Ed Wood Page #3

Ed hangs up and YELPS excitedly. He kisses Dolores. She pulls

away.

DOLORES:

Eddie, I don't understand. Why are

you the most qualified director for

the Christine Jorgensen Story?

ED:

(nervous, he lies)

Aw, er, it's just a bunch of hot air.

I had to say something to get in the

door.

CUT TO:

INT. LOW-RENT HALLWAY - DAY

Ed walks jauntily along, wearing a snappy suit. He reaches a

door that says "SCREEN CLASSICS ó George Weiss, President." Ed

fixes his hair, checks his clothes, then enters.

INT. SCREEN CLASSICS ó SAME TIME

It's a crowded root, piled with paperwork and files. Film cans

are stacked everywhere, and framed oneósheets for "TEST TUBE

BABIES," "BLONDE PICKUP" and "GIRL GANG" litter the cracked

walls. Sitting behind the messy desk is GEORGIE WEISS, 60, a

rug merchant turned exploitation film producer. He juggles a

large sandwich and angrily barks into the phone.

GEORGIE (on phone)

Look, when I said you could have the

western territories, I didn't mean

all eleven states! I meant

California, Oregon, and uh, what's

that one above it... Washington. Oh

really?! Well screw you!

Georgie slams down the phone. He smiles warmly at Ed.

GEORGIE:

Can I help you?

ED:

Yes, I'm Ed Wood. I'm here about

directing the Christine Jorgensen

picture.

GEORGIE:

Yeah, well a couple of things have

changed. It ain't gonna be the

Christine Jorgensen story no more.

Goddamn "Variety" printed the story

before I had the rights, and now that

b*tch is asking for the sky.

ED:

(disappointed)

So you're not gonna make the movie?

GEORGIE:

No, of COURSE I'm gonna make the

movie! I've already preósold Alabama

and Oklahoma. Those repressed Okies

really go for that twisted pervert

stuff. So we'll just make it without

that she-male. We'll fictitionalize

it.

Georgie bites into his sandwich. Ed is dazed.

ED:

Is there a script?

GEORGIE:

F*** no! But there's a poster.

Georgie pulls out artwork of a hermaphrodite: Man on the left

side, woman on the right. The lettering screams, "I CHANGED MY

SEX!"

GEORGIE:

It opens in nine weeks in Tulsa.

ED:

(mustering up his courage)

Well, Mr. Weiss, I'm your guy. I

work fast, and I'm a deal: I write

AND direct. And I'm good. I just

did a play in Hollywood, and Victor

Crowley praised its realism.

GEORGIE:

Hmm. There's five-hundred guys in

town who can tell me the same thing.

You said on the phone you had some

kind of "special qualifications."

Ed takes a measured piuse. This is his big revelation.

ED:

Well, Mr. Weiss, I've never told

anyone what I'm about to tell you...

but I really want this job.

(he gulps)

I like to dress in women's clothing.

GEORGIE:

Are you a fruit?

ED:

No, no, not at all! I love women.

Wearing their clothes makes me feel

closer to them.

GEORGIE:

So you're not a fruit?

ED:

Nah, I'm all man. I even fought in

WW2.

(beat)

'Course, I was wearing ladies'

undergarments under my uniform.

GEORGIE:

You gotta be kiddin' me.

ED:

Confidentially, I even paratrooped

wearing a brassiere and panties.

I'll tell ya, I wasn't scared of

being killed, but I was terrified of

getting wounded, and having the

medics discover my secret.

Georgie sits back. It's a hell of a story.

GEORGIE:

And this is why you think you're the

most qualified to make my movie?

ED:

Yeah. I know what it's like to live

with a secret, and worry about what

people are gonna think of you... My

girlfriend still doesn't know why her

sweaters are always stretched out.

Georgie shrugs.

GEORGIE:

Ed, you seem like a nice kid, but

look around you...

(he gestures at the posters)

I don't hire directors with burning

desires to tell their stories. I

make movies like "Chained Girls."

I need someone with experience who

can shoot a film in four days that'll

make me a profit.

(beat)

I'm sorry. That's all that matters.

CUT TO:

INT. BAR ó DAY

Ed sits morosely in a scuzzy bar, three empty shot glasses in

front of him. A BARTENDER ambles over.

BARTENDER:

Are you gonna get something else?

Ed glumly empties his pocket. All he has is change. Ed sighs,

and staggers out.

EXT. HOLLYWOOD BOULEVARD - DAY

Ed shuffles down the street, his head hanging low. A

restaurant door opens, and an EISENHOWER ERA NUCLEAR FAMILY

exits. Whitebread Dad, Mom, Son, and Daughter stride out in

their starched clean clothes.

They march obliviously past Ed. He watches them go, then

continues. Ed reaches a building, "HOLLYWOOD MORTUARY," and

glances in the window. A pause, then he does a doubletake.

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