A Serious Man Page #6

Danny

We’re not getting channel four at all.

Larry

(to Judith)

Can we discuss it later?

Danny

I can’t get F Troop.

Judith

Larry, the children know. Do you think this is some secret?

Do you think this is something we’re going to keep quiet?

Sarah enters.

Sarah

Dad, Uncle Arthur is in the bathroom again! And I’m

going to The Hole at eight!

She hits Danny on the back of the head.

Danny

Stop it!

Larry

Sarah! What’s going on!

Danny

She keeps doing that!

LATER:

Larry sits in a reclining chair in the living room, head back, listening to Sidor Belarsky on

the hi-fi. From somewhere, a hiss-sucking sound, and the sound of a pencil busily

scratching paper.

We cut to the writing: Uncle Arthur sits scribbling into a spiral notebook, his free hand

holding the end of a length of surgical tubing against the back of his neck. The tube leads

to a water-pik-like appliance on an end table next to him—the source of the sucking

sound.

After listening to the music for a long beat, Larry speaks into space:

Larry

Arthur?

Uncle Arthur does not look up from his scribbling.

Uncle Arthur

Yes.

Larry continues to stare at the ceiling.

Larry

What’re you doing?

Still without looking up:

Uncle Arthur

Working on the Mentaculus.

Long beat. Music. Scribbling.

Larry

. . . Any luck, um, looking for an apartment?

More scribbling.

Uncle Arthur

No.

The doorbell chimes.

Arthur?

Uncle Arthur does not look up from his scribbling.

Uncle Arthur

Yes.

Larry continues to stare at the ceiling.

Larry

What’re you doing?

Still without looking up:

Uncle Arthur

Working on the Mentaculus.

Long beat. Music. Scribbling.

Larry

. . . Any luck, um, looking for an apartment?

More scribbling.

Uncle Arthur

No.

The doorbell chimes.

FRONT DOOR:

Larry enters, glances through the front door’s head-height window, and—freezes, one

hand arrested on its way to the doorknob.

His point-of-view: framed by the window, yellowly lit by the stoop light, a human head.

A middle-aged man, a few years older than Larry. A fleshy face with droopy hangdog

features, a five-o’clock shadow, and sad Harold Bloom eyes.

Larry opens the door.

Larry

Sy.

Sy enters, thrusts out a hand. His voice vibrates with a warm, sad empathy:

Sy

Sy.

Sy enters, thrusts out a hand. His voice vibrates with a warm, sad empathy:

Sy

Good to see you, Larry.

He is a heavy-set man wearing a short-sleeved shirt that his belly tents out in front of

him. In his left hand he holds a bottle of wine.

Larry

(tightly)

I’ll get Judith.

Sy

No, actually Larry, I’m here to see you, if I might.

He shakes his head.

. . . Such a thing. Such a thing.

Larry

Shall we go in the. . .

He is leading him into the kitchen but Sy, oblivious to surroundings, plows on with the

conversation, arresting both men in the narrow space between kitchen sink and stove,

invading Larry’s space.

Sy

You know, Larry—how we handle ourselves, in this

situation—it’s so impawtant.

Larry

Uh-huh.

Sy

Absolutely. Judith told me that she broke the news to you.

She said you were very adult.

Larry

Did she.

Sy

Absolutely. The respect she has for you. Absolutely. The respect she has for you.

Larry

Yes?

Sy

Absolutely. But the children, Larry. The children.

He shakes his head.

. . . The most impawtant.

Larry

Well, I guess. . .

Sy

Of coss. And Judith says they’re handling it so well. A

tribute to you. Do you drink wine? Because this is an

incredible bottle. This is not Mogen David. This is a wine,

Larry. A bawdeaux.

Larry

You know, Sy—

Sy

Open it—let it breathe. Ten minutes. Letting it breathe, so

impawtant.

Larry

Thanks, Sy, but I’m not—

Sy

I insist! No reason for discumfit. I’ll be uncumftable if

you don’t take it. These are signs and tokens, Larry.

Larry

I’m just—I’m not ungrateful, I’m, I just don’t know a lot

about wine and, given our respective, you know—

Sy startles him with an unexpected hug.

Sy

S’okay.

He finishes the hug off with a couple of thumps on the back.

. . . S’okay. Wuhgonnabe fine.

He finishes the hug off with a couple of thumps on the back.

. . . S’okay. Wuhgonnabe fine.

SKEWED ANGLE ON PARKING LOT

We are dutch on a slit of a view through a cracked-open frosted window: the Hebrew

school parking lot.

The last couple of student-filled buses are rolling out of the lot. It is late afternoon.

A reverse shows Danny in a stall, standing on a toilet seat, angling his head to peer out of

a bathroom window opened at the top.

The bathroom outside the stall: Ronnie Nudell leans against a sink waiting, taking a long

draw from a joint.

Danny emerges from the stall. Ronnie Nudell offers the joint:

Ronnie Nudell

Want some of this f***er?

HALLWAY:

The bathroom door cracks open and Danny peeks out.

His point-of-view: the empty hallway ending in a T with another hallway. A janitor

crosses the far perpendicular hall, pushing a broom. He disappears. His echoing

footsteps recede.

Danny and Ronny emerge from the bathroom.

RABBI MARSHAK:

The photo-portrait on the wall of Mar Turchik’s office is lit by late-day sun.

We hear a scraping sound.

Wider:
Ronnie Nudell looks over Danny’s shoulder as Danny, hunched at Mar Turchik’s

desk, jiggles the end of a bent hanger in the keyhole of the top center drawer. The hanger

turns.

desk, jiggles the end of a bent hanger in the keyhole of the top center drawer. The hanger

turns.

The boys open the drawer. In it: squirt guns, marbles set to rolling by the opening of the

drawer, a comic book, a Playboy magazine, a slingshot, a small bundle of firecrackers.

Hands rifle the gewgaws: no radio.

Ronnie Nudell

F***.

SANCTUARY:

We are behind the two boys who sit side-by-side in the last pew of the empty sanctuary,

gazing off. The stained glass windows further weaken anemic late-day light. In

deference to the location, the boys wear yarmulkas.

A long hold on their still backs.

At length, some movement in Danny’s back, his head dips, and we hear him sucking on a

joint. He holds it, exhales, and passes it wordlessly to Ronnie Nudell.

SUBURBAN STREET:

We pull Danny, eyes red-rimmed, walking along the street, still wearing his yarmulka. It

is dusk.

The front door of a house just behind Danny opens. A husky, shaggy-haired youth

emerges on the run.

The sound has alerted Danny. Seeing Mike Fagle, he too runs. He reaches up and grabs

his yarmulka and clutches it in one of his pumping fists.

Pursued and pursuer both run wordlessly, panting, feet pounding.

Mike Fagle is closing. But Danny is already cutting across the Brandt’s front yard,

approaching his own. He plunges into the house and slams the door.

Mike Fagle draws up, panting, gazing hungrily at the house.

PUFFY WHITE CLOUDS

A shockingly blue sky hung with picture-perfect clouds.

The top of an aluminum extension ladder swings in from the bottom of the frame and

comes toward us.

We cut side-on as the ladder clunk against an eave.

It starts vibrating to the rhythmic clung of someone climbing.

Hands enter. Larry’s head enters.

He climbs onto the roof.

He takes a couple of hunched steps in from the edge before cautiously straightening,

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