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Hayes, John Michael
Rear Window (1953)
As his broken leg heals, wheelchair-bound L.B. Jeffries (Jimmy Stewart) becomes absorbed with the parade of life across the courtyard: A dancer, a lonely woman, a composer and a bedridden woman and her husband become like creatures in Needham's voyeuristic zoo. But when one of them disappears, Needham suspects foul play -- and suddenly he finds himself in the center of the action with nowhere to run.
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This moviescript available in following formats:
Hayes, John Michael. Rear Window
Rear Window Script
FADE IN:
INT. JEFFERIES’ APARTMENT - DAY - LONG SHOT
Although we do not see the foreground window frame, we see
the whole background of a Greenwich Village street.
We can see the rear of a number of assorted houses and small
apartment buildings whose fronts face on the next cross-town
street, sharply etched by the morning sun.
Some are two stories high; others three; some have peaked
roofs, others are flat. There is a mixture of brick and wood
and wrought iron in the construction.
The apartment buildings have fire escapes, the others do
not.
The neighborhood is not a prosperous one, but neither is it
poor. It is a practical, conventional dwelling place for
people living on marginal incomes, luck -- or hope and careful
planning.
The summer air is motionless and heavy with humid heat.
It has opened windows wide, pushed back curtains, lifted
blinds and generally brought the neighborhood life into a
sweltering intimacy. Yet, people born and bred to life within
earshot and eye glance of a score of neighbors have learned
to preserve their own private worlds by uniformly ignoring
each other, except on direct invitation.
THE CAMERA PULLS BACK until a large sleeping profile of a
man fills the screen. It is so large that we do not see any
features, but merely the temple and side of the cheek down
which a stream of sweat is running.
THE CAMERA PANS OFF this to the right hand side of the window,
and MOVES TO a thermometer which is hanging on the wall just
outside the window. It registers 84.
THE CAMERA MOVES ON into the open, and brings nearer to us a
room with a large studio window. We are able to see inside
this room. A short, balding man is standing near the window,
shaving, using a small bowl of water and a portable mirror
which he has set up on a shelf.
To the right of him is a battered upright piano. On top of
the piano is a radio. The music selection coming from the
radio stops, and the announcer is heard.
ANNOUNCER
The time -- 7:15 A.M., WOR, New York.
The temperature, outside, 84 --
Friends -- is your life worth one
dollar?
The man shaving quickly puts down his razor, hurries to the
radio, and changes the station, moving past a number of
commercial voices until he again finds some music.
Contented, he returns to his shaving.
THE CAMERA MOVES ON AND OVER to a far building. It passes
over the face of this building until it comes to fire escapes.
It goes up and near enough to one which has become the outdoor
bedroom of a couple. We are near enough to see an alarm clock
hanging from the rail which is now ringing vigorously. A man
rises lazily to a sitting position. He gropes to switch the
alarm off.
We see that his pajamas are stained with sweat. In his sitting
position he leans forward and shakes somebody beside him. To
our surprise, the head of this other person -- a woman --
rises where his feet are. They have been sleeping in opposite
directions. They sit limply looking at each other with
bedraggled and weary expressions which show they enjoyed
very little sleep in the heat of the night.
THE CAMERA NOW MOVES DOWN toward the left onto another low
building. It MOVES IN A LITTLE to a living room window. Just
inside the windowsill, a small fan is oscillating. The fan
sits on the right side of the table, and to the left of it
is an automatic toaster.
Behind the toaster stands a full-bodied young woman,
apparently wearing only a pair of black panties. Her stomach,
navel, and the lower part of her chest are naked. Just below
her breasts, the curtain, partly drawn, has thrown a deep
shadow which extends upward, hiding her breasts, shoulders
and head. Two pieces of toast pop up in the toaster. She
takes them out, butters them. Then she turns around and bends
over another table on which stands an automatic coffee-maker.
She picks up the coffee-maker, and swings back to the table
to sit down. She does this so deftly that her breasts are
never exposed, but hidden by the fan as she sits down. The
fan moves back and forth as she pours coffee, far enough to
reveal that she wears no bra, but not far enough to fulfill
the exciting promise of her lack of clothes.
THE CAMERA MOVES ON to a distant street corner seen between
two buildings. The traffic is very light at this hour, but a
Sanitation Department truck moves through the intersection
spraying water out behind it to cool the pavement and keep
the dust down. Three little kids in bathing suits run behind
the truck, playing in the water.
THE CAMERA MOVES OFF and around to some buildings at the
side. As it skims this building, we see a hand emerge from
one of the windows, and remove the cover from a birdcage
which is hanging from a hook on the wall outside. In the
cage are two lovebirds -- arguing.
THE CAMERA NOW PULLS BACK SWIFTLY and retreats through the
open window back into Jefferies’ apartment. We now see more
of the sleeping man. THE CAMERA GOES IN far enough to show a
head and shoulders of him.
He is L. B. JEFFERIES. A tall, lean, energetic thirty five,
his face long and serious-looking at rest, is in other
circumstances capable of humor, passion, naive wonder and
the kind of intensity that bespeaks inner convictions of
moral strength and basic honesty.
He is sitting in an Everest and Jennings wheelchair.
THE CAMERA PANS along his right leg. It is encased in a
plaster of Paris spica from his waistline to the base of his
toes. Along the white cast someone has written "Here lie the
broken bones of L. B. Jefferies."
THE CAMERA PANS to a nearby table on which rests a shattered
and twisted Speed Graphic Camera, the kind used by fast-action
news photographers.
On the same table, the CAMERA PANS to an eight by ten glossy
photo print. It shows a dirt track auto racing speedway,
taken from a point dangerously near the center of the track.
A racing car is skidding toward the camera, out of control,
spewing a cloud of dust behind it. A rear wheel has come off
the car, and the wheel is bounding at top speed directly
into the camera lens.
THE CAMERA MOVES UP to a framed photograph on the wall.
It is a fourteen by ten print, an essay in violence, having
caught on film the exploding semi-second when a heavy
artillery shell arches into a front-line Korean battle
outpost. Men and equipment erupt into the air suspended in a
solution of blasted rock, dust and screeching shrapnel. That
the photographer was not a casualty is evident, but surprising
when the short distance between the camera and the explosion
is estimated. A signature in the lower right hand corner of
the picture reads -- "L. B. Jefferies."
THE CAMERA PANS to a second photograph of a picket line at
an aircraft plant strike. Strikers, non-strikers and police
are embroiled in a bitter and confused riot.
Clubs, fists and truncheons swing, blood flows, faces twist
with emotion and fallen victims struggle to regain their
feet. The picture represents no distant, cautions photographic
observation, but rather an intimate report, so immediate and
real that the viewer has the nervous feeling the fight
surrounds him and he had best defend himself. The same
signature, "L. B. Jefferies," is in the corner.
THE CAMERA PANS TO another framed picture, this one a
beautiful and awesome shot of an atomic explosion at
Frenchman’s Flat, Nevada. It is the cul-de-sac of violence.
The picture taken at a distant observation point, shows some
spectators in the foreground watching the explosion through
binoculars.
THE CAMERA MOVES ON to a shelf containing a number of cameras,
photographic film, etc. It then PAN ACROSS a large viewer on
which is resting a negative of a woman’s head.
From this, THE CAMERA MOVES ON to a magazine cover, and
although we do not see the name of the magazine, we can see
the head on the cover is the positive of the negative we
have just passed.
THE CAMERA FINALLY COMES TO REST ON a pile of magazines --
perhaps a hundred or so. They are all of the same publication.
LAP DISSOLVE TO:
INT. GUNNISON’S OFFICE - DAY - CLOSE UP
The screen is filled with the top of a desk. In addition to
the usual telephones, blotting pad, etc., the most prominent
feature is the number of glossy photo prints, and even larger-
sized mat prints. Some of them have slips pasted over with
descriptions. The center of the desk is occupied by a large
layout of photographs on one magazine page. Behind this we
hear the murmur of two voices of men who can be vaguely seen
beyond the desk.
THE CAMERA PANS UP and we are now face to face with IVAR
GUNNISON and JACK BRYCE. Gunnison is sitting on a window-
ledge, and beyond him we realize we are high above the New
York streets. Bryce leans against a wall at right angles to
him.
Gunnison is holding a cablegram in his hand. Bryce has a
cigarette in his mouth. He scratches a match, and is about
to light it, when he notices that Gunnison, still reading
the cable, has reached into an inside shirt pocket, and
produced a cigarette. Quickly, Bryce moves over to light
Gunnison’s cigarette. Then he settles back to light his own.
Gunnison doesn’t even bother to thank him.
GUNNISON
(Looks up)
Indo-China -- Jeff predicted it would
go sky-high.
BRYCE
From the looks of Davidson’s cable,
it might even go higher than that.
And we haven’t even got a camera
over there.
GUNNISON
(Stands)
This could go off in a month -- or
an hour.
BRYCE
I’ll pull somebody out of Japan.
GUNNISON
(Heads for his phone)
Bryce, the only man for this job is
sitting right here in town.
(Picks up phone)
Get me L. B. Jefferies.
BRYCE
(Puzzled)
Jefferies?
GUNNISON
(To Bryce; still
holding phone)
Name me a better photographer.
BRYCE
(He can’t)
But his leg!
GUNNISON
Don’t worry -- it comes off today.
Bryce gives Gunnison a startled look.
GUNNISON
I mean the cast.
(To phone)
INT. JEFF’S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP
Shooting through the open window, onto Jeff. He is shaving
himself with an electric razor as the phone rings. He shuts
off the shaver, picks up the phone.
JEFF
Jefferies.
GUNNISON
(On filter)
Congratulations, Jeff.
JEFF
For what?
GUNNISON
For getting rid of that cast.
JEFF
Who said I was getting rid of it?
At this moment, his attention is drawn to something across
the way. He looks up, expectantly. There is almost a touch
of eagerness in his expression.
EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT
While Jeff is continuing his phone conversation, we see the
object of his look. Two pretty girls have appeared on the
distant roof. They are smiling and talking, although we cannot
hear their dialogue. Each wears a terrycloth robe. With their
backs to the CAMERA, they take off the robes, slipping them
down over their shoulders slowly. Then, seductively, they
turn -- revealing the full beauty of their tanned and bathing-
suited bodies. It is almost as if they want to be noticed,
the center of neighborhood attention. They at least have all
of Jeff’s attention. Then they spread the robes in front of
them, and lie down on the roof, and out of sight. Jeff seems
a little disappointed.
INT. JEFF’S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP
During the whole of this previous action, the conversation
between Jeff and Gunnison has gone on as follows:
GUNNISON
(With logical proof)
This is Wednesday.
JEFF
Gunnison -- how did you get to be
such a big editor -- with such a
small memory?
GUNNISON
Wrong day?
JEFF
Wrong week. Next Wednesday I emerge
from this plaster cocoon.
GUNNISON
That’s too bad, Jeff. Well, I guess
I can’t be lucky every day. Forget I
called.
JEFF
Yeah. I sure feel sorry for you,
Gunnison. Must be rough on you
thinking of me wearing this cast
another whole week.
INT. GUNNISON’S OFFICE - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP
Gunnison is now seated at his desk, with the phone receiver
to his ear. His assistant, Bryce, can be seen vaguely in the
background.
GUNNISON
That one week is going to cost me my
best photographer -- and you a big
assignment.
INT. JEFF’S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSE-UP
Jeff asks, eagerly and alertly.
JEFF
Where?
We hear Gunnison’s reply.
GUNNISON
There’s no point in even talking
about it.
Jeff’s eyes become set upon something else in the neighborhood
he sees.
EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT
Jeff’s attention is now drawn to another feature of his
backyard entertainment. THE CAMERA IS NOW FOCUSED on the
window of the small building where we earlier saw the girl
behind the oscillating fan. Loud ballet music is pouring
from her open window. The girl, now dressed in dark and
revealing leotard, and ballet slippers, has just turned away
from a portable record player. She begins the first graceful
movement of a modern ballet interpretation.
She gracefully moves across the room to the rhythm of the
music and dance, toward the ice box. With her feet still
moving, she throws open the door, and then rhythmically moving
back to the center of the room, gnaws the chicken bone,
occasionally waving it in the air as part of the choreography.
She now twirls over toward a table at the other side of the
room on which is an open package of bread slices, some butter
nearby.
With swaying body, she puts down the chicken leg, and
gracefully and rhythmically butters a slice of bread.
She picks up both bread and chicken leg and continues her
interpretive dance, alternately munching the bread and butter
and chicken leg.
INT. APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP
Jeff’s eyes drop from the ballet dancer’s room to the one
underneath.
EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - LONG SHOT
THE CAMERA PANS from the window of the dancing girl, to the
window below. Someone is reading the New York Herald Tribune.
The paper lowers, and we see an elderly lady, in her late
sixties. She is a faded, refined type. She looks up in the
direction of the music and in a calm routine fashion adjusts
the volume of her hearing aid. She resumes her reading.
INT. JEFF’S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP
Jeff is amused by what he sees, but continues his conversation
with Gunnison, which has gone on through all the scenes with
the ballet dancer.
JEFF
(Insistent)
Where?
GUNNISON
(Filter)
Indo-China. Got a code tip from the
bureau chief this morning. The place
is about to go up in smoke.
JEFF
(Pleased; excited)
Didn’t I tell you! Didn’t I tell you
it was the next place to watch?
GUNNISON
You did.
JEFF
(On filter)
Okay. When do I leave? Half-hour? An
hour?
GUNNISON
With that cast on -- you don’t.
JEFF
(On filter)
Stop sounding stuffy. I’ll take
pictures from a jeep. From a water
buffalo if necessary.
GUNNISON
You’re too valuable to the magazine
for us to play around with. I’ll
send Morgan or Lambert.
JEFF
Swell. I get myself half-killed for
you -- and you reward me by stealing
my assignments.
GUNNISON
I didn’t ask you to stand in the
middle of that automobile race track.
JEFF
(A little angry)
You asked for something dramatically
different! You got it!
GUNNISON
(Quietly)
So did you. Goodbye, Jeff.
JEFF
(Won’t let him hang
up)
You’ve got to get me out of here!
Six weeks -- sitting in a two-room
apartment with nothing to do but
look out the window at the neighbors!
At this moment we hear the sounds of a piano playing.
It is a simple, but broken, melody as if someone was just
learning to play the piano, or carefully composing a song.
It clashes abruptly with the music from the ballet dancer’s
apartment. It irritates Jeff as he looks in the direction of
the new music.
JEFF
It’s worse than the Chinese water
torture.
EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT
We now see the source of the piano music. It comes from the
apartment with the studio window which we saw earlier where
the man was shaving and listening to the radio. The short,
balding man sits at the piano playing a few notes, then
transferring them by pencil to notepaper on the piano rack.
He continues this process, fighting the interference of the
ballet music. The opening bars of his melody are beautiful
and ear-catching.
It is slow, hard work, and the ballet music finally becomes
such an interference that he gives up and walks to the window
to look down toward the dancer’s apartment.
He stands by a table at the window which is littered with
records, the morning coffee cup, unwashed, the remains of
breakfast, old newspapers, song sheets, etc.
He takes a cigarette out of his mouth, looks for an ash tray,
and ends up putting it out in the coffee cup. He then returns
to the piano and begins picking out the melody the dancer is
playing on her record player.
INT. JEFF’S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP
Jeff frowns at the double sound, and raises his voice a
little. He continues the conversation which has been heard
all through the previous scene.
GUNNISON
Read some good books.
JEFF
I’ve been taking pictures so long I
don’t know how to read anymore.
GUNNISON
I’ll send you some comic books.
JEFF
(Low, tense)
Listen -- if you don’t pull me out
of this swamp of boredom -- I’ll do
something drastic.
GUNNISON
Like what?
JEFF
(On filter)
I’ll -- I’ll get married. Then I’ll
never be able to go anywhere.
GUNNISON
It’s about time you got married --
before you turn into a lonesome and
bitter old man.
JEFF
Can you see me -- rushing home to a
hot apartment every night to listen
to the automatic laundry, the electric
dishwasher, the garbage disposal and
a nagging wife.
GUNNISON
Jeff -- wives don’t nag anymore --
they discuss.
Jefferies glances out across to the other apartments as he
sees:
EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT
We see a three-storied, flat-roofed apartment house.
The brick is weather-worn and faded. Each apartment has three
windows facing the back, one showing a hallway, one a living
room, and the window on the right opening into a bedroom.
On the second floor, a man has entered the living room from
a hallway door. He carries a large aluminum sample case common
to salesmen. He sets down the case heavily, removes his hat,
and slowly wipes his brow with the back of his right hand.
He takes off his coat and tie. His shirt is stained with
sweat underneath. He rolls up his sleeves, and his well-
muscled arms heavy with hair confirm his dark, husky build.
INT. JEFF’S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP
With his eyes still focused on the distant apartments, Jeff
continues talking with Gunnison.
JEFF
Yeah? Maybe in the high rent districts
they discuss -- but in my
neighborhood, they still nag.
GUNNISON
Well -- you know best. Call you later,
Jeff.
JEFF
Next time, have some good news.
He hangs up and resumes his attention on the apartment of
the salesman.
EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT
The salesman looks toward the bedroom door, hesitates, then
reluctantly walks toward it. For a moment he is hidden by
the wall.
INT. JEFF’S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP
Jeff shifts his look more to the right.
EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT
The man enters the bedroom. We can see a woman lying on the
far bed. Near her, a small table is covered with medicine
bottles, spoons, boxes of pills, a water pitcher and the
other impedimenta of the chronically ill. The woman sits up
as the man enters. She takes a wet cloth off her forehead.
Before the man even reaches her, she begins talking, somewhat
vigorously. Pointing to a wristwatch, she seems to be saying
something such as "You should have been home two hours ago!
I could be lying here dying for all you’d know -- or care!"
The man stops short of the bed, makes gestures of trying to
placate her, but she goes on scolding. His attitude changes
to weary patience, then irritation, then anger.
He shouts back at her, turns and goes out of the room.
Back in the living room, he picks up his hat, throws it
against the wall in anger, and leaves the apartment, slamming
the door behind him.
INT. JEFF’S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT
Jeff’s attention is suddenly diverted to himself. His leg,
under the cast, begins itching. He squirms, tries to move
the leg a little. It gives no relief. He scratches the outside
of the cast, but the itch gets worse. He reaches for a long,
Chinese back scratcher lying on the windowsill. Carefully,
and with considerable ingenuity, he works it under the cast.
He scratches, and a look of sublime relief comes over his
face. Satisfied, he takes the scratcher out. As he replaces
it on the windowsill, his attention is drawn back to the
scene outside the window.
EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT
We see the man who left his apartment in anger come out of
the doorway into the backyard. He is easy to identify through
the color of his garish necktie. In one hand the man carries
a small garden hoe and rake, and in the other a pair of
trimming shears. He goes to a small patch of flowers, perhaps
three feet square.
They are beautiful, multi-colored three foot high zinnias.
He kneels down, inspects them, touches them affectionately
and with some pride. His anger seems to have left him,
replaced by the kind of peace that flowers bring many people.
He stands up, carefully hoes the ground, them rakes it. Then
he snips a few leaves off the lower parts of the plant.
Finally, he waters them.
INT. JEFF’S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP
Jeff’s attention is turned to something else of interest.
EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT
Into the next door yard we see emerging from the apartment
below the ballet dancer, the elderly lady.
She wear a broad sun hat, dark glasses, and a sunsuit
consisting of pink shorts and halter. She carries a copy of
the Herald Tribune, and still wears her hearing aid. She
settles into a folding, canvas deck chair.
Her skin is dead white, and her body is thin to the point of
emaciation. No sooner has she settled into her chair, than
she is attracted by the sound of the salesman working in his
garden. She gets up, walks to the fence, and looks over. He
notices her, but doesn’t speak.
She begins gesturing to him how to take care of his flowers.
He listens for a moment, then looks directly at her. The
strong movements of his mouth show us that he objects
vigorously to the annoyance of her comments. She moves away
from the fence, started and a little shocked.
INT. JEFF’S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT
Jeff is seated in the foreground, in a waist shot.
Behind him, the entrance door to his apartment opens.
STELLA McGAFFERY comes in. She is a husky, unhandsome, dark-
haired woman who is dressed like a district nurse, with dark
coat, dark felt hat, with a white uniform showing underneath
the coat. She carries a small black bag.
Stella pauses on the landing to watch Jeff. He doesn’t appear
to notice her entrance.
STELLA
(Loud)
The New York State sentence for a
peeping Tom is six months in the
workhouse!
He doesn’t turn.
JEFF
Hello Stella.
As she comes down the stairs of the landing, holding on the
wrought iron railing with one hand:
STELLA
And there aren’t any windows in the
workhouse.
She puts her bag down on a table. It is worn, and looks as
if it belongs more to a fighter than a nurse. She takes off
her hat coat, and hangs them on a chair.
STELLA
Years ago, they used to put out your
eyes with a hot poker. Is one of
those bikini bombshells you always
watch worth a hot poker?
He doesn’t answer. She opens the bag, takes out some medical
supplies: a thermometer, a stop watch, a bottle of rubbing
oil, a can of powder, a towel. She talks as she works.
STELLA
We’ve grown to be a race of peeping
Toms. What people should do is stand
outside their own houses and look in
once in a while.
(She looks up at him)
What do you think of that for homespun
philosophy?
A look at his face shows he doesn’t think much of it.
JEFF
Readers’ Digest, April, 1939.
STELLA
Well, I only quote from the best.
She takes the thermometer out of its case, shakes it down.
Looks at it. Satisfied, she walks to Jeff.
She swings the wheelchair around abruptly to face her.
INT. JEFF’S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT
Jeff starts to protest.
JEFF
Now look, Stella --
She shoves the thermometer into his mouth.
STELLA
See it you can break a hundred.
As she leaves him holding the thermometer THE CAMERA PULLS
BACK as she crosses to a divan. She takes a sheet from
underneath, and covers the divan with it. Talking, all the
time.
STELLA
I shoulda been a Gypsy fortune teller,
instead of an insurance company nurse.
I got a nose for trouble -- can smell
it ten miles away.
(Stops, looks at him)
You heard of the stock market crash
in ’29?
Jeff nods a bored "yes."
STELLA
I predicted it.
JEFF
(Around thermometer)
How?
INT. JEFF’S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP
Stella stops for a moment, and looks at Jeff challengingly.
STELLA
Simple. I was nursing a director of
General Motors. Kidney ailment they
said. Nerves, I said. Then I asked
myself -- what’s General Motors got
to be nervous about?
(Snaps her fingers)
Overproduction. Collapse, I answered.
When General Motors has to go to the
bathroom ten times a day -- the whole
country’s ready to let go.
INT. JEFF’S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP
A patient, suffering look comes over his face. He takes out
the thermometer.
JEFF
Stella -- in economics, a kidney
ailment has no relationship to the
stock market. Absolutely none.
STELLA
It crashed, didn’t it?
Jeff has no answer. Defeated, he puts the thermometer back
into his mouth.
INT. JEFF’S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP
Stella goes on with her work.
STELLA
I can smell trouble right in this
apartment. You broke your leg. You
look out the window. You see things
you shouldn’t. Trouble. I can see
you now, in front of the judge,
flanked by lawyers in blue double-
breasted suits. You’re pleading,
"Judge, it was only innocent fun. I
love my neighbors like a father." --
The Judge answers, "Congratulations.
You just gave birth to three years
in Dannemora."
THE CAMERA PANS HER over to him. She takes out the
thermometer, looks at it.
JEFF
Right now I’d even welcome trouble.
STELLA
(Flatly)
You’ve got a hormone deficiency.
JEFF
How can you tell that from a
thermometer!
STELLA
Those sultry sun-worshipers you watch
haven’t raised your temperature one
degree in four weeks.
She gets down the thermometer. Sterilizes it with a piece of
alcohol-soaked cotton in her other hand.
She gets behind the wheelchair the CAMERA PULLS back as she
pushes it over to the divan. She puts the thermometer away
in its case. Then she helps him off with his pajama top. She
helps him stand on one foot.
He hops one step, then she lowers him, face down, on the
divan. She gets a bottle of rubbing oil.
INT. JEFF’S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSE SHOT
The CAMERA is very low at one end of the divan. Jeff’s head,
half-buried in the sheet, is large in the fore-ground.
Beyond him Stella looms large and powerful-looking.
JEFF
I think you’re right. There is going
to be some trouble around here.
Stella takes a handful of oil, slaps it on his back. He
winces.
STELLA
I knew it!
JEFF
Don’t you ever heat that stuff up.
STELLA
Gives your circulation something to
fight.
(Begins massaging his
back)
What kind of trouble?
JEFF
Lisa Fremont.
STELLA
You must be kidding. A beautiful
young woman, and you a reasonably
healthy specimen of manhood.
JEFF
She expects me to marry her.
STELLA
That’s normal.
JEFF
I don’t want to.
STELLA
(Slaps cold oils on
him)
That’s abnormal.
JEFF
(Wincing)
I’m not ready for marriage.
STELLA
Nonsense. A man is always ready for
marriage -- with the right girl. And
Lisa Fremont is the right girl for
any man with half a brain, who can
get one eye open.
JEFF
(Indifferent)
She’s all right.
She hits him with some more cold oil. He winces again.
STELLA
Behind every ridiculous statement is
always hidden the true cause.
(Peers at him)
What is it? You have a fight?
JEFF
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