ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Father Goriot, by Honore de BalzacThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it underthe terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Father GoriotAuthor: Honore de BalzacTranslator: Ellen MarriageRelease Date: March, 1998  [Etext#1237]Posting Date: February 22, 2010Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FATHER GORIOT ***Produced by DagnyFATHER GORIOTBy Honore De BalzacTranslated by EllenMarriage     To the great and illustrious Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, a token     of admiration for his works and genius.                                                      DE BALZAC.FATHER GORIOTMme. Vauquer (_nee_ de Conflans) isan elderly person, who for the pastforty years has kept a lodging-house in the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve,in the district that lies between the Latin Quarter and the FaubourgSaint-Marcel. Her house (known in theneighborhood as the _MaisonVauquer_) receives men and women, old and young, and no word has everbeen breathed against her respectable establishment; but, at the sametime, it must be said that as a matter offact no young woman has beenunder her roof for thirty years, and that if a young man stays there forany length of time it is a sure sign that his allowance must be of theslenderest. In 1819, however, the time when thisdrama opens, there wasan almost penniless young girl among Mme. Vauquer's boarders.That word drama has been somewhat discredited of late; it has beenoverworked and twisted to strange uses in these days ofdolorousliterature; but it must do service again here, not because this story isdramatic in the restricted sense of the word, but because some tears mayperhaps be shed _intra et extra muros_ before it is over.Will anyone without the walls of Paris understand it? It is open todoubt. The only audience who could appreciate the results of closeobservation, the careful reproduction of minute detail and local color,are dwellers between theheights of Montrouge and Montmartre, in a valeof crumbling stucco watered by streams of black mud, a vale of sorrowswhich are real and joys too often hollow; but this audience is soaccustomed to terrible sensations,that only some unimaginable andwell-neigh impossible woe could produce any lasting impression there.Now and again there are tragedies so awful and so grand by reason of thecomplication of virtues and vices thatbring them about, that egotismand selfishness are forced to pause and are moved to pity; but theimpression that they receive is like a luscious fruit, soon consumed.Civilization, like the car of Juggernaut, is scarcelystayed perceptiblyin its progress by a heart less easy to break than the others that liein its course; this also is broken, and Civilization continues on hercourse triumphant. And you, too, will do the like; you who withthisbook in your white hand will sink back among the cushions of yourarmchair, and say to yourself, "Perhaps this may amuse me." You willread the story of Father Goriot's secret woes, and, dining thereafterwith anunspoiled appetite, will lay the blame of your insensibilityupon the writer, and accuse him of exaggeration, of writing romances.Ah! once for all, this drama is neither a fiction nor a romance! _All istrue_,--so true, thatevery one can discern the elements of the tragedyin his own house, perhaps in his own heart.The lodging-house is Mme. Vauquer's own property. It is still standingin the lower end of the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve,just where the roadslopes so sharply down to the Rue de l'Arbalete, that wheeled trafficseldom passes that way, because it is so stony and steep. This positionis sufficient to account for the silence prevalent in thestreets shutin between the dome of the Pantheon and the dome of the Val-de-Grace,two conspicuous public buildings which give a yellowish tone to thelandscape and darken the whole district that lies beneath theshadow oftheir leaden-hued cupolas.In that district the pavements are clean and dry, there is neither mudnor water in the gutters, grass grows in the chinks of the walls. Themost heedless passer-by feels thedepressing influences of a place wherethe sound of wheels creates a sensation; there is a grim look about thehouses, a suggestion of a jail about those high garden walls. A Parisianstraying into a suburb apparentlycomposed of lodging-houses and publicinstitutions would see poverty and dullness, old age lying down to die,and joyous youth condemned to drudgery. It is the ugliest quarter ofParis, and, it may be added, the leastknown. But, before all things,the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve is like a bronze frame for a picture forwhich the mind cannot be too well prepared by the contemplation of sadhues and sober images. Even so, step bystep the daylight decreases,and the cicerone's droning voice grows hollower as the traveler descendsinto the Catacombs. The comparison holds good! Who shall say which ismore ghastly, the sight of the bleached skullsor of dried-up humanhearts?The front of the lodging-house is at right angles to the road, andlooks out upon a little garden, so that you see the side of the housein section, as it were, from the RueNueve-Sainte-Genevieve. Beneath thewall of the house front there lies a channel, a fathom wide, paved withcobble-stones, and beside it runs a graveled walk bordered by geraniumsand oleanders and pomegranatesset in great blue and white glazedearthenware pots. Access into the graveled walk is afforded by a door,above which the words MAISON VAUQUER may be read, and beneath, in rathersmaller letters, "_Lodgings for bothsexes, etc._"During the day a glimpse into the garden is easily obtained through awicket to which a bell is attached. On the opposite wall, at the furtherend of the graveled walk, a green marble arch was painted onceupona time by a local artist, and in this semblance of a shrine a statuerepresenting Cupid is installed; a Parisian Cupid, so blistered anddisfigured that he looks like a candidate for one of the adjacenthospitals, and mightsuggest an allegory to lovers of symbolism. Thehalf-obliterated inscription on the pedestal beneath determines the dateof this work of art, for it bears witness to the widespread enthusiasmfelt for Voltaire on his returnto Paris in 1777:              "Whoe'er thou art, thy master see;               He is, or was, or ought to be."At night the wicket gate is replaced by a solid door. The little gardenis no wider than the front of the house; it is shutin between the wallof the street and the partition wall of the neighboring house. A mantleof ivy conceals the bricks and attracts the eyes of passers-by to aneffect which is picturesque in Paris, for each of the walls iscoveredwith trellised vines that yield a scanty dusty crop of fruit, andfurnish besides a subject of conversation for Mme. Vauquer and herlodgers; every year the widow trembles for her vintage.A straight path beneaththe walls on either side of the garden leads toa clump of lime-trees at the further end of it; _line_-trees, as Mme.Vauquer persists in calling them, in spite of the fact that she was a deConflans, and regardless ofrepeated corrections from her lodgers.The central space between the walls is filled with artichokes androws of pyramid fruit-trees, and surrounded by a border of lettuce,pot-herbs, and parsley. Under the lime-treesthere are a fewgreen-painted garden seats and a wooden table, and hither, during thedog-days, such of the lodgers as are rich enough to indulge in a cupof coffee come to take their pleasure, though it is hot enough toroasteggs even in the shade.The house itself is three stories high, without counting the atticsunder the roof. It is built of rough stone, and covered with theyellowish stucco that gives a mean appearance to almost everyhouse inParis. There are five windows in each story in the front of the house;all the blinds visible through the small square panes are drawn up awry,so that the lines are all at cross purposes. At the side of thehousethere are but two windows on each floor, and the lowest of all areadorned with a heavy iron grating.Behind the house a yard extends for some twenty feet, a space inhabitedby a happy family of pigs, poultry, andrabbits; the wood-shed issituated on the further side, and on the wall between the wood-shed andthe kitchen window hangs the meat-safe, just above the place where thesink discharges its greasy streams. The cooksweeps all the refuseout through a little door into the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve, andfrequently cleanses the yard with copious supplies of water, under painof pestilence.The house might have been built on purposefor its present uses. Accessis given by a French window to the first room on the ground floor, asitting-room which looks out upon the street through the two barredwindows already mentioned. Another door opens out ofit into thedining-room, which is separated from the kitchen by the well of thestaircase, the steps being constructed partly of wood, partly of tiles,which are colored and beeswaxed. Nothing can be more depressingthanthe sight of that sitting-room. The furniture is covered with horse hairwoven in alternate dull and glossy stripes. There is a round table inthe middle, with a purplish-red marble top, on which there stands, byway ofornament, the inevitable white china tea-service, covered witha half-effaced gilt network. The floor is sufficiently uneven, thewainscot rises to elbow height, and the rest of the wall space isdecorated with a varnishedpaper, on which the principal scenes from_Telemaque_ are depicted, the various classical personages beingcolored. The subject between the two windows is the banquet given byCalypso to the son of Ulysses, displayedthereon for the admiration ofthe boarders, and has furnished jokes these forty years to the youngmen who show themselves superior to their position by making fun of thedinners to which poverty condemns them. Thehearth is always so cleanand neat that it is evident that a fire is only kindled there on greatoccasions; the stone chimney-piece is adorned by a couple of vasesfilled with faded artificial flowers imprisoned under glassshades, oneither side of a bluish marble clock in the very worst taste.The first room exhales an odor for which there is no name in thelanguage, and which should be called the _odeur de pension_. The dampatmospheresends a chill through you as you breathe it; it has a stuffy,musty, and rancid quality; it permeates your clothing; after-dinnerscents seem to be mingled in it with smells from the kitchen andscullery and the reek of ahospital. It might be possible to describeit if some one should discover a process by which to distil from theatmosphere all the nauseating elements with which it is charged by thecatarrhal exhalations of every individuallodger, young or old. Yet,in spite of these stale horrors, the sitting-room is as charming andas delicately perfumed as a boudoir, when compared with the adjoiningdining-room.The paneled walls of that apartment wereonce painted some color, nowa matter of conjecture, for the surface is incrusted with accumulatedlayers of grimy deposit, which cover it with fantastic outlines. Acollection of dim-ribbed glass decanters, metal discs witha satin sheenon them, and piles of blue-edged earthenware plates of Touraine warecover the sticky surfaces of the sideboards that line the room. In acorner stands a box containing a set of numbered pigeon-holes, inwhichthe lodgers' table napkins, more or less soiled and stained with wine,are kept. Here you see that indestructible furniture never met withelsewhere, which finds its way into lodging-houses much as the wrecks ofourcivilization drift into hospitals for incurables. You expect in suchplaces as these to find the weather-house whence a Capuchin issues onwet days; you look to find the execrable engravings which spoil yourappetite,framed every one in a black varnished frame, with a giltbeading round it; you know the sort of tortoise-shell clock-case, inlaidwith brass; the green stove, the Argand lamps, covered with oil anddust, have met youreyes before. The oilcloth which covers the longtable is so greasy that a waggish _externe_ will write his name on thesurface, using his thumb-nail as a style. The chairs are broken-downinvalids; the wretched littlehempen mats slip away from under yourfeet without slipping away for good; and finally, the foot-warmers aremiserable wrecks, hingeless, charred, broken away about the holes. Itwould be impossible to give an idea ofthe old, rotten, shaky, cranky,worm-eaten, halt, maimed, one-eyed, rickety, and ramshackle condition ofthe furniture without an exhaustive description, which would delaythe progress of the story to an extent thatimpatient people would notpardon. The red tiles of the floor are full of depressions brought aboutby scouring and periodical renewings of color. In short, there isno illusory grace left to the poverty that reigns here; it isdire,parsimonious, concentrated, threadbare poverty; as yet it has not sunkinto the mire, it is only splashed by it, and though not in rags as yet,its clothing is ready to drop to pieces.This apartment is in all its glory atseven o'clock in the morning,when Mme. Vauquer's cat appears, announcing the near approach of hismistress, and jumps upon the sideboards to sniff at the milk in thebowls, each protected by a plate, while he purrshis morning greeting tothe world. A moment later the widow shows her face; she is tricked outin a net cap attached to a false front set on awry, and shuffles intothe room in her slipshod fashion. She is an oldish woman,with a bloatedcountenance, and a nose like a parrot's beak set in the middle ofit; her fat little hands (she is as sleek as a church rat) and hershapeless, slouching figure are in keeping with the room that reeksofmisfortune, where hope is reduced to speculate for the meaneststakes. Mme. Vauquer alone can breathe that tainted air without beingdisheartened by it. Her face is as fresh as a frosty morning in autumn;there arewrinkles about the eyes that vary in their expression fromthe set smile of a ballet-dancer to the dark, suspicious scowl ofa discounter of bills; in short, she is at once the embodiment andinterpretation of herlodging-house, as surely as her lodging-houseimplies the existence of its mistress. You can no more imagine the onewithout the other, than you can think of a jail without a turnkey. Theunwholesome corpulence of thelittle woman is produced by the life sheleads, just as typhus fever is bred in the tainted air of a hospital.The very knitted woolen petticoat that she wears beneath a skirt madeof an old gown, with the wadding protrudingthrough the rents in thematerial, is a sort of epitome of the sitting-room, the dining-room,and the little garden; it discovers the cook, it foreshadows thelodgers--the picture of the house is completed by the portrait ofitsmistress.Mme. Vauquer at the age of fifty is like all women who "have seen a dealof trouble." She has the glassy eyes and innocent air of a traffickerin flesh and blood, who will wax virtuously indignant to obtain ahigherprice for her services, but who is quite ready to betray a Georges ora Pichegru, if a Georges or a Pichegru were in hiding and still to bebetrayed, or for any other expedient that may alleviate her lot. Still,"she is agood woman at bottom," said the lodgers who believed thatthe widow was wholly dependent upon the money that they paid her, andsympathized when they heard her cough and groan like one of themselves.What hadM. Vauquer been? The lady was never very explicit on this head.How had she lost her money? "Through trouble," was her answer. He hadtreated her badly, had left her nothing but her eyes to cry over hiscruelty, thehouse she lived in, and the privilege of pitying nobody,because, so she was wont to say, she herself had been through everypossible misfortune.Sylvie, the stout cook, hearing her mistress' shuffling footsteps,hastenedto serve the lodgers' breakfasts. Beside those who lived in thehouse, Mme. Vauquer took boarders who came for their meals; but these_externes_ usually only came to dinner, for which they paid thirtyfrancs amonth.At the time when this story begins, the lodging-house contained seveninmates. The best rooms in the house were on the first story, Mme.Vauquer herself occupying the least important, while the rest were letto aMme. Couture, the widow of a commissary-general in the service ofthe Republic. With her lived Victorine Taillefer, a schoolgirl, to whomshe filled the place of mother. These two ladies paid eighteen hundredfrancs ayear.The two sets of rooms on the second floor were respectively occupied byan old man named Poiret and a man of forty or thereabouts, the wearerof a black wig and dyed whiskers, who gave out that he was aretiredmerchant, and was addressed as M. Vautrin. Two of the four rooms onthe third floor were also let--one to an elderly spinster, a Mlle.Michonneau, and the other to a retired manufacturer of vermicelli,Italian pasteand starch, who allowed the others to address him as"Father Goriot." The remaining rooms were allotted to various birds ofpassage, to impecunious students, who like "Father Goriot" and Mlle.Michonneau, could onlymuster forty-five francs a month to pay for theirboard and lodging. Mme. Vauquer had little desire for lodgers of thissort; they ate too much bread, and she only took them in default ofbetter.At that time one of therooms was tenanted by a law student, a young manfrom the neighborhood of Angouleme, one of a large family who pinchedand starved themselves to spare twelve hundred francs a year for him.Misfortune hadaccustomed Eugene de Rastignac, for that was his name, towork. He belonged to the number of young men who know as children thattheir parents' hopes are centered on them, and deliberately preparethemselves fora great career, subordinating their studies from thefirst to this end, carefully watching the indications of the course ofevents, calculating the probable turn that affairs will take, that theymay be the first to profit bythem. But for his observant curiosity, andthe skill with which he managed to introduce himself into the salonsof Paris, this story would not have been colored by the tones oftruth which it certainly owes to him, for theyare entirely due to hispenetrating sagacity and desire to fathom the mysteries of an appallingcondition of things, which was concealed as carefully by the victim asby those who had brought it to pass.Above the thirdstory there was a garret where the linen was hung todry, and a couple of attics. Christophe, the man-of-all-work, slept inone, and Sylvie, the stout cook, in the other. Beside the seven inmatesthus enumerated, takingone year with another, some eight law or medicalstudents dined in the house, as well as two or three regular comers wholived in the neighborhood. There were usually eighteen people at dinner,and there was room, ifneed be, for twenty at Mme. Vauquer's table; atbreakfast, however, only the seven lodgers appeared. It was almost likea family party. Every one came down in dressing-gown and slippers,and the conversation usuallyturned on anything that had happenedthe evening before; comments on the dress or appearance of the dinnercontingent were exchanged in friendly confidence.These seven lodgers were Mme. Vauquer's spoiledchildren. Among themshe distributed, with astronomical precision, the exact proportion ofrespect and attention due to the varying amounts they paid for theirboard. One single consideration influenced all these humanbeings throwntogether by chance. The two second-floor lodgers only paid seventy-twofrancs a month. Such prices as these are confined to the FaubourgSaint-Marcel and the district between La Bourbe and theSalpetriere;and, as might be expected, poverty, more or less apparent, weighed uponthem all, Mme. Couture being the sole exception to the rule.The dreary surroundings were reflected in the costumes of the inmatesofthe house; all were alike threadbare. The color of the men's coats wereproblematical; such shoes, in more fashionable quarters, are only to beseen lying in the gutter; the cuffs and collars were worn and frayed attheedges; every limp article of clothing looked like the ghost of itsformer self. The women's dresses were faded, old-fashioned, dyed andre-dyed; they wore gloves that were glazed with hard wear, much-mendedlace,dingy ruffles, crumpled muslin fichus. So much for theirclothing; but, for the most part, their frames were solid enough; theirconstitutions had weathered the storms of life; their cold, hard faceswere worn like coins thathave been withdrawn from circulation, butthere were greedy teeth behind the withered lips. Dramas brought to aclose or still in progress are foreshadowed by the sight of such actorsas these, not the dramas that areplayed before the footlights andagainst a background of painted canvas, but dumb dramas of life,frost-bound dramas that sere hearts like fire, dramas that do not endwith the actors' lives.Mlle. Michonneau, that elderly


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                                    TWO FOR THE MONEY                                       Written by                                       DanGilroy                                                        Final Draft: 10-29-04               EXT. HOME MOVIE - 1982 - DAY               A DAD tosses a baseball to his SON.  The boy swings, connects,                sends the ballflying.  DAD smiles.                                       BRANDON LANG'S VOICE               That's me.  Five years old.  I remember that day.  Believe it                or not, I remember that hit.  I remember itbecause of the smile                that spread over my dad's face...                EXT. HOME MOVIE - 1983 - DAY               BRANDON shooting hoops.  DAD drinks a Bud, frowns as he misses.                                                      BRANDON VOICEOVER               I would've stood there all day to sink one.  Just to see that                smile...                  EXT. HOMEMOVIE - 1984 - DAY               BRANDON runs, wears a too-big helmet and pads.  A DOG chases                him as DAD throws a football -- long pass -- TIME SLOWS and --                                                    BRANDON VOICEOVER               To pop, sports were a religion.  To me, it was about purity,                a place where all wrongs could be made right, or atleast temporarily                forgotten.  I was going to fill the whole house with trophies                for him.  There was no doubt in my mind, I was going to make                him happy...                BRANDONcatches the ball.  Blinding light, loud CHEERING and                --                  EXT. STADIUM - 1999 - NIGHT               Our eyes adjust to see we're in a STADIUM.  It's a nightgame.                 Stands packed.  A PLAY CLOCK fills the SCREEN.  It's the fourth                quarter.  Seven seconds left.  Score:  CAL WEST 31 / SOUTH WEST                NEVADA UNIVERSITY 27.  A bruised andbattered UNLV QUARTERBACK                gets a play from the COACH, straps on his helmet as he runs back                to the huddle.  The name on the QUARTERBACK'S jersey -- B. LANG.                 10 exhausted,desperate faces come close, hang on BRANDON'S                every word --                                       BRANDON               Last play.  Slant red, right back on two.  On two, Scottie.                 It's alock.  A guaranteed TD.  I've already seen it.  So relax.                 There's nothing to worry about 'cept one thing -- after we win                and they're shoving cameras in your faces, I don't want to hear                any"Hi moms."  Guys, it's overdone, the fans are tired of it                and if you have to thank some one you can just thank me.  See                you in the end zone.                The teams breaks, approaches theline.  Loud CROWD roar.                                     BRANDON VOICEOVER               I'd been a quarterback since pee-wee football.  Set high school                records.  Won state championships.  I wasn'tdriven by joy, it                wasn't winning as much as terror, pure and simple -- fear of                losing.                                      TV ANNOUNCERS               South West Nevada needs ascore.  Seven seconds on the clock.                 22 yard line.  Win or lose, this has been a spectacular season                for Lang.  The big question, should he turn pro now or wait until                -- Lang's got thesnap--                BRANDON drops back.  A GIANT gets a hand on BRANDON'S jersey.                 BRANDON pulls free, runs.  OPPONENTS charge his way, BRANDON                vaults, sails in the end zone,SCORES.  BRANDON rolls on his                back as an OPPOSING PLAYER hurtles in -- mid-air -- unable to                stop as -- 300-plus pounds come crashing onto BRANDON'S leg.                 Sickeningsound.  BRANDON clutches his strangely angled limb.                                                     BRANDON VOICEOVER               ... My first thought was I can tape it and play nextweek.  Then                I puked.                TEAMMATES surround BRANDON, many turning from the sight and --                               INT. EMERGENCY ROOM ENTRANCE -NIGHT               BRANDON'S wheeled in.               INT. OPERATING ROOM - NIGHT               SURGEONS regard the leg.  IVs are hookedup.                                     BRANDON               What's the rehab time?                 The SURGEONS talk between themselves, impressed by the break.                                                      BRANDON               When do I play again?               One DOCTOR examines his x-rays.  BRANDON grabs his smock.                                      BRANDON               Thepatient's got a question!               Anesthetic haze.  A wavy world is melting far, far away.                                     SURGEON VOICEOVER               Football's done, son...               INT. HOSPITAL ROOM- DAY               BRANDON'S in a hospital bed.  Big leg cast.  IV's in each arm.                                                      MAN'S VOICE               Brandon... Brandon, it'sme.               BRANDON opens his eyes, focuses on his FATHER (older, cheap suit,                beard stubble, clutching a $2 bouquet of flowers).                                        BRANDON'SDAD               You okay?  I saw what happened on the tv.  Helluva thing that                happening like that.                                      BRANDON               (edge)               What are you doinghere?                                     BRANDON'S DAD               I brought some flowers.  From downstairs in the shop.                                       BRANDON               (pressing the nurse's callbutton)                No, you gotta go -- where's the nurse?                                      BRANDON'S DAD               I'm thinking of getting into a new program, Brandon.               A NURSE comes fast through thedoor, watches unsure --                                     BRANDON               Could you get him out, please?                                       BRANDON'S DAD               It's okay, we're fine, I'm hisfather.                                     BRANDON               Just get out!               BRANDON tries to rise, IV'S coming loose.  The NURSE takes his                DAD'S arm, leads him out to the hall.                                      BRANDON'S DAD               (pulling away, straightening)               He didn't recognize me.  Must be all the drugs and all.  Boy's                been through a lot.               (handing the NURSE the flowers)                If you could put these in some water and leave 'em in his room.                 Before they die.                BRANDON'S DAD nods thanks, departs downthe corridor and --                               EXT. TRACT HOME - DAY               Vegas desert.  It's raining.  A SWNU car pulls up.  The COACH                helps BRANDON out, on crutchesnow.  A middle-aged WOMAN and                a TEENAGE BOY stand under a rusty awning, waiting to greet him.                                                     BRANDON VOICEOVER               Itdoesn't rain much in the desert.  Maybe it was that, or maybe                the look on my mother's face, or how fast coach left after getting                me up the steps, but I swore then and there -- no matterwhat,                I'd get back -- I would play again...                INT. UNLV WEIGHT ROOM - 1997 - DAY               Off-season.  The room's packed.  Loud hip hop plays.  BRANDON                limps inon a cane.  Back slaps.  ("B's back!" "The man!")                                                         OMIT               EXT. SOUTH WEST NEVADA UNIVERSITY TRACK - DAY                Sprintersdart by.  Here comes BRANDON.  Several months have                passed.  Big ass brace on his leg.  A GIRL'S TRACK TEAM bounds                past like a herd of gazelles.  BRANDON presses on, possessed.                              EXT. PRACTICE FIELD - DAY               The TEAM'S practicing for a new season.  BRANDON'S on the sideline,                flanked by the COACH and TEAM DOCTOR.                                     BRANDON VOICEOVER               Doc told me it would take years to heal.  One bad hit and it'd                be over.  But the team needed me and I had to play to getdrafted.                 I figured I'd take a chance...                BRANDON looks at the field, the PLAYERS, the empty stands and--                                 EXT. SOUTH WEST NEVADAUNIVERSITY STADIUM - 1997 - DAY               CROWDED arena.  Electrifying scene.  BRANDON'S suited on the                sidelines.  Kick-off.  A SWNU PLAYER returns the ball.                                       BRANDON VOICEOVER               Every minute of recovery I'd dreamt about this moment.  There                were NFL scouts in the stands.  I knew what happened next.                              BRANDON leads his team onto the field.  Into the huddle --                                     BRANDON               Let's ease back into it with our bread                and butter -- TDfirst play.  We're going                deep.  Split right.  Deep two on three!               (coming up to the line)               Red 38!  Red 28!  Set!  Set--               BRANDON drops back.  Blitz.  Brandon about to throw whenone                of his own LINEMEN is knocked into him and -- BRANDON'S off balance.                 Too much pressure on that leg and in one horrible moment...                it buckles.  BRANDON falls.  The play whistleddead.                                        BRANDON VOICEOVER               ...It was over.  I could've gone out with class, a gritty smile                and a little wave to the crowd from a stretcher, instead Iopted                to go psycho on national tv.                The PLAYER who hit him leans down to help.  BRANDON grabs his                face mask, starts punching.  Pure rage.  A REFEREE steps inand                BRANDON slugs him, slams his face in the turf.  LINEMEN yank                BRANDON off as the bloody REF struggles to get free and --                               TV SCREEN -- jim romesports show               A highlight reel plays a tape of the incident -- BRANDON seen                struggling with PLAYERS as the roughed-up REF crawls away --                                                    JIM ROME               Welcome to the jungle!  Hey clones, do you believe this idiot?!                 That cannot happen!  This is college football, not theultimate                fighting championship!  What we have here is too much muscle                and not  enough brain mass -- this is why we need a life-time                ban!  Make an example out of him!  Because thesport deserves                better than this!  Talk to me!                 CAMERA PUSHES IN -- ECU on the TV as we hear --                                     BRANDON VOICEOVER               It made all the


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NEVER BEEN KISSED

Revised Draft by Jenny Bicks

Based on the Original Screenplay by

<pID="act">Abby Kohn & Marc Silverstein

6/26/98 revision

CLOSE UP ON A GIRL'S FACE

It's Josie Geller, 25, cute, blonde and scared out of her wits.We hear the chanting of a crowd.

CROWD
Josie! Josie! Josie!

JOSIE (V.O.)
You know in some movies how they have a dream sequenceonly they don't tell you it's a dream?

Pull out to reveal Josie on pitcher's mound of a--

EXTERIOR. A BASEBALL STADIUM -- NIGHT

It's packed.Reporters line the field. All eyes are on Josie.

JOSIE (V.O.)
This is so not a dream.

The stadium clock sets at 5:00. The crowd goes crazy. Josietakes a deep, nervous breath and smiles, "Oh God."

INTERIOR. ELECTRONICS STORE -- CONTINUOUS

Multiple images of Josie play across rows of TV sets. A crowd hasgathered.

JOSIE (V.O.)
It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was just trying to do my job. And then things happened. Well, life happened. And now I'mhere.

EXTERIOR. BASEBALL STADIUM -- CONTINUOUS

The clock starts to tick down. The crowd yells again.

JOSIE (V.O.)<PID="dia">Trust me. I am not the kind of girl who does things like this. I mean, two months ago you couldn't have picked me out of a crowd...

INTERIOR. CHICAGO SUN TIMES BULLPEN --DAY

Packed with office workers. Bustling with activity. The camera searches the crowd.

JOSIE (V.O.)
Told you. I'm over there.

Thecamera swings to Josie entering. Rhoda, a young copy assistant, tails her, pen and paper in hand.

RHODA
Theater--

JOSIE
StandardAmerican calls for "er". Standard British is "re". So go for "er", unless you're a pompous American, then go for British.

Josie keeps negotiating the maze, leaving Rhoda in her wake.

<PID="speaker">RHODA
No. Theater. Last night. We were supposed to go, remember?

Josie stops at a desk where Merkin Burns, officious office assistant, is talking on the phone. Hepicks his nose with abandon as he talks, ignoring Josie.

MERKIN
(into phone)
No way. No way. No way. Ech, hold on.
(to Josie)<PID="dia">What.

JOSIE
Messages?

Merkin removes his finger from his nose and uses it to pick up a pink message. He holds it out to Josie. Disgusted, shetakes it by one corner.

MERKIN
(into phone)
Seriously? No way. No way--

Josie's still standing there.

<PID="speaker">MERKIN
What

JOSIE
Merkin, do you think we could get some more yellow highlighters? I checked the box and we're--

Merkinswivels his chair 180 degrees so his back is to Josie and continues with his phone call.

MERKIN
(back into phone)
Okay, I'm back, so--

<pID="act">Josie sighs, walks to her door. It's marked with a lopsided nameplate: Josie Geller, Copy Editor. She adjusts the plate so it's perfectly straight.

INTERIOR. JOSIE'S OFFICE --CONTINUOUS

Josie enters, reads the messsage still gingerly held in two fingers, and drops it into the trash can. She hangs her coat squarely on the back of her door, takes five pencils from herpencil pot, one by one sharpens them in her pencil sharpener, and then lays them out neatly in a row. She smiles, satisfied, ready for another day.

Anita Brandt, late 20's, pretty in asemi-unprofessional way, bursts in, smiling.

ANITA
Guess who I did it with last night...

JOSIE
(duh)
Roger inOp/Ed.

ANITA
Who told!

JOSIE
You did. Yesterday you said, and I quote, "I have a date with Roger from Op/Ed tonight and I'm going todo it with him."

ANITA
Well, that doesn't mean it was going to happen for sure.

Josie just stares at her.

ANITA<PID="dia">Once it didn't happen for sure.

Gus Strauss, late 30's, would probably clean up well, enters. He tosses some copy onto Josie's desk.

GUS<PID="dia">Computer's down. Septuplets story. I need it back by five. Hopefully the copy's not a mess.

JOSIE
(emphasizing)
It is hoped that it's not a mess."Hopefully" is an adverb. It means "with hope". You have it defining the copy, and I'm pretty sure the copy doesn't have feelings.

Gus and Anita just stare at Josie.

<PID="speaker">JOSIE
Well, excuse me for caring about words.

GUS
(to Anita)
So. You and Roger in Op/Ed.

ANITA<PID="dia">Oh, man! Who told?

GUS
Roger in Op/Ed. Don't make me send you another memo about my policy on inter-office dating.

JOSIE<PID="dia">Intra office. And they're not dating. They're having sex.

ANITA
And what is your policy? That if you're not getting any, no one can?

Anitaflounces off.

GUS
How many times have I fired her?

JOSIE
Five-- Six--

GUS
(shrugging,giving up)
Eh.

Gus turns to exit.

JOSIE
Hey Gus--did you see the story idea I left on your desk?

GUS<PID="dia">Yeah--the blind foster home mother. It was good. I got Cahoon on it.

JOSIE
(disappointed)
Oh. Cahoon. Yeah, he's--good.

<PID="speaker">GUS
Geller, we've been over this. You're a great copy editor. Maybe my best copy editor. You're not a reporter.

JOSIE
You've done five of myideas.

GUS
You know what separates us office flunkies from the reporters?

JOSIE
They don't have to be in the office Christmasshow?

GUS
A flack jacket.

JOSIE
(not getting it)
A--flack jacket.

GUS
EveryTom, Dick, and Harry thinks he can write. But a journalist gets in there, right where the bombs are. He's aggressive. Grabs the bull by the balls.

JOSIE
You don't think I can grabbulls' balls?

GUS
Geller, you don't want a reporter's life. They're very--messy. You're all about order. Control. And getting me my copy by five.

<PID="speaker">JOSIE
Hey--I can be out of control.

Gus smiles. On his way out he re-adjusts Josie's nameplate so it hangs at an angle. Tormented, Josie waits a beat. She can't takeit, and runs to the door and straightens it.

GUS
(over his shoulder)
Copy by five.

INTERIOR. SUN TIMES LUNCHROOM --DAY

Actually, a pretty depressing kitchenette area. Anita and Josie eat lunch--Anita eats Chinese out of a container, Josie has three baggies of perfectly cut food in front of her.

<PID="speaker">JOSIE
Be honest. Do you think I'm aggressive?

Anita ponders a moment.

ANITA
Okay. Remember when they took your officechair in for repairs and forgot to return it?

JOSIE
Yeah.

ANITA
You stood for like a month.

Cynthia, an affableAfrican-American woman in her 40's, enters and puts three microwave meals in the microwave.

JOSIE
Just because I'm not out of control doesn't mean I can't write.

<PID="speaker">CYNTHIA
Josie, you listen to me. If you feel you're a writer--(touching her chest)

Here, deep inside, don't let anyone tell you you're not. Look at me. Every day I cometo this paper and I pour my heart and soul into what I do. I feel it, passionately, to the core of my being.

JOSIE
You write obituaries.

CYNTHIA<PID="dia">Hey, if you can make a busted aorta sound good--honey, that's art.

The microwave dings off. Cynthia fishes the three Lean Cuisines out. Anita and Josie share a look.

<PID="speaker">ANITA
Cynthia, aren't they only diatetic if you eat them one at a time?

CYNTHIA
I eat 'em one at a time.

ANITA<PID="spkdir">(to Josie)
Y'know, maybe Gus has a point. It wouldn't kill you to relax and have some fun. Roger's got a friend, Marshall in editing? The one with the lazy eye? Maybe we could doubledate.

JOSIE
Forget it.

ANITA
I swear to God, Jos. When is the last time you went on a real live date?

<PID="speaker">JOSIE
I'm concentrating on my career right now.

ANITA
Do you own any colored underwear? Stripes? Anything?!

<PID="speaker">JOSIE
(embarrassed)
Anita!

ANITA
Look. You're way under 30, you're cute, some guys find white Carter's underwear sexy<PID="spkdir">(beat)
If you talk to his nose, you don't even notice the eye.

Josie laughs in spite of herself.

JOSIE
The right guy is out there.


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                                        STAR WARS                                        Episode IV                                        A NEWHOPE                                         From the                                  JOURNAL OF THE WHILLS                                            by                                       George Lucas                                   RevisedFourth Draft                                     January 15, 1976                                      LUCASFILM LTD.                               A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far, away...               A vast sea of starsserves as the backdrop for the main title.                War drums echo through the heavens as a rollup slowly crawls                into infinity.                    It is a period of civil war. Rebel spaceships,                     strikingfrom a hidden base, have won their first                     victory against the evil Galactic Empire.                    During the battle, Rebel spies managed to steal                     secret plans to the Empire's ultimate weapon,the                     Death Star, an armored space station with enough                     power to destroy an entire planet.                    Pursued by the Empire's sinister agents, Princess                     Leia races home aboardher starship, custodian of                     the stolen plans that can save her people and                     restore freedom to the galaxy...               The awesome yellow planet of Tatooine emerges from atotal                eclipse, her two moons glowing against the darkness. A tiny                silver spacecraft, a Rebel Blockade Runner firing lasers                from the back of the ship, races through space. It ispursed                by a giant Imperial Stardestroyer. Hundreds of deadly                laserbolts streak from the Imperial Stardestroyer, causing                the main solar fin of the Rebel craft todisintegrate.               INT. REBEL BLOCKADE RUNNER - MAIN PASSAGEWAY               An explosion rocks the ship as two robots, Artoo-Detoo (R2-               D2) and See-Threepio (C-3PO) struggle to maketheir way                through the shaking, bouncing passageway. Both robots are                old and battered. Artoo is a short, claw-armed tripod. His                face is a mass of computer lights surrounding a radareye.                Threepio, on the other hand, is a tall, slender robot of                human proportions. He has a gleaming bronze-like metallic                surface of an Art Deco design.               Another blast shakes themas they struggle along their way.                                     THREEPIO                         Did you hear that? They've shut down                          the main reactor. We'll be destroyed                          for sure.This is madness!               Rebel troopers rush past the robots and take up positions in                the main passageway. They aim their weapons toward thedoor.                                     THREEPIO                         We're doomed!               The little R2 unit makes a series of electronic sounds that                only another robot couldunderstand.                                     THREEPIO                         There'll be no escape for the Princess                          this time.               Artoo continues making beeping sounds. Tension mountsas                loud metallic latches clank and the scream of heavy equipment                are heard moving around the outside hull of the ship.                                     THREEPIO                         What'sthat?               EXT. SPACECRAFT IN SPACE               The Imperial craft has easily overtaken the Rebel Blockade                Runner. The smaller Rebel ship is being drawn into the                underside dock ofthe giant Imperial starship.               INT. REBEL BLOCKADE RUNNER               The nervous Rebel troopers aim their weapons. Suddenly a                tremendous blast opens up a hole in the main passagewayand                a score of fearsome armored spacesuited stormtroopers make                their way into the smoke-filled corridor.               In a few minutes the entire passageway is ablaze with                laserfire. Thedeadly bolts ricochet in wild random patterns                creating huge explosions. Stormtroopers scatter and duck                behind storage lockers. Laserbolts hit several Rebel soldiers                who scream andstagger through the smoke, holding shattered                arms and faces.               An explosion hits near the robots.                                     THREEPIO                         I should have known better thanto                          trust the logic of a half-sized                          thermocapsulary dehousing assister...               Artoo counters with an angry rebuttal as the battle rages                around the two haplessrobots.               EXT. TATOOINE - DESERT WASTELAND - DAY               A death-white wasteland stretches from horizon to horizon.                The tremendous heat of two huge twin suns settle on alone                figure, Luke Skywalker, a farm boy with heroic aspirations                who looks much younger than his eighteen years. His shaggy                hair and baggy tunic give him the air of a simple butlovable                lad with a prize-winning smile.               A light wind whips at him as he adjusts several valves on a                large battered moisture vaporator which sticks out of the                desert floor muchlike an oil pipe with valves. He is aided                by a beatup tread-robot with six claw arms. The little robot                appears to be barely functioning and moves with jerky motions.                 A bright sparkle in themorning sky catches Luke's eye and                he instinctively grabs a pair of electrobinoculars from his                utility belt. He stands transfixed for a few moments studying                the heavens, then dashedtoward his dented, crudely repaired                Landspeeder (an auto-like transport that travels a few feet                above the ground on a magnetic-field). He motions for the                tiny robot to followhim.                                     LUKE                         Hurry up! Come with me! What are you                          waiting for?! Get in gear!               The robot scoots around in a tight circle, stops short,and                smoke begins to pour out of every joint. Luke throws his                arms up in disgust. Exasperated, the young farm boy jumps                into his Landspeeder leaving the smoldering robot tohum                madly.               INT. REBEL BLOCKADE RUNNER - MAIN HALLWAY               The awesome, seven-foot-tall Dark Lord of the Sith makes his                way into the blinding light of the mainpassageway. This is                Darth Vader, right hand of the Emperor. His face is obscured                by his flowing black robes and grotesque breath mask, which                stands out next to the fascist whitearmored suits of the                Imperial stormtroopers. Everyone instinctively backs away                from the imposing warrior and a deathly quiet sweeps through                the Rebel troops. Several of the Rebeltroops break and run                in a frenzied panic.               INT. REBEL BLOCKADE RUNNER               A woman's hand puts a card into an opening in Artoo's dome.                 Artoo makes beepingsounds.               INT. REBEL BLOCKADE RUNNER               Threepio stands in a hallway, somewhat bewildered. Artoo is                nowhere in sight. The pitiful screams of the doomedRebel                soldiers can be heard in the distance.                                     THREEPIO                         Artoo! Artoo-Detoo, where are you?               A familiar clanking sound attacks Threepio's attentionand                he spots little Artoo at the end of the hallway in a smoke-               filled alcove. A beautiful young girl (about sixteen years                old) stands in front of Artoo. Surreal and out ofplace,                dreamlike and half hidden in the smoke, she finishes adjusting                something on Artoo's computer face, then watches as the little                robot joins hiscompanion.                                     THREEPIO                         At last! Where have you been?               Stormtroopers can be heard battling in thedistance.                                     THREEPIO                         They're heading in this direction.                          What are we going to do? We'll be                          sent to the spice mine of Kesselor                          smashed into who knows what!               Artoo scoots past his bronze friend and races down the                subhallway. Threepio chases afterhim.                                     THREEPIO                         Wait a minute, where are you going?               Artoo responds with electronic beeps.               INT. REBEL BLOCKADE RUNNER -CORRIDOR               The evil Darth Vader stands amid the broken and twisted bodies                of his foes. He grabs a wounded Rebel Officer by the neck as                an Imperial Officer rushes up to the DarkLord.                                     IMPERIAL OFFICER                         The Death Star plans are not in the                          main computer.               Vader squeezes the neck of the Rebel Officer, whostruggles                in vain.                                     VADER                         Where are those transmissions you                          intercepted?               Vader lifts the Rebel off his feet by histhroat.                                     VADER                         What have you done with those plans?                                     REBEL OFFICER                         We intercepted notransmissions.                          Aaah... This is a consular ship.                          Were on a diplomatic mission.                                     VADER                         If this is a consular ship...were                          is the Ambassador?               The Rebel refuses to speak but eventually cries out as the                Dark Lord begins to squeeze the officer's throat, creating a                gruesome snapping andchoking, until the soldier goes limp.                Vader tosses the dead soldier against the wall and turns to                his troops.                                     VADER                         Commander, tear this shipapart until                          you've found those plans and bring                          me the Ambassador. I want her alive!               The stormtroopers scurry into the subhallways.               INT. REBEL BLOCKADERUNNER - SUBHALLWAY               The lovely young girl huddles in a small alcove as the                stormtroopers search through the ship. She is Princess Leia                Organa, a member of the Alderaan Senate.The fear in her                eyes slowly gives way to anger as the muted crushing sounds                of the approaching stormtroopers grow louder. One of the                troopers spotsher.                                     TROOPER                         There she is! Set for stun!               Leia steps from her hiding place and blasts a trooper with                her laser pistol. She starts to run but is felled


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                           THE DESCENDANTS                              Written by                Alexander Payne, Nat Faxon & JimRash1   EXT. THE OCEAN - DAY                                              1    CLOSE ON a beautiful 40-YEAR-OLD WOMAN at the helm of a    powerful SPEEDBOAT -- her hair tossed back by the wind, her    mouth in aeuphoric grin.                                                        FADE OUT.2   CREDITS -- ARCHIVAL FOOTAGE                                       2                         MATT (V.O.)               My missionaryancestors came to the               islands and told the Hawaiians to put               on clothes, work hard, believe in               Christ, and stop surfing and hula               dancing. They made business deals               alongthe way -- buying an island, or               marrying a princess and inheriting her               land. Now their descendants wear               bikinis and running shorts, play beach               volleyball and surf, and take uphula               dancing. Hawai'i has always been a               place of contradiction.3   EXT. HONOLULU - DAY                                               3    VARIOUS SHOTS of Honolulu begin a pattern of montages tobe    interspersed throughout the film.                         MATT (V.O.)               My friends on the mainland think just               because I live in Hawai'i, I live in               paradise. Like a permanent vacation--               we're all just out here drinking mai-               tais, shaking our hips, and catching               waves. Are they nuts? How can they               possibly think our families are less               screwed up, our heartattacks and               cancers less fatal, our grief less               devastating? Hell, I haven't been on a               surfboard in fifteen years.4   INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - DAY                                          4    WeZOOM BACK from a panorama of Honolulu to find 50-year-old    MATT KING seated amid DOCUMENTS atop a makeshift desk -- he    has brought his work withhim.                                                          (CONTINUED)                                                                   2.       The Descendants       PINK Shooting Draft   4/11/10Draft4   CONTINUED:                                                          4                           MATT (V.O.)                 For the last 23 days, I've been living                 in a "paradise" of IVs and urinebags                 and endotracheal tubes and six-month-                 old US magazines. Paradise. Paradise                 can go fuck itself.    Matt looks up at the WOMAN we saw in the speedboat, now lying    stiffly on anupright HOSPITAL BED, her head cocked to one    side, a feeding tube in her nose, a ventilator in her    trachea, IVs in her arm.                           MATT (V.O.) (CONT'D)                 This is Elizabeth King, mywife.                 Twenty-three days ago she was launched                 from a powerboat during a race and hit                 her head, almost drowned. Now she's in                 a coma that scores 5 on theGlasgow                 scale and 3 on the Rancho Los Amigos                 scale, scores showing an extremely                 severe coma. Liz is very competitive.                 Whatever she does, she does tothe                 fullest.5   INT. NEUROLOGIST'S OFFICE - DAY                                     5    Matt is getting the current DIAGNOSIS.                           NEUROLOGIST                 She reactsnon-purposefully to stimuli                 in a non-specific manner, but                 occasionally her responses are                 specific, though inconsistent. Her                 reflexes are primitive and oftenthe                 same, regardless of stimuli                 presented...                           MATT (V.O.)                 It was exactly what Elizabeth used to                 accuse me of.6   INT. HOSPITAL ROOM -DAY                                            6    Matt continues to observe her.                           MATT (V.O.)                 Twenty-three days in a coma, and any                 day now the doctors will give metheir                 final verdict if she's going to come                 out of it or not. Then I have a                 decision to make. Wait, that's wrong.                 Liz has a livingwill.                           (MORE)                                                            (CONTINUED)                                                                   3.       The Descendants       PINK ShootingDraft   4/11/10 Draft6   CONTINUED:                                                          6                           MATT (V.O.) (CONT'D)                 Like always, she makes her own                 decisions. But I knowshe's going to                 pull through.    His CELLPHONE RINGS.                           MATT (CONT'D)                 Hi, Noe, what's up?                           NOE (ON PHONE)                 Matt, you have acall from Scottie's                 teacher. She says it's urgent.                           MATT                 Yeah, sure. Put her on.7   INT. ELEMENTARY SCHOOL CLASSROOM -DAY                              7    A SCRAPBOOK    shows PHOTOS OF ELIZABETH lying in her hospital bed. The    compositions are odd, the ANGLES uncomfortably CLOSE.    WIDE --    Matt conferswith fifth-grade teacher MS. Hayashi and school    counselor MRS. THULL.                           MS. HAYASHI                 We just don't think these photographs                 are appropriate for Scottie tobe                 sharing with her classmates. Some of                 them went home quite disturbed, and we                 got some angry calls from parents.                           MATT                 Yeah, she's sort ofbeen going to town                 with the whole picture-taking thing,                 but I had no idea --                           MS. HAYASHI                 I can't tell you how my heart goes out                 to you and yourfamily, but Scottie                 just hasn't been herself. Principal                 Cruz agrees with us that it maybe would                 be better for Scottie to remain at home                 with you during this difficulttime.                           MATT                 Home. See, I would think that sticking                 to her normal routine would be the best                 thing for her -- you know, keep her                 occupied. Iwouldn't really know how                 to...                           (MORE)                                                            (CONTINUED)                                                                     4.      TheDescendants          PINK Shooting Draft   4/11/10 Draft7   CONTINUED:                                                            7                           MATT (CONT'D)                 I mean, I've kind of got my handsfull.                 And her sister's away at school on the                 Big Island. I don't think Scottie                 would really want to hang out with me                 when she could be with her friends and                 peoplelike you who specialize in                 children.                           MRS. THULL                 Mr. King, we see this every day --                 children acting out at school when                 something's wrong at home.And your                 family is facing a devastating crisis.                 Have you been engaging Scottie in                 really talking about what's going on?                 Encouraging her to express her                 feelings?That's crucial.                             MATT                     (No)                 Oh, yeah.   Yeah.   Absolutely.                           SCOTTIE (O.S.)                     (singing)                 This shit is bananas.B-a-n-a-n-a-s.                 This shit is bananas.    They look over to see --    TEN-YEAR-OLD SCOTTIE KING --    EARBUDS in place and in her own world, DANCING just outside    the classroom door. AJANITOR down the hall eyes her    suspiciously.                           SCOTTIE (CONT'D)                 This shit is bananas. B-a-n-a-n-a-s!    Matt stares aghast at this specimen called his daughter. The    ladiesglance between Scottie and Matt, wondering when, or    whether, he'll intervene. Finally --                           MS. HAYASHI                 Scottie, that is not a good choice!                 Are you making a goodchoice?    Scottie remains oblivious.       Ms. Hayashi rises to her feet.                           MATT                     (realizing)                 Yeah, Scottie, come on.     Knock itoff.                                                                 5.       The Descendants     PINK Shooting Draft   4/11/10 Draft8   EXT. ELEMENTARY SCHOOL - DAY                                      8    Matt leads Scottieto the car.                         MATT               What's the matter with you? Showing               those pictures of Mom for your art               project?                         SCOTTIE               I'm aphotographer, Dad, a real               photographer.                         MATT               No, you're not. You're overdoing it is               what you're doing.                         SCOTTIE               I saw it in abook. Some famous               photographer lady took pictures of her               mom in the hospital while she was               dying, and they're considered art.               That's what I'mdoing.                         MATT               First of all, your mother's very sick,               but she's not dying. Second, you don't               share personal stuff like that with               strangers. What's going onwith Mom is               private.                         SCOTTIE               I'm hungry. Can we get burgers?                         MATT               No.                         SCOTTIE               Can we getsmoothies?                         MATT               No.    As Scottie continues --                         MATT (V.O.) (CONT'D)               The last time I took care of Scottie by               myself was when she wasone. Now she's               ten, and I have no idea what goes on               inside her head. She's insane. And               with Elizabeth in the hospital, I think               she's testing me. I'm the backup               parent.The understudy.                                                                  6.       The Descendants      PINK Shooting Draft   4/11/10 Draft9   INT. HOSPITAL ROOM -DAY                                           9    FLASH!   Scottie takes Elizabeth's picture again.                         MATT               I wish you'd stop doing that. And               rather than taking her picture allthe               time, you should talk to her. I'm               tired of asking you. You heard Dr.               Johnston -- people in a coma can hear               you -- you know, well, some of them               can. It lets themknow they're still               loved, might even help them wake up               sooner. And it'll help you express               whatever feelings and emotions you're               supposed to be going through --you               know, make you feel better.                         SCOTTIE               I don't know what to say.                         MATT               Tell her a


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                           CLIFFHANGER                            Written by                          Michael France        EXT. MOUNTAIN RANGE -HELICOPTER SHOT - DAY        An unparalleled set of sheer mountains -- part of the Colorado        Rockies. The peaks rise a challenging half mile and more out        of the valley -- wind-whipped snow mists overthe mountains        like a low fog. The tranquility is broken as a helicopter        BLASTS into view, fighting the wind as it heads for the center        of it all.        Our CREDITS fly us past and through this magnificentrange.        There are sky-piercing peaks that slope up to a narrow, high        pinnacle -- and others that are steel, straight-up approaches        to large plateaus. One of the mountains has a crystal lake on        top --with a waterfall that drains from it and exits from the        middle of a mountain wall. Nearby, an abandoned cable ladder        is bolted into the same wall, leading to the top.        BACK IN THEHELICOPTER        We can see a man sitting in its doorway, looking out --        INT/EXT HELICOPTER - BINOCULAR POV        The glasses scan systematically, slowly -- to us, it looks        like nothing morethan a field of gray and white.                                        FRANK (O.S.)                      Nothing yet.        EXT. THE MOUNTAINS - LONG SHOT        The helicopter now circles this tallest mountain --"The        Tower", separated from a lower but equally formidable peak by        a chasm of two hundred feet -- that drops 3,500 feet below.        INSIDE HELICOPTER - FRANK AND MAGGIE        Spotter FRANKNEWELL (50s) scans the mountain wall.  MAGGIE        DEIGHAN (30s) expertly pilots the helicopter through the storm        winds. Both wear orange jackets identifying themselves as        members of the RockyMountain Park Rescue Team.                                        FRANK                      Wait a minute -- there's Hal.                            (beat)                      And his date.        BINOCULAR POV - ALEDGE        that's part of the smaller peak. HAL TUCKER (30s) and his         "date", SUSAN COLLINS (20s), are decked out in climbing gear.          Hal's aplomb suggests he's a veteran climber --Susan's        worried look shows she isn't. Hal and Susan huddle together,        both cold, but okay. Hal has a makeshift splint wrapped        around his lower leg, and a slow burning flare in one hand.        INSIDEHELICOPTER        Frank lowers his glasses -- Maggie struggles with the wind.                                        MAGGIE                      How do they look?        BINOCULAR POV - HAL ANDSUSAN        Hal, now aware of the copter, looks towards it, smiling -- and        starts jerking off the flare.                                        FRANK (O.S.)                      He's signalling"okay."                                        MAGGIE (O.S.)                      Where's Gabe?        The POV dips down -- there's somebody climbing below, in an        orange rescuejacket.                                        FRANK (O.S.)                      Right where he's supposed to be.        CLOSER ON THE CLIMBER        This is GABE WALKER (30s). In spite of the cold and thesnow,        he's fearlessly, swiftly scaling the tower without safety        lines, as if he's done it a hundred times. That's because he        has done it a hundred times. This is what Gabe lives for.        ON THELEDGE        Gabe, almost there, finds a fingertip-width handhold at arm's        length -- grabbing it, he pulls himself up on the ledge with a        move that's just a little tougher than chinning yourself ona        doorjamb. Winded, Gabe slumps down next to the couple, and        tries to light a cigarette. The lighter only sparks.                                        HAL                      Excuse me -- I know you'remy                      salvation, and all -- do you think you                      could rescue us before your smoke                      break?        Hal pulls out a box of wooden matches and lights one Bogart        style, one-handedwith a thumbnail, cupping a hand to shield        it against the wind. Gabe bends down for it -- a familiar        routine. We know in a glance they've been friends foryears.                                        GABE                      Maybe you could tell me why I am                      rescuing you.                                        HAL                      Basically -- I've fallen down, andI                      can't get up...                                        GABE                            (into radio)                      Rescue One -- have located helpless                      climber, please prepare idiotline                      for transport, over --        THE HELICOPTER dips down towards the ledge -- no way can it        land there. Frank lowers a rescue wire to        GABE        who precariously swings out from theledge to grab it -- the        wire is just out of reach. Hal grabs the radio.                                        HAL                      Rescue One -- please remind me to tell                      you about the time I hauled yourhero                      here down Mt. Huntington on my back,                      over --                                        MAGGIE (O.S.)                            (through radio)                      Hal, if I hear that story onemore                      time, I'm making you limp down the                      entire three thousand feet, over --        Gabe finally grabs the line, secures it to a heavy piton, and        hammers it into thewall.                                        GABE                            (to Susan)                      This guy showing you a good time?        THE HELICOPTER        swings over across to the facing mountain --Maggie lands the        copter, in spite of the winds, on a small plateau. Frank gets        out to secure the wire -- there's now a lifeline spanning the        chasm.        ON THE LEDGE        Gabe finishesanchoring the line in the rock -- he        extinguishes his cigarette in the snow, and naturally, pockets        the butt. Hal, propped up against the wall, expertly rigs a        seat harness around his legs -- Susan helps himget part of it        around his splint, and Gabe clips it to the line.                                        GABE                      Now, remember -- keep your arms and                      legs within the vehicle atall                      times --                                        HAL                            (laughing)                      Fuck you --        With that, Hal pulls himself hand-over-hand across the sloping        line -- Hal makes apoint of looking down --        HAL'S POV -- THE DROP        is vertigo defined. Thirty five hundred feet straight down.        You could stack the World Trade Center towers on top of each        other and they'dstill be shorter than this mountain is high.        However --        HAL        lets go of the overhead line and claps his hands to his face        in mock horror -- he quickly whizzes down the last thirty feet        ofthe line, where Frank catches him and pulls him out. Hal        gets out of the harness, checks every stitch of it, signals        thumbs-up, and sends it back.        THE LEDGE        Gabe, retrieves the harness ona small attachment line, and        gives Susan a reassuring smile, but she's still, sensibly,        very scared. Gabe recovers the harness, rigs Susan into it,        and meticulously re-checksit.                                        GABE                      Ready?                            (sees she's afraid)                      Did he tell you about the time he                      almost made it upEverest?                                        SUSAN                      He said you gave him a bad oxygen mask                      --                                        GABE                      Well, if he's bored youwith that                      bullshit, then this has to be the best                      part of a bad date. Right?        Susan nervouslylaughs.                                        GABE                      Ready?                                        SUSAN                            (scared but tough)                      Okay --        Gabe starts to push her out onthe line, but she grabs his arm        in a panic.                                        SUSAN                      I can't --        Susan starts to tilt her head down -- Gabe gently takes hold        of her chin, turning her view upto face him.                                        GABE                      Yes you can.                            (reassuring)                      You can do it. Don't look down.  The                      whole way across, don't lookdown.                      Look at me. Just keep looking at me --                      and you'll be okay.        Susan looks at Gabe -- trying to be confident --nods.                                        GABE                      Sure?                                        SUSAN                      Yeah.                            (beat)                      I have always depended on thekindness                      of Rangers.        Gabe grins and gently pushes her out. Susan tentatively pulls        herself across -- then develops a rhythm, building speed --        GABE'S POV - SUSAN        inchingaway in the harness, looking more confident now --        SUSAN'S POV - GABE        signalling "OK" -- "you're doing fine" --        SUSAN - ANOTHER ANGLE        thirty feet out, going fine--        INSERT -- A HARNESS CLIP        holding the strap under Susan's left leg breaks --        GABE'S POV - SUSAN        The harness completely unravels all at once, its strands        shoot throughthe clips -- what was a seat has become a trap        door in half a second -- as the harness shoots out from under        her, Susan falls but grabs the harness strand --        HAL        is helpless, and can onlywatch as        SUSAN        too scared to breathe, dangles on the remaining strand of what        used to be the harness -- she sways from the wind and the jerk        of her own weight, her grip loosens--        INSERT - THE TOP CLIP        that is supporting all of Susan's weight is being seriously        tested -- a single knot in the harness has caught there, but        it clearly won't last long--        GABE        moves back from the ledge.                                        GABE                            (loud, in control)                      Hold on. I'm coming out to get you.        Gabe gently pulls himselfup on the line, crosses his ankles        on it, and clips himself on with a three foot safety line.        Gabe starts smoothly, quickly pulling himself out, but --        SUSAN        is in trouble -- the bobbing of theline from Gabe's weight        and the winds are making her lose her grip even more --        GABE        urgently pulls himself along the line faster, trying not to        shake the line. As he gets closer and closerto a terrified        Susan, his eyes lock on hers --                                        GABE                      Keep looking at me. Hold on --        WIDER ANGLE        Gabe is only ten feet away from--        SUSAN        who stares at Gabe, petrified -- this focus is helping, but        her strength is just about gone --        INSERT - THE CLIP        The knot has worked itself halfway through -- it