Hail, Caesar! Page #17

It is Burt Gurney.

He finishes patting his mouth, tosses the napkin onto the

table. His face, so boyish when performing, is now a hard

mask.

He stoops to pick up the attach. case. A brief look around

the restaurant, and he heads off.

Hobie hastily shuffles himself out of his booth:

HOBIE (CONT’D)

Ah gotta skedaddle. So sorry!

(to Carlotta)

Have to catch one a yer pictures

next time——lookin’ ford to it!

EXT. BROWN DERBY - NIGHT

Hobie exits the club just in time to see the passing-by

vehicle of Burt Gurney.

Hobie hurries to his car and driver waiting curbside.

HOBIE:

Toss me them keys, pard——I'm takin'

the car!

INT. EDDIE’S OFFICE

Wide on Eddie behind his desk, half-in, half-out of a pool of

desktop lamplight. He sits hunched, forearms on knees.

An insert:
on the desk is a letter, its copy too small to

read. But we see its letterhead: Lockheed.

Back to Eddie, but our angle now swung around so that the

desk does not hide his lower body.

98.

The hands draped across his knees hold a rosary.

EXT. HOLLYWOOD / INT. HOBIE’S CAR - NIGHT

BLEARY MONTAGE:

Lots of neon:
“The Garden of Allah,” restaurants, clubs,

chase lights around movie-theater marquees. Dissolving in and

out under the Hollywood Boulevard imagery is the same set-up

of Hobie driving, squinting, eyes fixed on tail lights in

front of him.

Also dissolving in and out:

EXT. H.C. SETS - NIGHT

EDDIE MANNIX WALKING

Not his purposeful daytime stride but a contemplative stroll,

his hands clasped Churchillianly behind his back. He passes

through the half-struck columns of the temple of the moneylenders;

through the courtyard of Sestimus Amydias, its

fountain now giving only spare, echoing drips; and finally

through a set we have not yet seen: the road to Calvary, its

long line of crucifixes looming empty.

The montage which connects the two men ends with a dissolve

full up on Hobie, still driving, but no more city lights

reflected in his windshield. We are out, remote.

EXT. PCH - NIGHT

His point-of-view: tail lights of the car well ahead——the

only car in sight. Its headlights briefly show us the “Rudy’s

Fish Shack” sign on the right. The car turns left.

Hobie slows as he approaches the turn.

EXT. MALIBU HOUSE - NIGHT

HIGH FROM BLUFF:

The octahedral house glows below. Burt’s car is parked.

Hobie’s car eases up.

INSIDE - NIGHT

For the first time the house has no interior noise, no

yapping dog. We hear only the muffled pounding of surf.

99.

The front door clicks, and creaks open.

Hobie enters cautiously, looking around at the quiet as he

walks toward the lens to stop in close shot, gaping now,

surprised at what he sees.

Reverse on the living room. Baird Whitlock is alone, a small

figure in the big room, still in Roman wardrobe, a copy of

Soviet Life open on his lap, martini glass in hand. He gapes

at Hobie in mirroring surprise.

Finally:

BAIRD:

Hobie Doyle? You’re a Communist

too?

Hobie looks around, looks back at Baird.

A beat.

HOBIE:

So it’s Commies.

BAIRD:

Y’ever been in this place? Pretty

nice, huh? Just found out it’s Burt

Gurney’s!

Hobie is not really interested. He looks around a bit more,

trying to make sense of it all.

HOBIE:

You here alone?

BAIRD:

Everyone else went down to the

beach.

HOBIE:

Well, all right pard: let’s us head

on back to town. You got Mr. Mannix

worried sick.

EXT. PACIFIC OCEAN - NIGHT

The Communist writers man both sides of a longboat, gloves

on, pulling hard at the oars.

Burt Gurney stands in the prow gazing forward, rather like

George Washington crossing the Delaware but with a yapping

dog in the crook of one arm.

100.

Now his look turns to one side.

His point-of-view: his beach house is coming into view from

behind one of a pair of jagged rocks between us and shore.

BURT:

Easy...

The writers row more slowly as the house centers up between

the rocks.

BURT (CONT’D)

Here!

The writers back-paddle to stop the boat. It settles so as to

show the house perfectly centered between the two snagglerocks.

Satisfied with the boat’s position, Burt Gurney looks about:

the vast and empty sea.

He looks at his watch: midnight.

A writer occasionally dips an oar for a short front- or back

stroke, keeping the boat in position. The boat dips and bobs,

water slapping on wood. An occasional yap from the dog.

Long beat.

A huge roar. Seething water. Ocean surface just by the

longboat roils mightily——and is breached.

A huge black column rises, rises, rises from the sea.

The writers give voice to an awed “Oh...”

The column stops rising.

The roaring of great engines, and the angry hiss of water

streaming from the column, subsides to... near-silence. Just

the gentle chug of idling engines and the faint bleep. bleep.

bleep. of sonar.

Waves slosh feebly against the imposing black column: the

conning tower of a submarine.

The metallic screek-screek-screek of a hatch being opened.

The sound moves the dog to more yapping.

Burt Gurney hands the dog to one of the forward writers.

BURT (CONT’D)

Take care of him.

101.

He leaps from the longboat to the sub, grabbing brackets set

in a vertical line up its side: a ladder. Before he can

climb, though, writers’ voices exclaim “Tell him!” “Give it

to him!” “Give the speech!”

HERMAN’S VOICE

Comrade!

Burt turns, twisting from the ladder to look back a the

longboat.

Herman rises in front. A ripple of motion goes through the

writers behind him: something is being passed forward.

HERMAN:

Comrade:
we salute you! You are

going to Moscow to become Soviet

Man and help forge the future. We

stay behind, continuing to serve in

our disguise as capitalist

handmaidens.

Looks around, uncertain, and gets encouraging nods from the

other writers.

HERMAN (CONT’D)

But the money should go to the

cause, not to the servants of the

cause.

A chorus of ‘hear, hear’s from the writers as he gropes for a

finish.

HERMAN (CONT’D)

We——well, we...

The passed-forward object arrives at the man immediately

behind Herman who now gives Herman a nudge. He turns to take

the object, and turns back holding it out toward Burt.

It is the attach. case cinched by black belt.

HERMAN (CONT’D)

Our modest contribution to the

Comintern.

He tosses it, and Burt, with one hand anchoring him to the

ladder, one-handedly catches. He looks at the case, nodding

deep appreciation for what it represents.

He looks up.

BURT:

They will be pleased.

102.

The dog, whining and writhing in discontent in the arms of

the writer in charge of him, finally breaks free and leaps

yapping toward his master.

Burt reflexively drops the case to grab the arriving dog.

The case hits the water and dipsy-doodles down, down, down

into murkiness.

The writers give a unison dismayed “Oh...”

Burt Gurney, angled out from the ladder, gazes down at the

spot where the case is disappearing. A long looking beat.

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