun is shining but it has a hard time making it
through the foliage. In the distance we see four guys
walking TOWARD the CAMERA. There is a swagger to their
walk. MII� is singing. The others are humming along. The
melody of the song of "0 Bury Me Not On the Lone Prairie"
but it's a loose version.
<b>
|
steve
|
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| 0
|
! You ask me that!
SHE [with perfunctory tenderness] Yes, dear, of course it was very nice
of you; and I know it was my own fault as much as yours. I ought to have
noticed that your verses ought never to have been addressed to a married
woman.
HE. Ah, how I wish they had been addressed to an unmarried woman! how I
wish they had!
SHE. Indeed you have no right to wish anything of the sort. They are
quite unfit for anybody but a married woman. That's just the difficulty.
What will my sisters-in-law think of them?
HE [painfully jarred] Have you got sisters-in-law?
SHE. Yes, of course I have. Do you suppose I am an angel?
HE [biting his lips] I do. Heaven help me, I do--or I did--or [he almost
chokes a sob].
SHE [softening and putting her hand caressingly on his shoulder] Listen
to me, dear. It's very nice of you to live with me in a dream, and to
love me, and so on; but I can't help my husband having disagreeable
relatives, can I?
HE [brightening up] Ah, of course they are your husband's relatives: I
forgot that. Forgive me, Aurora. [He takes her hand from his shoulder
and kisses it. She sits down on the stool. He remains near the table,
with his back to it, smiling fatuously down at her].
SHE. The fact is, Teddy's got nothing but relatives. He has eight
sisters and six half-sisters, and ever so many brothers--but I don't
mind his brothers. Now if you only knew the least little thing about
the world, Henry, you'd know that in a large family, though the sisters
quarrel with one another like mad all the time, yet let one of the
brothers marry, and they all turn on their unfortunate sister-in-law and
devote the rest of their lives with perfect unanimity to persuading
him that his wife is unworthy of him. They can do it to her very face
|
that
|
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| 5
|
PRECIOUS
</b>
Written by
Geoffrey Fletcher
January 16th, 2008
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> 1.
</b>
A line at a time, the following quote appears over a black
screen.
Every blade of grass has its Angel
that bends over it and whispers,
"Grow, grow."
The Talmud
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> 1987
</b>
<b>1 EXT HARLEM STREET DAY
|
fade
|
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| 0
|
, for the edification of his pupils,
the sons of an Indian Raja. They have been adapted to or translated
into a number of languages, notably into Pehlvi and Persian, Syriac
and Turkish, Greek and Latin, Hebrew and Arabic. And as the _Fables
of Pilpay_,[6] they are generally known, by name at least, to
European littérateurs. Voltaire remarks,[7] âQuand on fait réflexion
que presque toute la terre a été infatuée de pareils contes, et
quâils ont fait lâéducation du genre humain, on trouve les fables de
Pilpay, Lokman, dâÃsope bien raisonnables.â
[6] In Arabic, _Bidpai el Hakim_.
[7] _Dictionnaire philosophique_, sub v. âApocryphes.â
These tales, detached, but strung together by artificial
meansâpearls with a thread drawn through themâare manifest
precursors of the Decamerone, or Ten Days. A modern Italian critic
describes the now classical fiction as a collection of one hundred
of those novels which Boccaccio is believed to have read out at the
court of Queen Joanna of Naples, and which later in life were by him
assorted together by a most simple and ingenious contrivance. But
the great Florentine invented neither his stories nor his âplot,â if
we may so call it. He wrote in the middle of the fourteenth century
(1344-8) when the West had borrowed many things from the East,
rhymes[8] and romance, lutes and drums, alchemy and knight-errantry.
Many of the âNovelleâ are, as Orientalists well know, to this day
sung and recited almost text
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west
|
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| 0
|
td valign="top">
<br> <table width="100%"><tr><td class="scrtext">
<pre><html>
<head>
<script>
<b><!--
</b>if (window!= top)
top.location.href=location.href
<b>// -->
</b></script>
<title>FRIDAY THE 13TH PART VIII: JASON TAKES MANHATTAN
</title>
</head>
<pre>
<b> FRIDAY THE 13TH PART VIII: JASON TAKES MANHATTAN
</b>
Written by Rob Hedden
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> EXT. CRYSTAL LAKE - NIGHT
</b>
A dark, rumbling sky. Haze clings to the lake as we float
across it, clearing to bring the opposite shoreline into
view. A few scattered streetlights. Dilapidated cabins.
An abandoned campsite. CAMP CRYSTAL LAKE.
We continue to drift towards it, hearing the faint sound
of seductive music and an occasional giggle. A small
HOUSEBOAT floats into our foreground, its interior light
flickering as TWO BODIES move around inside.
<b> INT. HOUSEBOAT - NIGHT
</b>
A teenage boy and girl, JIM and SUZY, are slow-dancing.
Jim's lips softly touch her lissome shoulders.
<b> JIM
</b> Well...how do you feel?
<b> SUZY
</b> Ask me in about five minutes.
She bites his ear, giggles, then kisses him fully..
<b> JIM
</b> I'm talking about graduation. Being
totally free to do whatever we want
now.
Her hands slip inside his Pendleton shirt. He sighs.
<b>
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lake
|
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| 2
|
L O S T I N S P A C E
</b>
by
Akiva Goldsman
CHAPTER 1: Earth 2058
<b>---------------------
</b>
<b>FADE IN ON:
</b>
<b>EXT.-SPACE
</b>
PULL BACK slowly as MARS fills THE FRAME, a sphere of red desert and
fast rushing crimson clouds.
A triangular CARGO SHIP descends from the dark of space.
<b> PILOT (OVER)
</b>
Mars mining base, this is Grissom One,
Request final descent vector.
<b>REVERSE ANGLE
</b>
<b>EXT.-MARS
</b>
A row of giant red mountains and beneath, on the planet's surface, the
spires of A MINING BASE. Illuminated landing crosshairs alight a
landing pad, beckoning the ship.
<b> CONTROLLER (OVER)
</b>
Roger, Grissom One, this is Mars
Mining, You are cleared to land. Hope
you got some Partagas in that rust
bucket, Sal.
<b>EXT.-EDGE OF SPACE
</b>
THE CARGO SHIP changes attitude, landing thrusters FIRING as the
vessel begins to penetrate the atmosphere.
<b>
|
base
|
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| 1
|
b> ZERO DARK THIRTY
</b>
Written by
Mark Boal
October 3rd, 2011
<b> FROM BLACK, VOICES EMERGE--
</b> We hear the actual recorded emergency calls made by World
Trade Center office workers to police and fire departments
after the planes struck on 9/11, just before the buildings
collapsed.
<b> TITLE OVER: SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
</b> We listen to fragments from a number of these calls...starting
with pleas for help, building to a panic, ending with the
caller's grim acceptance that help will not arrive, that the
situation is hopeless, that they are about to die.
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
<b>
|
fire
|
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| 0
|
what the
exact nature of the problem is in which you demand my assistance."
Chapter 2. The Curse of the Baskervilles
"I have in my pocket a manuscript," said Dr. James Mortimer.
"I observed it as you entered the room," said Holmes.
"It is an old manuscript."
"Early eighteenth century, unless it is a forgery."
"How can you say that, sir?"
"You have presented an inch or two of it to my examination all the time
that you have been talking. It would be a poor expert who could not give
the date of a document within a decade or so. You may possibly have read
my little monograph upon the subject. I put that at 1730."
"The exact date is 1742." Dr. Mortimer drew it from his breast-pocket.
"This family paper was committed to my care by Sir Charles Baskerville,
whose sudden and tragic death some three months ago created so much
excitement in Devonshire. I may say that I was his personal friend as
well as his medical attendant. He was a strong-minded man, sir, shrewd,
practical, and as unimaginative as I am myself. Yet he took this
document very seriously, and his mind was prepared for just such an end
as did eventually overtake him."
Holmes stretched out his hand for the manuscript and flattened it upon
his knee. "You will observe, Watson, the alternative use of the long s
and the short. It is one of several indications which enabled me to fix
the date."
I looked over his shoulder at the yellow paper and the faded script. At
the head was written: "Baskerville Hall," and below in large, scrawling
figures: "1742."
"It appears to be a statement of some sort."
"Yes, it is a statement of a certain legend which runs in the
Baskerville family."
"But I understand that it is something more modern and practical upon
which you wish to consult me?"
"Most modern. A most practical, pressing matter, which must be decided
within twenty-four hours. But the manuscript is short and is intimately
connected with the affair.
|
family
|
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| 1
|
>
<b> "WAR OF THE WORLDS"
</b>
Screenplay by
Josh Friedman & David Koepp
Submitted by
Tyler
<b> FINAL MOVIE SCRIPT
</b>
** Resized to fit on minimal number of pages**
[Showing Pictures of City Life]
<b> NARRATOR
</b>
No one would have believed in the early
years of the21st century, that our world
was being watched by intelligences greater
than our own. That as men
|
showing
|
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| 0
|
.
Glendinning fully sustained this youthful pretension.--Thus freely and
lightsomely for mother and son flowed on the pure joined current of
life. But as yet the fair river had not borne its waves to those
sideways repelling rocks, where it was thenceforth destined to be
forever divided into two unmixing streams.
An excellent English author of these times enumerating the prime
advantages of his natal lot, cites foremost, that he first saw the rural
light. So with Pierre. It had been his choice fate to have been born and
nurtured in the country, surrounded by scenery whose uncommon loveliness
was the perfect mould of a delicate and poetic mind; while the popular
names of its finest features appealed to the proudest patriotic and
family associations of the historic line of Glendinning. On the meadows
which sloped away from the shaded rear of the manorial mansion, far to
the winding river, an Indian battle had been fought, in the earlier days
of the colony, and in that battle the paternal great-grandfather of
Pierre, mortally wounded, had sat unhorsed on his saddle in the grass,
with his dying voice, still cheering his men in the fray. This was
Saddle-Meadows, a name likewise extended to the mansion and the
village. Far beyond these plains, a day's walk for Pierre, rose the
storied heights, where in the Revolutionary War his grandfather had for
several months defended a rude but all-important stockaded fort, against
the repeated combined assaults of Indians, Tories, and Regulars. From
before that fort, the gentlemanly, but murderous half-breed, Brandt, had
fled, but had survived to dine with General Glendinning, in the amicable
times which followed that vindictive war. All the associations of
Saddle-Meadows were full of pride to Pierre. The Glendinning deeds by
which their estate had so long been held, bore the cyphers of three
Indian kings, the aboriginal and only conveyancers of those noble woods
and plains. Thus loftily, in the days of his circumscribed youth, did
Pierre glance along the background of his race; little recking of that
maturer and larger interior
|
with
|
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| 2
|
. Daubeny and his merry men a
chance. Mr. Daubeny and his merry men had not neglected the chance
given them. Fortune favoured them, and they made their hay while the
sun shone with an energy that had never been surpassed, improving
upon Fortune, till their natural enemies waxed impatient. There had
been as yet but one year of it, and the natural enemies, who had at
first expressed themselves as glad that the turn had come, might
have endured the period of spoliation with more equanimity. For to
them, the Liberals, this cutting up of the Whitehall cake by the
Conservatives was spoliation when the privilege of cutting was found
to have so much exceeded what had been expected. Were not they, the
Liberals, the real representatives of the people, and, therefore, did
not the cake in truth appertain to them? Had not they given up the
cake for a while, partly, indeed, through idleness and mismanagement,
and quarrelling among themselves; but mainly with a feeling that
a moderate slicing on the other side would, upon the whole, be
advantageous? But when the cake came to be mauled like that--oh,
heavens! So the men who had quarrelled agreed to quarrel no more,
and it was decided that there should be an end of mismanagement and
idleness, and that this horrid sight of the weak pretending to be
strong, or the weak receiving the reward of strength, should be
brought to an end. Then came a great fight, in the last agonies of
which the cake was sliced manfully. All the world knew how the fight
would go; but in the meantime lord-lieutenancies were arranged; very
ancient judges retired upon pensions; vice-royal Governors were sent
out in the last gasp of the failing battle; great places were filled
by tens, and little places by twenties; private secretaries were
established here and there; and the hay was still made even after the
sun had gone down.
In consequence of all this the circumstances of the election of 18--
were peculiar. Mr. Daubeny had dissolved the House, not probably
with any idea that he could thus retrieve his fortunes, but feeling
that in doing
|
election
|
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| 0
|
<title>"Wild Things", production draft, revised by Kem Nunn</title>
</head>
<body bgcolor="#FFFFFF">
<pre>
<b> WILD THINGS
</b>
by
Stephen Peters
rewrite by
Kem Nunn
MANDALAY ENTERTAINMENT January 21, 1997
1202 West Washington Blvd.
Culver City, CA 90232
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> MAIN TITLE SEQUENCE -- BLACK
</b>
<b> INTERCUT -- QUICK FLASH-FORWARDS
</b>
INSIDE A STEAMY SHOWER -- A wet naked woman and man wrapped
around each other in ecstasy -- legs, arms, hair, mouths.
BLACK -- MORE TITLES -- then
Moonlight reflects on a vehicle's shiny surface. FISTS THUD into
flesh. O.S. -- a man slams of the hood, rebounds away.
BLACK -- MORE TITLES -- then
LOVERS -- caught in FREEZE-FRAMES of green neon -- off, on, off,
on -- like a
|
things
|
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| 1
|
class="scrtext">
<pre><html>
<head>
<script>
<b><!--
</b>if (window!= top)
top.location.href=location.href
<b>// -->
</b></script>
<title>THE HUDSUCKER PROXY</title>
</head>
<pre>
<b> "THE HUDSUCKER PROXY"
</b>
Written by
Ethan Coen, Joel Coen, and Sam Raimi
September 1992 Draft
<b>
</b>
<b> BLACK
</b>
No image. A bleak WIND MOANS. HOLD.
With a STINGING CHORD we --
<b> CUT TO:
</b>
<b> CITY SKYLINE - NIGHT (CIRCA 1958)
</b>
Lights twinkle. Snow falls. The
|
hudsucker
|
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| 1
|
">
<pre><html>
<head>
<script>
<b><!--
</b>if (window!= top)
top.location.href=location.href
<b>// -->
</b></script>
<title>SCHINDLER'S LIST </title>
</head>
<pre>
<b> "SCHINDLER'S LIST"
</b>
<b> BY
</b>
Steven Zaillian
Final Draft
<b>
</b>
<b> IN BLACK AND WHITE:
</b>
TRAIN WHEELS grinding against track, slowing. FOLDING TABLE
LEGS scissoring open. The LEVER of a train door being pulled.
NAMES on lists on clipboards held by clerks moving alongside
the tracks.
<b> CLERKS (V.O.)
</b>
|
train
|
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| 1
|
the
Rhone." At this point Claudius flared up, and expressed his wrath with as
big a growl as he could manage. What he said nobody understood; as a matter
of fact, he was ordering my lady of Fever to be taken away, and making that
sign with his trembling hand (which was always steady enough for that, if
for nothing else) by which he used to decapitate men. He had ordered her
head to be chopped off. For all the notice the others took of him, they
might have been his own freedmen.
Then Hercules said, "You just listen to me, and 7
stop playing the fool. You have come to the place where the mice nibble
iron. [Footnote: A proverb, found also in Herondas iii, 76: apparently
fairy-land, the land of Nowhere.] Out with the truth, and look sharp, or
I'll knock your quips and quiddities out of you." Then to make himself all
the more awful, he strikes an attitude and proceeds in his most tragic
vein:
"Declare with speed what spot you claim by birth.
Or with this club fall stricken to the earth!
This club hath ofttimes slaughtered haughty kings!
Why mumble unintelligible things?
What land, what tribe produced that shaking head?
Declare it! On my journey when I sped
Far to the Kingdom of the triple King,
And from the Main Hesperian did bring
The goodly cattle to the Argive town,
There I beheld a mountain looking down
Upon two rivers: this the Sun espies
Right opposite each day he doth arise.
Hence, mighty Rhone, thy rapid torrents flow,
And Arar, much in doubt which way to go,
Ripples along the banks with shallow roll.
Say, is this land the nurse that bred thy soul?"
These lines he delivered with much spirit and a bold front. All the same,
he was not quite master of his wits, and had some fear of a blow from
the fool
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tr><td class="scrtext">
<pre>
<b> MARTHA MARCY MAY MARLENE
</b>
Written by
Sean Durkin
<b> EXT. FARM - DAY
</b>
It is a hot summer day. A large run down farm house,
several sheds, a red roof barn and a decrepid silo sit
between fields of dry, uncut grass, in a serene isolated
valley.
TWO MEN tack together a broken fence that encloses an
overgrown paddock.
THREE WOMEN work in a vegetable garden.
TWO WOMEN hang wet clothes on a clothes line.
TWO MEN work in a cluttered garage on an old car.
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>
<head>
<title>"FORREST GUMP" -- by Eric Roth</title>
<body>
<pre>
<b> "FORREST GUMP"
</b>
Screenplay by
Eric Roth
Based on a novel by
Winston Groom
<b>
</b>
<b> EXT. A SAVANNAH STREET - DAY (1981)
</b>
A feather floats through the air. The falling feather.
A city, Savannah, is revealed in the background. The feather
floats down toward the city below. The feather drops down
toward the street below, as people walk past and cars drive
by, and nearly lands on a man's shoulder.
He walks across the street, causing the feather to be whisked
back
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ol's grave.
JOHN COURNOS
Evenings on the Farm near the Dikanka, 1829-31; Mirgorod, 1831-33; Taras
Bulba, 1834; Arabesques (includes tales, The Portrait and A Madman's
Diary), 1831-35; The Cloak, 1835; The Revizor (The Inspector-General),
1836; Dead Souls, 1842; Correspondence with Friends, 1847.
ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS: Cossack Tales (The Night of Christmas Eve, Tarass
Boolba), trans. by G. Tolstoy, 1860; St. John's Eve and Other Stories,
trans. by Isabel F. Hapgood, New York, Crowell, 1886; Taras Bulba: Also
St. John's Eve and Other Stories, London, Vizetelly, 1887; Taras Bulba,
trans. by B. C. Baskerville, London, Scott, 1907; The Inspector: a
Comedy, Calcutta, 1890; The Inspector-General, trans. by A. A. Sykes,
London, Scott, 1892; Revizor, trans. for the Yale Dramatic Association
by Max S. Mandell, New Haven, Conn., 1908; Home Life in Russia
(adaptation of Dead Souls), London, Hurst, 1854; Tchitchikoff's
Journey's; or Dead Souls, trans. by Isabel F. Hapgood, New York,
Crowell, 1886; Dead Souls, London, Vizetelly, 1887; Dead Souls, London,
Maxwell 1887; Meditations on the Divine Liturgy, trans. by L. Alexeieff,
London, A. R. Mowbray and Co., 1913.
LIVES, etc.: (Russian) Kotlyarevsky (N. A.), 1903; Shenrok (V. I.),
Materials for a Biography, 1892;
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b><b><HEAD>
</b><script>
<b><!--
</b>if (window!= top)
top.location.href=location.href
<b>// -->
</b></script>
<TITLE>Bottle Rocket by Wes Anderson and Owen Wilson</TITLE>
<b></HEAD>
</b><b><BODY BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF">
</b><b><PRE>
</b>
<b> BOTTLE ROCKET
</b>
screenplay by Wes Anderson and Owen Wilson
<b>
</b>
<b>EXT. ALLEY. DAY
</b>
ANTHONY and DIGNAN walk down an alley behind a convenience
store. Anthony's nineteen. He's got on a red jacket with an
Enco patch. Dignan's twenty. He has a buzz-cut and wears a
short-sleeved terrycloth shirt. He carries a vinyl tennis
bag. It's got a pouch for a racquet but no racquet in it.
<b> DIGNAN
</b> What color hair does he have?
<b> ANTHONY
</b> Black hair. Paul Michael Glaser.
<b> DIGNAN
</b> Making Hutch David Soul?
<b> ANTHONY
</b> Right. The blond guy.
<b>
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| 0
|
ORINE
Her case is nothing, though, beside her son's!
To see him, you would say he's ten times worse!
His conduct in our late unpleasantness [1]
Had won him much esteem, and proved his courage
In service of his king; but now he's like
A man besotted, since he's been so taken
With this Tartuffe. He calls him brother, loves him
A hundred times as much as mother, son,
Daughter, and wife. He tells him all his secrets
And lets him guide his acts, and rule his conscience.
He fondles and embraces him; a sweetheart
Could not, I think, be loved more tenderly;
At table he must have the seat of honour,
While with delight our master sees him eat
As much as six men could; we must give up
The choicest tidbits to him; if he belches,
('tis a servant speaking) [2]
Master exclaims: "God bless you!"--Oh, he dotes
Upon him! he's his universe, his hero;
He's lost in constant admiration, quotes him
On all occasions, takes his trifling acts
For wonders, and his words for oracles.
The fellow knows his dupe, and makes the most on't,
He fools him with a hundred masks of virtue,
Gets money from him all the time by canting,
And takes upon himself to carp at us.
Even his silly coxcomb of a lackey
Makes it his business to instruct us too;
He comes with rolling eyes to preach at us,
And throws away our ribbons, rouge, and patches.
The wretch, the other day, tore up a kerchief
That he had found, pressed in the _Golden Legend_,
Calling it a horrid crime for us to mingle
The devil's finery with holy things.
[Footnote 1: Referring to the rebellion called La Fronde, during the
minority of Louis XIV.]
[Footnote 2: Moliere's note, inserted in the text of all the old
editions
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|
L O S T I N S P A C E
</b>
by
Akiva Goldsman
CHAPTER 1: Earth 2058
<b>---------------------
</b>
<b>FADE IN ON:
</b>
<b>EXT.-SPACE
</b>
PULL BACK slowly as MARS fills THE FRAME, a sphere of red desert and
fast rushing crimson clouds.
A triangular CARGO SHIP descends from the dark of space.
<b> PILOT (OVER)
</b>
Mars mining base, this is Grissom One,
Request final descent vector.
<b>REVERSE ANGLE
</b>
<b>EXT.-MARS
</b>
A row of giant red mountains and beneath, on the planet's surface, the
spires of A MINING BASE. Illuminated landing crosshairs alight a
landing pad, beckoning the ship.
<b> CONTROLLER (OVER)
</b>
Roger, Grissom One, this is Mars
Mining, You are cleared to land. Hope
you got some Partagas in that rust
bucket, Sal.
<b>EXT.-EDGE OF SPACE
</b>
THE CARGO SHIP changes attitude, landing thrusters FIRING as the
vessel begins to penetrate the atmosphere.
<b>
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| 1
|
b>
</b>
<b> RACHEL GETTING MARRIED
</b>
<b>
</b> Written by
<b>
</b> Jenny Lumet
<b>
</b><b>
</b>
<b> 1 EXT. HALFWAY HOUSE PORCH. DAY 1
</b>
<b>
</b> KYM, a darkly beautiful girl in her early 20's, is smoking
furiously on the porch of an URBAN HALFWAY HOUSE. She glances
impatiently at her watch and presses her ear to her cell
phone. As she exhales, WE HEAR the rumble of thunder.
<b>
</b> Irritated, she crams her cell phone into her bag.
ROSA a halfway house staff nurse is patiently handling
WAL
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|
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| 0
|
suddenly at the stair.
"There are men coming toward the _Pallas_ along the wreck-pack's edge!"
he reported--"a half-dozen men in space-suits!"
"You must be mistaken, Liggett!" exclaimed Crain. "They must be some of
the bodies in space-suits we saw in the pack."
"No, they're living men!" Liggett cried. "They're coming straight toward
us--come down and see!"
* * * * *
Crain and Kent followed Liggett quickly down to the airlock room, where
the men who had started donning their space-suits were now peering
excitedly from the windows. Crain and Kent looked where Liggett pointed,
along the wreck-pack's edge to the ship's right.
Six floating shapes, men in space-suits, were approaching along the
pack's border. They floated smoothly through space, reaching the wrecked
passenger-ship beside the _Pallas_. They braced their feet against its
side and propelled themselves on through the void like swimmers under
water, toward the _Pallas_.
"They must be survivors from some wreck that drifted in here as we did!"
Kent exclaimed. "Maybe they've lived here for months!"
"It's evident that they saw the _Pallas_ drift into the pack, and have
come to investigate," Crain estimated. "Open the airlock for them, men,
for they'll want to come inside."
Two of the men spun the wheels that slid aside the airlock's outer door.
In a moment the half-dozen men outside had reached the ship's side, and
had pulled themselves down inside the airlock.
When all were in, the outer door was closed, and air hissed in to fill
the lock. The airlock's inner door then slid open and the newcomers
stepped into the ship's interior, unscrewing their transparent helmets
as they did so. For a few moments the visitors silently surveyed their
new surroundings.
Their leader was a swarthy individual with sardonic black eyes
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|
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| 9
|
>
<b> FROM HERE TO ETERNITY
</b>
Written by
Daniel Taradash
(Second Draft - 8/29/1952)
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> EXT. QUADRANGLE - DAY
</b>
<b>
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| 0
|
<b> FRUITVALE STATION
</b>
Written by
Ryan Coogler
Thursday, July 19th 2012
<b>1 OMITTED 1
</b>
<b> (CONTINUED)
</b> Goldenrod (7/19/2012) 2.
<b>1 CONTINUED: 1
</b>
<b>2 INT. OSCAR'S APARTMENT- BEDROOOM- NIGHT
|
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|
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| 0
|
long. I have had
one holiday already this year.
LVOFF. Very well, let us admit that. Now to proceed. The best cure for
consumption is absolute peace of mind, and your wife has none whatever.
She is forever excited by your behaviour to her. Forgive me, I am
excited and am going to speak frankly. Your treatment of her is killing
her. [A pause] Ivanoff, let me believe better things of you.
IVANOFF. What you say is true, true. I must be terribly guilty, but my
mind is confused. My will seems to be paralysed by a kind of stupor; I
can't understand myself or any one else. [Looks toward the window] Come,
let us take a walk, we might be overheard here. [They get up] My dear
friend, you should hear the whole story from the beginning if it were
not so long and complicated that to tell it would take all night. [They
walk up and down] Anna is a splendid, an exceptional woman. She has left
her faith, her parents and her fortune for my sake. If I should demand
a hundred other sacrifices, she would consent to every one without the
quiver of an eyelid. Well, I am not a remarkable man in any way, and
have sacrificed nothing. However, the story is a long one. In short, the
whole point is, my dear doctor--[Confused] that I married her for love
and promised to love her forever, and now after five years she loves me
still and I--[He waves his hand] Now, when you tell me she is dying, I
feel neither love nor pity, only a sort of loneliness and weariness. To
all appearances this must seem horrible, and I cannot understand myself
what is happening to me. [They go out.]
SHABELSKI comes in.
SHABELSKI. [Laughing] Upon my word, that man is no scoundrel, but a
great thinker, a master-mind. He deserves a memorial. He is the essence
of modern ingenuity, and combines in himself alone the genius of the
lawyer, the doctor, and the financier. [He sits down on the lowest
|
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|
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| 3
|
> LARRY CROWNE
</b>
Written by
Tom Hanks
From a story by
Tom Hanks & Nia Vardalos
Nov. 2009
<b> FADE IN
</b>
<b> SUNRISE
</b>
Big and orange and full of hope, as sure as fate. A
|
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|
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| 1
|
Touches, women, of course, of
blameless reputations--were without pity for the woman. The men tried to
convince these fair flowers of their sex that some virtues might remain
in a woman after she had fallen.
"How long are we going to play at hide-and-seek in this way?" said Leon
de Lora.
"_Cara vita_, go and put your children to bed, and send me by Gina the
little black pocket-book that lies on my Boule cabinet," said the Consul
to his wife.
She rose without a reply, which shows that she loved her husband very
truly, for she already knew French enough to understand that her husband
was getting rid of her.
"I will tell you a story in which I played a part, and after that we can
discuss it, for it seems to me childish to practise with the scalpel on
an imaginary body. Begin by dissecting a corpse."
Every one prepared to listen, with all the greater readiness because
they had all talked enough, and this is the moment to be chosen for
telling a story. This, then, is the Consul-General's tale:--
"When I was two-and-twenty, and had taken my degree in law, my old
uncle, the Abbe Loraux, then seventy-two years old, felt it necessary
to provide me with a protector, and to start me in some career. This
excellent man, if not indeed a saint, regarded each year of his life as
a fresh gift from God. I need not tell you that the father confessor of
a Royal Highness had no difficulty in finding a place for a young man
brought up by himself, his sister's only child. So one day, towards the
end of the year 1824, this venerable old man, who for five years had
been Cure of the White Friars at Paris, came up to the room I had in his
house, and said:
"'Get yourself dressed, my dear boy; I am going to introduce you to some
one who is willing to engage you as secretary. If I am not mistaken, he
may fill my place in the event of God's taking me to Himself. I shall
|
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|
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| 0
|
> TAKING SIDES
</b>
by Ronald Harwood
adapted from the play by
Ronald Harwood
Final Draft, 1988
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> INT. BERLIN CONCERT HALL (1944) - NIGHT
</b>
A man conducting Beethoven. Air raid in progress. Bombs
falling nearby. The orchestra continues to play. Suddenly
the lights go out. The music stops.
<b> INT. BACKSTAGE CORRIDOR, CONCERT HALL - NIGHT
</b>
A beam from a torch, bouncing, making shadows. An
ATTENDANT, carrying the torch, hurries down the corridor.
The air raid
|
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|
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| 1
|
evidently decided to
alight on the top of the captain's head. The bird flew parallel to
the boat and did not circle, but made short sidelong jumps in the
air in chicken-fashion. His black eyes were wistfully fixed upon the
captain's head. "Ugly brute," said the oiler to the bird. "You look as
if you were made with a jack-knife." The cook and the correspondent
swore darkly at the creature. The captain naturally wished to knock
it away with the end of the heavy painter; but he did not dare do it,
because anything resembling an emphatic gesture would have capsized
this freighted boat, and so with his open hand, the captain gently and
carefully waved the gull away. After it had been discouraged from the
pursuit the captain breathed easier on account of his hair, and others
breathed easier because the bird struck their minds at this time as
being somehow grewsome and ominous.
In the meantime the oiler and the correspondent rowed. And also they
rowed.
They sat together in the same seat, and each rowed an oar. Then the
oiler took both oars; then the correspondent took both oars; then the
oiler; then the correspondent. They rowed and they rowed. The very
ticklish part of the business was when the time came for the reclining
one in the stern to take his turn at the oars. By the very last star
of truth, it is easier to steal eggs from under a hen than it was to
change seats in the dingey. First the man in the stern slid his hand
along the thwart and moved with care, as if he were of Sèvres. Then the
man in the rowing seat slid his hand along the other thwart. It was
all done with the most extraordinary care. As the two sidled past each
other, the whole party kept watchful eyes on the coming wave, and the
captain cried: "Look out now! Steady there!"
The brown mats of sea-weed that appeared from time to time were like
islands, bits of earth. They were travelling, apparently, neither one
way nor the other. They were, to all intents, stationary. They
|
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|
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| 4
|
nose?
How far different would have been Dickens's treatment of such characters
and such a scene; out of Mrs. Davis and Norah he would have extracted
fun, and it would never have entered into his mind to have brought such
a man as Charley into contact with them in a manner that must hurt that
young hero's susceptibilities. Thackeray would have followed a third
way, judging by his treatment of the Fotheringay and Captain Costigan,
partly humorous, partly satirical, partly serious.
Trollope was not endowed with any spark of wit, his satire tends towards
the obvious, and his humour is mild, almost unconscious, as if he could
depict for us what of the humorous came under his observation without
himself seeing the fun in it. Where he sets forth with intent to be
humorous he sometimes attains almost to the tragic; there are few things
so sad as a joke that misses fire or a jester without sense of humour.
Of the genius of a writer of fiction there is scarce any other test so
sure as this of the reality of his characters. Few are the authors that
have created for us figures of fiction that are more alive to us than
the historic shadows of the past, whose dead bones historians do not
seem to be able to clothe with flesh and blood. Trollope hovers on the
border line between genius and great talent, or rather it would be more
fair to say that with regard to him opinions may justly differ. For
our own part we hold that his was not talent streaked with genius, but
rather a jog-trot genius alloyed with mediocrity. He lacked the supreme
unconsciousness of supreme genius, for of genius as of talent there are
degrees. There are characters in _The Three Clerks_ that live; those
who have read the tale must now and again when passing Norfolk Street,
Strand, regret that it would be waste of time to turn down that rebuilt
thoroughfare in search of 'The Pig and Whistle', which was 'one of these
small tranquil shrines of Bacchus in which the god is worshipped with as
constant a devotion, though with less noisy demonstration of zeal than
in his larger and more public temples'. Alas; lovers
|
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|
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| 5
|
to the lieutenant. When his
habeas corpus had been moved for, it was at first flatly refused; and
when it had been granted, Harrington was smuggled away from the Tower
between one and two o'clock in the morning, and carried on board a ship
that took him to closer imprisonment on St. Nicholas Island, opposite
Plymouth. There his health suffered seriously, and his family obtained
his removal to imprisonment in Plymouth by giving a bond of £5,000
as sureties against his escape. In Plymouth, Harrington suffered from
scurvy, and at last he became insane.
When he had been made a complete wreck in body and in mind, his gracious
Majesty restored Harrington to his family. He never recovered health,
but still occupied himself much with his pen, writing, among other
things, a serious argument to prove that they were themselves mad who
thought him so.
In those last days of his shattered life James Harrington married an old
friend of the family, a witty lady, daughter of Sir Marmaduke Dorrell,
of Buckinghamshire. Gout was added to his troubles; then he was
palsied; and he died at Westminster, at the age of sixty-six, on
September 11, 1677. He was buried in St. Margaret's Church, by the grave
of Sir Walter Raleigh, on the south side of the altar.
H. M.
OCEANA
PART I. THE PRELIMINARIES
Showing the Principles of Government
JANOTTI, the most excellent describer of the Commonwealth of Venice,
divides the whole series of government into two times or periods: the
one ending with the liberty of Rome, which was the course or empire, as
I may call it, of ancient prudence, first discovered to mankind by
God himself in the fabric of the commonwealth of Israel, and afterward
picked out of his footsteps in nature, and unanimously followed by the
Greeks and Romans; the other beginning with the arms of Caesar, which,
extinguishing liberty, were the transition of ancient into modern
prudence, introduced by those inundations of Huns, Goths, Vandals,
Lombards, Saxons, which, breaking
|
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|
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| 1
|
Then she sailed into the house, and her son, her two daughters, and
the grandmother after her. Mrs. Peter Jones and Adeline and her
mother went home, but I ventured, since I was a sort of relation, to
go in and offer to help Caroline set things to rights. She thanked
me, and said that she did not want any help; when Jacob and Harry
came home they would set the furniture in out of the yard.
"I am sorry for you, Caroline," said I.
"Look at my house, Sophia Lane," said she, and that was all she would
say. She shut her mouth tight over that. That house was enough to
make a strong-minded woman like Caroline dumb, and send a weak one
into hysterics. It was dripping with water, and nearly all the
furniture out in the yard piled up pell-mell. I could not see how
she was going to get supper for the boarders: the kitchen fire was
out and the stove drenched, with a panful of biscuits in the oven.
"What are you going to give them for supper, Caroline?" said I, and
she just shook her head. I knew that those boarders would have to
take what they could get, or go without.
When Caroline was in any difficulty there never was any help for her,
except from the working of circumstances to their own salvation. I
thought I might as well go home. I offered to give her some pie or
cake if hers were spoiled, but she only shook her head again, and I
knew she must have some stored away in the parlor china-closet, where
the water had not penetrated.
I went through the house to the front entry, thinking I would go out
the front door--the side one was dripping as if it were under a
waterfall. Just as I reached it I heard a die-away voice from the
front chamber say, "My good woman."
I did not dream that I was addressed, never having been called by
that name, though always having hoped that I was a good woman.
So I kept right on. Then I heard a despairing sigh, and the voice
said, "You speak to her
|
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|
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| 1
|
"It's as naughty to want revenge as it is to be selfish and cruel," she
said.
"I believe you are right about that," answered the animal, taking off
his silk hat and rubbing the fur smooth with his elbow. "But woodchucks
are not perfect, any more than men are, so you'll have to take us as you
find us. And now I'll call my family, and exhibit you to them. The
children, especially, will enjoy seeing the wild human girl I've had the
luck to capture."
"Wild!" she cried, indignantly.
"If you're not wild now, you will be before you wake up," he said.
Chapter IV
Mrs. Woodchuck and Her Family
BUT Mister Woodchuck had no need to call his family, for just as he
spoke a chatter of voices was heard and Mrs. Woodchuck came walking down
a path of the garden with several young woodchucks following after her.
The lady animal was very fussily dressed, with puffs and ruffles and
laces all over her silk gown, and perched upon her head was a broad
white hat with long ostrich plumes. She was exceedingly fat, even for a
woodchuck, and her head fitted close to her body, without any neck
whatever to separate them. Although it was shady in the garden, she held
a lace parasol over her head, and her walk was so mincing and airy that
Twinkle almost laughed in her face.
The young woodchucks were of several sizes and kinds. One little
woodchuck girl rolled before her a doll's baby-cab, in which lay a
woodchuck doll made of cloth, in quite a perfect imitation of a real
woodchuck. It was stuffed with something soft to make it round and fat,
and its eyes were two glass beads sewn upon the face. A big boy
woodchuck wore knickerbockers and a Tam o' Shanter cap and rolled a
hoop; and there were several smaller boy and girl woodchucks, dressed
quite as absurdly, who followed after their mother in a long train.
"My dear," said Mister Woodchuck to his wife,
|
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|
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| 0
|
">
<pre>
<b>
</b>
<b> SOMETHING'S GOTTA GIVE
</b>
Nancy Meyers
June 14, 2002
<b> 1.
</b>
<b>OVER BLACK
</b>
We hear, Ja Rule's "Livin' It Up"...
<b>EXT. NEW YORK CITY - A HOT AUGUST NIGHT - MUSIC OVER
</b>
MIDTOWN. A Brunette Beauty crosses in front of a stack of
cabs, her sheer dress clinging to her remarkable body.
A Club in THE MEATPACKING DISTRICT. A long line waits to get
in. A couple of Gorgeous Girls show up at the velvet rope and
are promptly" let inside.
SOHO. A Crowd spills out of a Bar and onto the sidewalk. A
Confident Knock Out in jeans and a tank top laughs, drinking
a beer out of the bottle.
<b> HARRY (V.O.)
</b>
Ahhhh... The sweet, uncomplicated
satisfaction of The Younger Woman. That
fleeting age when everything just falls
right into place. It's magic time and it
can render any man, anywhere --
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">
<pre>
<b>
</b><b> 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY
</b>
Screenplay
by
<b>
</b> Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clark
Hawk Films Ltd.,
c/o. M-G-M Studios,
Boreham Wood,
Herts.
<b>TITLE PART I
</b><b> AFRICA
</b><b> 3,000,000 YEARS AGO
</b>
<b>A1
</b><b>VIEWS OF AFRICAN DRYLANDS - DROUGHT
</b>
The remorseless drought had lasted now for ten million years,
and would not end for another million. The reign of the ter-
rible lizards had long since passed, but here on the continent
which would one day be known as Africa, the battle for survival
had reached a new climax of ferocity, and the victor was not
yet in sight. In this dry and barren land, only the small or
the swift or the fierce could flourish, or even hope to exist.
a1
<b>A2
</b><b>INT & EXT CAVES - MOONWATCHER
</b>
The man-apes of the field had none of these attributes, and
they were on the long, pathetic road to racial extinction.
About twenty of them occupied a group of caves overlooking
a small, parched valley, divided by a sluggish, brown stream.
The tribe had always been hungry, and now it was starving.
As the first dim glow of dawn creeps into the cave, Moonwatcher
discovers that his father has died during the night. He did not know
the Old One was his
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<script>
<b><!--
</b>if (window!= top)
top.location.href=location.href
<b>// -->
</b></script>
<title>CITIZEN KANE</title>
</head>
<pre>
Citizen Kane
By
Herman J. Mankiewicz
<b> &
</b>
Orson Welles
<b>
</b><b>
</b>
<b> PROLOGUE
</b>
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> EXT. XANADU - FAINT DAWN - 1940 (MINIATURE)
</b>
Window, very small in the distance, illuminated.
All around this is an almost totally black screen. Now, as
the camera moves slowly towards the window which is almost a
postage stamp in the frame,
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window
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| 2
|
silk bow at the nape of
the neck; he held himself very erect and rode his horse on the curb, the
reins gathered tightly in one gloved hand, and that hand held closely
and almost immovably against his chest.
The other sat more carelessly--though in no way more loosely--in his
saddle: he gave his horse more freedom, with a chain-snaffle and reins
hanging lightly between his fingers. He was obviously taller and
probably older than his companion, broader of shoulder and fairer of
skin; you might imagine him riding this same powerful mount across a
sweep of open country, but his friend you would naturally picture to
yourself in uniform on the parade ground.
The riders soon left the valley of the Drac behind them; on ahead the
path became very rocky, winding its way beside a riotous little mountain
stream, whilst higher up still, peeping through the intervening trees,
the white-washed cottages of the tiny hamlet glimmered with dazzling
clearness in the frosty atmosphere. At a sharp bend of the road, which
effectually revealed the foremost of these cottages, distant less than
two kilometres now, the younger of the two men drew rein suddenly, and
lifting his hat with outstretched arm high above his head, he gave a
long sigh which ended in a kind of exultant call of joy.
"There is Notre Dame de Vaulx," he cried at the top of his voice, and
hat still in hand he pointed to the distant hamlet. "There's the spot
where--before the sun darts its midday rays upon us--I shall hear great
and glorious and authentic news of _him_ from a man who has seen him as
lately as forty-eight hours ago, who has touched his hand, heard the
sound of his voice, seen the look of confidence and of hope in his eyes.
Oh!" he went on speaking with extraordinary volubility, "it is all too
good to be true! Since yesterday I have felt like a man in a dream!--I
haven't lived, I have scarcely breathed, I . . ."
The other man broke in upon his ravings with a good-humoured growl.
"You
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hand
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| 3
|
</b>
<b> L A B Y R I N T H
</b>
by
Laura Phillips
and
Terry Jones
Story
by
Dennis Lee
Early movie script scanned in by Cruiser One on Dec 28, 1996
Reformatted by Zelos, 16-Apr. 2004
<b>=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
</b>
<b>FADE IN ON:
</b>
<b>1 EXT: SKY - DAY
</b>
A WHITE BIRD soaring. The sky is a glorious explosion of blue and
mauve and lavender. The setting sun washes the clouds with a delicate
pink tint. The bird swoops and spirals and we are right there with
him. Then suddenly, below us, an extraordinary sight appears.
<b>2 EXT: LABYRINTH - DAY
</b>
It is the labyrinth, an enormous maze of incredible mandala like
intricacy. From our magnificent vantage point, WE ARE BARELY ABLE TO
MAKE OUT its details: the twisting walls interrupted here and there
by lush forest,
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observed; its sheen and worth
Awakened curiosity and wonder.
They set me free, and questioned me; yet still
I could not call to memory a time
I had not worn the jewel on my person.
Now it so happened that three Boiars who
Had fled from the resentment of their Czar
Were on a visit to my lord at Sambor.
They saw the trinket,--recognized it by
Nine emeralds alternately inlaid
With amethysts, to be the very cross
Which Ivan Westislowsky at the font
Hung on the neck of the Czar's youngest son.
They scrutinized me closer, and were struck
To find me marked with one of nature's freaks,
For my right arm is shorter than my left.
Now, being closely plied with questions, I
Bethought me of a little psalter which
I carried from the cloister when I fled.
Within this book were certain words in Greek
Inscribed there by the Igumen himself.
What they imported was unknown to me,
Being ignorant of the language. Well, the psalter
Was sent for, brought, and the inscription read.
It bore that Brother Wasili Philaret
(Such was my cloister-name), who owned the book,
Was Prince Demetrius, Ivan's youngest son,
By Andrei, an honest Diak, saved
By stealth in that red night of massacre.
Proofs of the fact lay carefully preserved
Within two convents, which were pointed out.
On this the Boiars at my feet fell down,
Won by the force of these resistless proofs,
And hailed me as the offspring of their Czar.
So from the yawning gulfs of black despair
Fate raised me up to fortune's topmost heights.
And now the mists cleared off, and all at once
Memories on memories started into life
In
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<head>
<title>"Hudson Hawk", by Steven E. de Souza, revised by Daniel Waters</title>
</head>
<body bgcolor="#FFFFFF">
<pre>
<u>HUDSON HAWK</u>
Screenplay by
Steven E. de Souza
Revisions by
Dan Waters
Based on an original idea by
Bruce Willis & Robert Kraft
A Silver Pictures/Flying Heart Films June 14, 1990
Production
<b> NOTE: THE HARD COPY OF THIS SCRIPT CONTAINED SCENE NUMBERS
</b><b> AND SOME "SCENE OMITTED" SLUGS. THEY HAVE BEEN REMOVED FOR
</b><b> THIS SOFT COPY.
</b>
<b> FADE IN:
</b>
<b> EXT. VINCI COUNTRYSIDE - RENAISSANCE - DAY
</b>
Beneath a jawdroppingly storybook castle, a small
Renaissance Fair with florid awnings, demented ACROBATS
and roaring puppets is unfolding.
RUSTIC FARMERS and their families rumble
|
hudson
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| 1
|
b> WALL-E
</b>
Written by
Andrew Stanton & Pete Docter
<b> EXT. SPACE
</b><b>
</b><b> FADE IN:
</b><b>
</b> Stars.
The upbeat show tune, Put On Your Sunday Clothes, plays.
<b>
</b> "Out there, there's a world outside of Yonkers..."
<b>
</b> More stars.
Distant galaxies, constellations, nebulas...
A single planet.
Drab and brown.
Moving towards it.
Pushing through its polluted atmosphere.
<b>
</b> "...Close your eyes and see it glisten..."
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b> EXT. PLANET'S SURFACE - CONTINUOUS
</b><b>
</b>
|
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| 1
|
quickly, with an exclamation of
thankfulness, and gazed intently in the direction pointed out.
"It is, surely it is a ship," she said, "but--but--don't you think there
is something curious about its appearance?"
"I have indeed been puzzled during the last few minutes," replied
Dominick. "It seems as if there were something strange under her, and
her position, too, is rather odd.--Ho! Otto, rouse up, my boy, and look
at the vessel coming to save us. Your eyes are sharp! Say, d'you see
anything strange about her?"
Thus appealed to, Otto, who felt greatly refreshed by his good meal and
long sleep, sat up and also gazed at the vessel in question.
"No, Dom," he said at length; "I don't see much the matter with her,
except that she leans over on one side a good deal, and there's
something black under and around her."
"Can it be a squall that has struck her?" said Pauline. "Squalls, you
know, make ships lie over very much at times, and cause the sea round
them to look very dark."
"It may be so," returned Dominick doubtfully. "But we shall soon see,
for a squall won't take very long to bring her down to us."
They watched the approaching vessel with intense eagerness, but did not
again speak for a considerable time. Anxiety and doubt kept them
silent. There was the danger that the vessel might fail to observe
them, and as their oars had been washed away they had no means of
hoisting a flag of distress. Then there was the unaccountable something
about the vessel's appearance, which puzzled and filled them with
uncertainty. At last they drew so near that Dominick became all too
well aware of what it was, and a sinking of the heart kept him still
silent for a time.
"Brother," said Pauline at last in a sad voice, as she turned her dark
eyes on Dominick, "I fear it is only a wreck."
"You are right," he replied gloomily; "a wreck on a
|
vessel
|
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| 4
|
ASBURY PARK BOARDWALK - DAY
</b>
Jersey spring day. Beyond the wooden planks that make up the aged fun pier,
the ocean waves crash into the sandy shoreline.
An OLD MAN stares at the empty beach. Sun-worshipers hours away from
besmirching the dunes. His features are simple. He wears an old overcoat.
His face belies good years gone by - a face that has seen more sunrises
than one would suspect. He inhales the crisp, salty air and lets a small,
satisfied smile cross his face.
Behind him. a large arcade with steel shuttered doors sits on the
boardwalk. Three young boys skate around by on roller blades, passing a
street hockey ball between them proficiently. The Old Man views them
briefly. checks his watch, and looks back toward the ocean.
The skates of the three hockey playing youths skid to a halt. We pan up to
their faces - now cold and dispassionate. They look at one another and nod.
Their skates glide out of frame.
P.O.V. SKATERS - The Old Man leans on the railing that overlooks the beach.
We get closer and closer to him until...
One of the skaters checks him hard into the railing. The Old Man exhales
violently and falls to his knees. The two other skaters begin savagely
beating on him with their hockey sticks, as he crumbles beneath them.
Repeatedly their blades crash down hard on his head.
<b>OC VOICE
</b>
I don't understand - how can you base your lack of belief in God on the
writings Lewis Caroll?
The three skaters cease their beating and check the Old Man's pulse.
Satisfied, they skate away, leaving his crumpled form on the boardwalk.
<b>INT AIRPORT - DAY
</b>
LOKI walks beside a NUN in a semi-busy terminal. They pass through the
metal detectors. The Nun carries a donation can.
<b>LOKI
</b>
Leaving 'Alice in Wonderland' aside, look closely at 'Through
|
skaters
|
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| 3
|
<b>
</b> Kids
Harmony Korine
<b>BLACK SCREEN
</b>
The very loud sound of people having sex. The sounds of deep moaning and sexual huffs and puffs. After a few seconds the sound grows even louder. It should sound as if the two people are fucking into a microphone. The sounds should be painful and raw.
<b>GIRL (O.S.)
</b>Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.
<b>INT. BEDROOM - DAY
</b>
The face of a very pretty young girl with long blond hair. Her face is inches from the CAMERA, the CAMERA is above her, looking down, almost like the POV of the person she's having sex with. She id breathing extremely heavily; her face is red-hot and sweaty. Every time she moves, she makes a deep moaning noise. She looks likes she's on the verge of pain and ecstasy.
<b>GIRL
</b>Oh yes, Telly it hurts, oh yes, oh yes, please Telly, Telly.
The CAMERA backs up to reveal Telly having sex with the girl. Telly is seventeen years old. He is short, dirty, slightly muscular, he has an interesting face, he is a street-smart punk, He is biting his bottom lip, the two of them are sweating like mad, the sound of the bed post smashing against the wall combines with the rhythmical moaning of the two.
<b>RAPID FADE TO BLACK
</b>
<b>BACK IN TIME - BEFORE THEY HAD SEX
</b>
Telly is in bed with the girl. The two of them are sitting up in the big bed that is raised high of the ground. Telly is naked except for a tight pair of white underwater. He is sitting above the blankets with his legs spread apart. The girl is partially covered, she is wearing a black bra, one of her nipples is poking through. The
|
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|
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| 2
|
>
<b> MINI'S FIRST TIME
</b>
Written by
Nick Guthe
<b>
</b><b>
</b><b>
</b><b> CLOSE ON:
</b><b>
</b> The face of MINERVA "MINI" DROGUES, 18, watching something.
She looks extremely bored by the television images flickering
across her eyes. She has a pretty face: Large eyes, and pouty
mouth. Her knowing look is incongruous with a face clearly
still that of a girl.
<b>
</b><b> - MINI (V.O.)
</b> I know what you're thinking. Don't
bullshit me, because I do... You're
- thinking, oh dear lord
|
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|
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| 0
|
to provoke others to uncouth laughter, but he never laughed
immoderately himself. In telling stories about him, people often
tried to imitate his smooth, senatorial voice, robust but never
loud. Even when he was hilariously delighted by anything,--as
when poor Mahailey, undressing in the dark on a summer night, sat
down on the sticky fly-paper,--he was not boisterous. He was a
jolly, easy-going father, indeed, for a boy who was not
thin-skinned.
II
Claude and his mules rattled into Frankfort just as the calliope
went screaming down Main street at the head of the circus parade.
Getting rid of his disagreeable freight and his uncongenial
companions as soon as possible, he elbowed his way along the
crowded sidewalk, looking for some of the neighbour boys. Mr.
Wheeler was standing on the Farmer's Bank corner, towering a head
above the throng, chaffing with a little hunchback who was
setting up a shell-game. To avoid his father, Claude turned and
went in to his brother's store. The two big show windows were
full of country children, their mothers standing behind them to
watch the parade. Bayliss was seated in the little glass cage
where he did his writing and bookkeeping. He nodded at Claude
from his desk.
"Hello," said Claude, bustling in as if he were in a great hurry.
"Have you seen Ernest Havel? I thought I might find him in here."
Bayliss swung round in his swivel chair to return a plough
catalogue to the shelf. "What would he be in here for? Better
look for him in the saloon." Nobody could put meaner insinuations
into a slow, dry remark than Bayliss.
Claude's cheeks flamed with anger. As he turned away, he noticed
something unusual about his brother's face, but he wasn't going
to give him the satisfaction of asking him how he had got a black
eye. Ernest Havel was a Bohemian, and he usually drank a glass of
beer when he came to town; but he was sober and thoughtful beyond
|
standing
|
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| 1
|
class="scrtext">
<pre>
<b> THE BACK-UP PLAN
</b>
Written by
Kate Angelo
August 30th, 2007
<b>INT. EXAM ROOM - DAY
</b>
We're not exactly sure where we are. And we're not exactly
sure who's talking. All we know is that we are looking at a
foot. One bare foot with chipped red polish.
<b> ZOE (V.O.)
</b> I can't believe I didn't get a
pedicure for this. How
embarrassing. Look at that...
The toes open and then curl down as if trying to hide.
<b> ZOE (V.O.)(CONT'D)
</b> What's wrong with me? If I were
with a real guy doing this, I
would've gotten a pedicure. And a
wax. I'm pathetic.
The CAMERA PANS to the other foot, which is also chipped.
<b> ZOE (V.O.) (CONT'D)
</b> Fuck, that one's even worse.
|
foot
|
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| 2
|
westward, and try to land on the shore bordered by the
uninhabited steppes.'
'Suppose we meet pirates, or a storm?' she asked. 'And we shall starve
on the steppes.'
'Well,' he reminded her, 'I didn't ask you to come with me.'
'I am sorry.' She bowed her shapely dark head. 'Pirates, storms,
starvation--they are all kinder than the people of Turan.'
'Aye.' His dark face grew somber. 'I haven't done with them yet. Be at
ease, girl. Storms are rare on Vilayet at this time of year. If we make
the steppes, we shall not starve. I was reared in a naked land. It was
those cursed marshes, with their stench and stinging flies, that nigh
unmanned me. I am at home in the high lands. As for pirates--' He
grinned enigmatically, and bent to the oars.
The sun sank like a dull-glowing copper ball into a lake of fire. The
blue of the sea merged with the blue of the sky, and both turned to soft
dark velvet, clustered with stars and the mirrors of stars. Olivia
reclined in the bows of the gently rocking boat, in a state dreamy and
unreal. She experienced an illusion that she was floating in midair,
stars beneath her as well as above. Her silent companion was etched
vaguely against the softer darkness. There was no break or falter in the
rhythm of his oars; he might have been a fantasmal oarsman, rowing her
across the dark lake of Death. But the edge of her fear was dulled, and,
lulled by the monotony of motion, she passed into a quiet slumber.
Dawn was in her eyes when she awakened, aware of a ravenous hunger. It
was a change in the motion of the boat that had roused her; Conan was
resting on his oars, gazing beyond her. She realized that he had rowed
all night without pause, and marvelled at his iron endurance. She
twisted about to
|
starve
|
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| 1
|
<table width="100%"><tr><td class="scrtext">
<pre>Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels
By Guy Ritchie
<b>INT. INTERROGATION ROOM - PRESENT
</b>
This whole scene is shot using only extreme close-ups of eyes, cards,
tapping fingers and mouths. We open on a bright pair of eyes. One is
bruised and slightly swollen, but this does not detract from their
clarity.
<b>EDDY
</b>Three card brag is a simple form of poker; you are dealt only three
cards and these you can't change. If you don't look at your cards
you're a `blind man' and you only put in half the stake. Three of any
kind is the highest you can get: the odds are four hundred and twenty-
five to one. Then it's a running flush - you know, all the same suit
running in order; then a straight, then a flush, then a pair, and
finally whatever the highest card you are holding. There are some tell-
tale signs that are valuable; I am not going to tell you them because
it took me long enough to learn them, but these can only help a player,
not make one. So you want to play?
<b>DISSOLVE TO BLACK. THE FIRST OF THE CREDITS APPEAR ON THE SCREEN.
</b>
<b>FADE IN:
</b>
What have you got?
We cut to a beady pair of eyes and then to his cards as they are turned
over: three hearts of no consecutive numbers are exposed. That's a good
hand. A flush beats my pair. What about you?
* Cut from completed film.
Another pair of excited eyes widen to the question. We see more cards:
a run is revealed.
And here's me trying to explain the game to you. Hustlers, you're all
hustlers!
We cut to a shot of a small amount of money being scooped up. OK! You
got some real money?
|
then
|
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| 4
|
s education and giving her clear and sound ideas about
everything. For thirteen years, during which the three had lived this
retired life at La Souleiade, a small property situated in the outskirts
of the town, a quarter of an hourâs walk from St. Saturnin, the
cathedral, his life had flowed happily along, occupied in secret great
works, a little troubled, however, by an ever increasing uneasiness--the
collision, more and more violent, every day, between their beliefs.
Pascal took a few turns gloomily up and down the room. Then, like a man
who did not mince his words, he said:
âSee, my dear, all this phantasmagoria of mystery has turned your pretty
head. Your good God had no need of you; I should have kept you for
myself alone; and you would have been all the better for it.â
But Clotilde, trembling with excitement, her clear eyes fixed boldly
upon his, held her ground.
âIt is you, master, who would be all the better, if you did not shut
yourself up in your eyes of flesh. That is another thing, why do you not
wish to see?â
And Martine came to her assistance, in her own style.
âIndeed, it is true, monsieur, that you, who are a saint, as I say
everywhere, should accompany us to church. Assuredly, God will save
you. But at the bare idea that you should not go straight to paradise, I
tremble all over.â
He paused, for he had before him, in open revolt, those two whom he had
been accustomed to see submissive at his feet, with the tenderness of
women won over by his gaiety and his goodness. Already he opened his
mouth, and was going to answer roughly, when the uselessness of the
discussion became apparent to him.
âThere! Let us have peace. I would do better to go and work. And above
all, let no
|
would
|
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| 2
|
I will show your Grace that it is impossible,' said Mr. Rigby, 'Lord
Lyndhurst slept at Wimbledon. Lord Grey could not have seen the King
until twelve o'clock; it is now five minutes to one. It is impossible,
therefore, that any message from the King could have reached Lord
Lyndhurst in time for his Lordship to be at the palace at this moment.'
'But my authority is a high one,' said the Duke.
'Authority is a phrase,' said Mr. Rigby; 'we must look to time and
place, dates and localities, to discover the truth.'
'Your Grace was saying that your authority--' ventured to observe Mr.
Tadpole, emboldened by the presence of a duke, his patron, to struggle
against the despotism of a Rigby, his tyrant.
'Was the highest,' rejoined the Duke, smiling, 'for it was Lord
Lyndhurst himself. I came up from Nuneham this morning, passed his
Lordship's house in Hyde Park Place as he was getting into his carriage
in full dress, stopped my own, and learned in a breath that the Whigs
were out, and that the King had sent for the Chief Baron. So I came on
here at once.'
'I always thought the country was sound at bottom,' exclaimed Mr. Taper,
who, under the old system, had sneaked into the Treasury Board.
Tadpole and Taper were great friends. Neither of them ever despaired
of the Commonwealth. Even if the Reform Bill were passed, Taper was
convinced that the Whigs would never prove men of business; and when his
friends confessed among themselves that a Tory Government was for the
future impossible, Taper would remark, in a confidential whisper, that
for his part he believed before the year was over the Whigs would be
turned out by the clerks.
'There is no doubt that there is considerable reaction,' said Mr.
Tadpole. The infamous conduct of the Whigs in the Amersham case has
opened the public mind more than anything.'
'Aldborough was worse,' said Mr. Taper.
'Terrible,' said Tadpole
|
said
|
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| 5
|
.
The other interesting opposition within the play is between the two
claimants to the title of Queen, the current incumbent and Onaelia.
There is little doubt that it is Onaelia who is the representative of
virtue, her behaviour often rising above that of the 'noble'
Balthazar. In Act 1 Scene 2 she makes a fearless statement in
defacing the King's portrait, this being an act of treason <6>.
Despite her strong feelings however, she does not rise to Balthazar's
bait when he introduces the possibility of assassinating the King;
the remnants of her love for him and her concern for the stability of
the realm rule this possibility out. She is not however prepared to
accept her treatment without protest and, in Act 3 Scene 2, engages a
poet to propagandise on her behalf. His refusal, on the grounds of
self-preservation is denounced in striking terms when she accuses
poets generally of being 'apt to lash / Almost to death poor wretches
not worth striking / but fawn with slavish flattery on damned vices /
so great men act them'. The effective conclusion of her involvement
as early as the end of 3.2 impoverishes the rest of the play. The
Queen's less admirable character is highlighted by the way she is
prepared to condone the taking of life in order to secure her
position. Her ruthless outlook is punished when she is deprived of
her position and forced to return to Italy.
The final scene of the play utilises a dramatic technique that had
played an important part in 'The Shoemakers' Holiday': the banquet
scene. Planned by the King in an attempt to achieve reconciliation
and remove the threat of Onaelia by marrying her off, it represents a
means of bringing almost the entire cast on stage in order to witness
the meeting out of justice. It is ironic that the King's scheme is
undermined, not by his political rivals but by his allies, The Queen
and Malateste, who do not believe that the marriage will provide a
stable settlement and instead seek to pursue a deadlier course of
action. The banquet provides the context for the unwinding of this
plot as vengeance consumes itself, bring about the regime change that
justice demands.
|
scene
|
How many times does the word 'scene' appear in the text?
| 3
|
temperate young man. But indeed, nature herself seemed to have been his
vintner, and at his birth charged him so thoroughly with an irritable,
brandy-like disposition, that all subsequent potations were needless.
When I consider how, amid the stillness of my chambers, Nippers would
sometimes impatiently rise from his seat, and stooping over his table,
spread his arms wide apart, seize the whole desk, and move it, and jerk
it, with a grim, grinding motion on the floor, as if the table were a
perverse voluntary agent, intent on thwarting and vexing him; I plainly
perceive that for Nippers, brandy and water were altogether superfluous.
It was fortunate for me that, owing to its peculiar
cause--indigestion--the irritability and consequent nervousness of
Nippers, were mainly observable in the morning, while in the afternoon
he was comparatively mild. So that Turkey's paroxysms only coming on
about twelve o'clock, I never had to do with their eccentricities at one
time. Their fits relieved each other like guards. When Nippers' was
on, Turkey's was off; and _vice versa_. This was a good natural
arrangement under the circumstances.
Ginger Nut, the third on my list, was a lad some twelve years old. His
father was a carman, ambitious of seeing his son on the bench instead of
a cart, before he died. So he sent him to my office as student at law,
errand boy, and cleaner and sweeper, at the rate of one dollar a week.
He had a little desk to himself, but he did not use it much. Upon
inspection, the drawer exhibited a great array of the shells of various
sorts of nuts. Indeed, to this quick-witted youth the whole noble
science of the law was contained in a nut-shell. Not the least among
the employments of Ginger Nut, as well as one which he discharged with
the most alacrity, was his duty as cake and apple purveyor for Turkey
and Nippers. Copying law papers being proverbially dry, husky sort of
business, my two sc
|
ginger
|
How many times does the word 'ginger' appear in the text?
| 1
|
GRAND HOTEL
</b>
Written by
Bela Balazs
Based on the play "Menschen im Hotel"
By Vicki Baum
American version
By William A. Drake
<b> SHOOTING DRAFT
</b>
<b>
</b>
<b> PROLOGUE
</b>
Berlin.
Season is March.
|
berlin
|
How many times does the word 'berlin' appear in the text?
| 0
|
HENRY
Tommy. He. doesn't mean anything.
Forget about it.
TOMMY
(trying to wrestle
past Henry)
He's insulting me. Rat bastard.
He's never been any fuckin' good.
HENRY
Tommy. Come on. Relax.
TOMMY
(to Henry)
Keep him here. I'm going for a
bag.
|
tommy
|
How many times does the word 'tommy' appear in the text?
| 3
|
things and the same people and the same books and their dancing
was a joy, not only to themselves but to those who watched them. She
could not imagine wanting to marry anyone other than Djor Kantos.
So perhaps it was only the sun that made her brows contract just the
tiniest bit at the same instant that she discovered Djor Kantos sitting
in earnest conversation with Olvia Marthis, daughter of the Jed of
Hastor. It was Djor Kantos' duty immediately to pay his respects to
Dejah Thoris and Tara of Helium; but he did not do so and presently the
daughter of The Warlord frowned indeed. She looked long at Olvia
Marthis, and though she had seen her many times before and knew her
well, she looked at her today through new eyes that saw, apparently for
the first time, that the girl from Hastor was noticeably beautiful even
among those other beautiful women of Helium. Tara of Helium was
disturbed. She attempted to analyze her emotions; but found it
difficult. Olvia Marthis was her friend--she was very fond of her and
she felt no anger toward her. Was she angry with Djor Kantos? No, she
finally decided that she was not. It was merely surprise, then, that
she felt--surprise that Djor Kantos could be more interested in another
than in herself. She was about to cross the garden and join them when
she heard her father's voice directly behind her.
"Tara of Helium!" he called, and she turned to see him approaching with
a strange warrior whose harness and metal bore devices with which she
was unfamiliar. Even among the gorgeous trappings of the men of Helium
and the visitors from distant empires those of the stranger were
remarkable for their barbaric splendor. The leather of his harness was
completely hidden beneath ornaments of platinum thickly set with
brilliant diamonds, as were the scabbards of his swords and the ornate
holster that held his long, Martian pistol. Moving through the sunlit
garden at the side of the great Warlord, the scintillant rays of his
countless gems enveloping him as in an aureole of light imparted to his
noble figure
|
helium
|
How many times does the word 'helium' appear in the text?
| 4
|
>
</b>
<b> NIGHTBREED
</b><b>
</b>
<b>
</b> Written by
<b>
</b> Clive Barker
Fade In:
<b>
</b> Scene 1. TITLE SEQUENCE
<b>
</b> Darkness. Then, a burst of sparks from a bowl held in a scaly hand.
The light shows us a mural. We start to move along the wall. First we
see stars and planets, painted in a primitive, stylized fashion on
bare rock. A voice on the track speaks softly to us.
<b>
</b> VOICE: We did not always live in hiding.
<b>
</b> We have come to the image of a huge family tree, which springs from
a single seed but divides into two separate halves. On the left,
|
from
|
How many times does the word 'from' appear in the text?
| 1
|
class="scrtext">
<pre> "THE LONG KISS GOODNIGHT"
by
Shane Black
<b> REVISED DRAFT
</b>
February 24, 1995
<b>
</b>
<b> A WINDOWPANE
</b>
Assaulted from without by SNOWFLAKES. Wind tossed.
INSIDE, a bed, dappled with moon shadow. A LITTLE GIRL, fast
asleep. The wind whistles and sighs outside. She DREAMS...
Eyelids closed, eyes roving beneath... then suddenly they
SNAP open. A stifled cry. She thrashes for her STUFFED BEAR,
as a soft voice says:
<b>
|
shane
|
How many times does the word 'shane' appear in the text?
| 0
|
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