Big Eyes Page #18

INT. PAINTING ROOM

Margaret races, rushing up to Walter's painted street scene,

hung on the wall. We PUSH IN TIGHT, as she shoves her face up

to the canvas, so close we can see the brushstrokes --

As we MOVE IN TO THE SIGNATURE. Simply, "W. KEANE"

Margaret's face is flushed. She gazes at the name... then

rushes back to her work area. She manically hunts: Brushes,

tubes, rags -- and an EXACTO KNIFE.

Ah! She runs back to Walter's painting. Heart pounding, she

grazes the knife up against the signature, then DIGS.

And -- the "W. KEANE" flecks off. Revealing... underneath...

the name "S. CENIC"

CLOSEUP - MARGARET

She trembles, overcome. Music SWELLS. Her eyes spin back --

SERIES OF QUICK FLASHBACKS:

Walter painting at the Palace of Fine Arts. His canvas is

blank.

Walter in the apartment, signing his name to a finished piece.

Walter spattering paint on his clothes.

Walter the day we met him. He shows off a rack of finished

paintings at the Sunday Art Show.

BACK ON MARGARET

She collapses.

CUT TO:

INT. WOODSIDE HOUSE - THAT EVENING

A grandfather clock says 10:15. Margaret sits gloomily,

staring at the clock. Clutching a drink.

LATER:

2:
30 a.m. Margaret still stares at the clock. She's stewing.

Suddenly, keys in the door. Walter swings in, tanked and full

of life. He skids across the marble, humming to himself --

when -- he's startled by his wife. He jerks.

67.

WALTER:

M-Maggie! What're you doin' up?

Margaret glares. Not speaking. He shrugs.

WALTER:

I had a helluva night. Worked three

or four clubs.

(he winks, loosey-goosey)

Stumbled onto some hot gossip: Madame

Chiang Kai-shek is coming to town!

Straight from Taipei! I think we

should present her with a painting --

get Dick to flack it...

(HE THINKS)

Or the heck with Dick. I met a new

guy at UPI...

MARGARET:

Maybe you should give her one of your

street scenes.

WALTER:

(HAZY)

You think? I dunno -- I thought you

could whip off a doodle of Chinatown.

With a cute little kid, sort of a big-

eyed slanty-eyed thing...

Margaret's anger is raging. She glares, steely.

MARGARET:

No, Walter. She's a dignitary.

Doesn't she deserve a piece that comes

straight from you?

(SHARP)

From your experience???

WALTER:

Yeah? Maybe you're right. She

probably doesn't have a Parisian

street scene hanging in her palace.

Margaret nods, as if they've settled something. She turns to

walk away -- then suddenly SPINS.

MARGARET:

Unless Madame Chiang Kai-shek already

has a Cenic.

ON WALTER:

He freezes up.

Suddenly sober, smacked to reality.

68.

WALTER:

"Cenic"...? Uh, what's that?

Margaret stares, eyes sharp.

MARGARET:

Cenic is the name of the artist who

did all your early paintings.

WALTER:

Huhhh?

(spinning his lie)

Urgh... oh! CENIC!

(he laughs crazily)

Cenic was my nickname in Paris! All

my art school pals loved my scenic

views, so they called me "Scenic"!

But since those Frogs can't pronounce

a hard "e," I became "Cenic."

He looks up at her hopefully.

But she shakes her head.

MARGARET:

The more you lie, the smaller you seem.

WALTER:

(unyielding, scrambling)

How DARE you accuse me of lying! I'm

proud of my early Cenics!

MARGARET:

Then why do you paint over the name?

Walter gasps, floored.

Margaret bores in.

MARGARET:

A bit of advice:
Don't use a water-

base over an oil. It flecks off.

Walter cowers.

WALTER:

You sound crazy! For God's sake.

You've... you've SEEN me paint!!!!

MARGARET:

No, I haven't.

(QUIET; STRONG)

I always thought I had... but it's

some kind of... mirage. From a

distance you look like a painter, but

up close... there's nothing there.

69.

CLOSEUP - WALTER

All life drains from his face. His eyes go glazed. He speaks

mechanically. Tiredly...

WALTER:

I studied art in Paris. I went to

school at the Beaux-Arts. The Grand

Chaumiere. I spent hours in the

Louvre, gazing at the greatness of the

Masters...

MARGARET:

Walter?

He turns. She winces, pained.

MARGARET:

Have you even been to Paris?

Walter blanches. He shakes, broken up.

He looks away, then staggers to a chair. He falls into it.

Trembling. Not able to look her in the eye...

WALTER:

I wanted... I so wanted to be an

artist. But -- it just never turned

out good.

Margaret stares, seething.

Then, without comment, she storms away. She SLAMS the door

shut. BANG!

Walter doesn't move.

CUT TO:

INT. KITCHEN - NEXT MORNING

Margaret makes Jane breakfast, scrambling up eggs.

Jane glances over her shoulder -- and notices Walter in the

living room, asleep on the couch.

An awkward pause. Jane says nothing.

INT. MASTER BEDROOM - LATER

Margaret is making the bed. Straightening the pillows.

In the b.g., Walter silently creeps into view. Shamefully

standing in the doorway. Not speaking...

Margaret knows he's there, but doesn't acknowledge his

presence. Finally, without making eye contact --

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