Apt Pupil

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FADE IN:

Through the window of a moving vehicle, we see a series of

small, middle-class houses. This could be any suburban street

in America.

INT. CITY BUS - DAY

A boy is seated near the back of a moving bus. This is TODD

BOWDEN, 15, as All-American as they come. He stares out at the

other passengers indifferently. Then something catches his eye.

EXT. RESIDENTIAL STREET - SANTO DONATO - DAY

TITLE:
SANTO DONATO, CA FEBRUARY 1984

Todd pedals his bike down a quiet street and pulls up to an

unassuming bungalow set far back on its lot. This is the kind

of house one would hardly notice driving through the peaceful

suburban community of Santo Donato. Todd gets off his bike and

heads up the front steps. On the way, he bends down to pick up

the L.A. Times.

Two signs, in laminated plastic, are secured neatly above the

door bell. The first reads: "ARTHUR DENKER". The second reads:

"NO SOLICITORS, NO PEDDLERS, NO SALESMEN".

Todd RINGS the bell. Nothing. He looks at his watch. It is

twelve past ten. He RINGS again, this time longer. Still

nothing. Finally, Todd leans on the tiny button, staring at his

watch as he does so. After more than a minute of SOLID RINGING,

a voice is heard from within.

DUSSANDER (O.S.)

All right. All right. I'm coming. Let it

go!

Todd lets go as a chain behind the heavy door starts to rattle.

Then it opens. An old man stands behind the screen. He is KURT

DUSSANDER, a.k.a. Arthur Denker. Mid-seventies. Standing there

in his bathrobe and slippers, a cigarette smashed in his mouth,

he looks like a cross between Boris Karloff and Albert Einstein.

Dussander stares at Todd, who tries to speak, but suddenly

cannot.

DUSSANDER:

(continuing)

A boy. I don't need anything, boy. Can't

you read? I thought all American boys could

read. Don't be a nuisance, now. Good day.

The door begins to close. Todd waits till the last moment

before speaking.

TODD:

Don't forget your paper, Mr. Dussander.

The door stops. Dussander opens it slowly. He unlatches the

screen and slips his fingers around the paper. Todd does not

let go.

DUSSANDER:

Give me my newspaper.

TODD:

Sure thing, Mr. Dussander.

Dussander snatches the paper away and closes the screen door.

Quickly, almost imperceptibly, the old man's eyes survey the

area:
across the street, up and down the sidewalk, the boy's

bicycle.

DUSSANDER:

My name is Denker. See?

(pointing)

Denker. Perhaps you cannot read after all.

What a pity. Good day.

As the front door closes, Todd speaks rapidly into the narrowing gap.

TODD:

Bergen-Belsen, January '43 to June '43.

Auschwitz, June '43 to June '44. Then you

went to Patin.

The door stops, still partly open.

TODD (CONT'D)

After the war, you escaped to Buenos Aires.

From 1950 to '52 you were in Cuba, and

then... From 1952 to '58... I don't know. No

one does. But in 1965, you popped up in West

Berlin, where they almost got you.

The door opens wider.

DUSSANDER:

Listen, boy. I don't know what is the matter

with you. But I don't have time for this

game. Now, get out of here before I call the

police.

TODD:

Call them if you want.

DUSSANDER:

Fine.

The heavy door slams shut.

TODD:

It's okay by me Herr Kommandant. I'm sure

the police would love to meet the "Blood-

fiend of Patin."

In a flash the front door is open, so is the screen. Dussander

is through the doorway and descending upon Todd with the rolled

umbrella raised to strike him. Todd stumbles back against the

porch rail.

DUSSANDER:

You get away from this house, God damn you!

I'll beat you all the way home.

But Todd regains his composure quickly. He brushes himself off

and levels his eyes at the old man who now hardly seems the

threat he was a few seconds ago.

TODD:

After 1965, no one saw you again... Until I

did. Three weeks ago on the downtown bus. If

you want to call the cops, go right ahead.

I'II wait on the steps.

DUSSANDER:

You'll do no such thing.

TODD:

I won't? Listen, old man, if I want to start

screaming right here, I will. If I want to

ride down to the police station and bring the

cops back myself, then I will. I will do

what ever I want. Do you understand?

(pause)

But if you like, I could come in for a

minute. We could talk.

Pause.

DUSSANDER:

I'd be out of my mind to let an insane boy

like you into my home.

Pause.

DUSSANDER (CONT'D)

Is that what you want, to come into my home?

So be it. There is no arguing with crazy

people.

Dussander turns and steps back through the screen door. He

stops at the threshold of the house and turns. He is holding

the screen door open with one leg, the front door open with the

other. He looks straight ahead. A moment later, Todd steps

into the house.

INT. DUSSANDER'S HOUSE - DAY

Dussander's home is what you would expect of a single, poor, old

man. Nothing fancy, nothing out of the ordinary. Todd looks

around, perhaps half-expecting to find a Nazi flag or an oil

painting of Der Fuehrer hanging above the mantle. But he

doesn't, and moves into the living room where an old picture of

a woman sits framed on an end table.

DUSSANDER:

My wife. She died in 1955 of lung disease.

At that time I was working at the Menschler

Motor Works in Essen. I was heartbroken.

Todd's attention drifts away and his fingers slip over to a

lampshade next to the photograph. He begins to feel it as

though he were inspecting it for something.

DUSSANDER (CONT'D)

Stop that!

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