Hotel Rwanda

FADE IN:

SCREEN TYPE:
THIS IS A TRUE STORY

EXT. KIGALI AIRPORT. DAY

A burning white sun high in a clear blue sky,

PAN DOWN TO:

A rundown (sixties) airport, peeling in the heat.

A mad traffic jam of cars, vans, motorbikes all stopped at a checkpoint

where a RWANDAN POLICEMAN blows his whistle, waves some and stops

others as bored Rwandan soldiers look on.

CLOSE ON:
A white van pulls out of traffic, a balls-out case of line

jumping. HORNS, OBSCENITIES.

A HAND:
Extends from the passenger side of the van, Rwandan francs

pressed neatly between thumb and palm.

The van stops next to the policeman.

POLICEMAN:

Mr. Rusesabagina, good morning.

In the passenger seat PAUL RUSESABAGINA, late 30's, flashes a smile. He

is dressed in a sharp blue suit (always dressed in a neat suit and tie,

it is a matter of pride).

A quick shake of hands. Money passes from one to the other.

EXT. KIGALI AIRPORT TARMAC. DAY

The van parked by the runway tarmac. African music plays on the radio.

Paul drums his fingers, checks his watch.

ZOZO, porter/driver, early thirties, sits nervously.

An airport baggage handler approaches the van.

HANDLER:

Sir, the flight is delayed one more hour.

PAUL:

Thank you.

(to Zozo)

We can get the beer.

ZOZO:

(suddenly worried)

Rutaganda's place?

PAUL:

What's wrong?

ZOZO:

Beg your pardon sir, you are Hutu. You

are safe there.

PAUL:

You are with me, Zozo, don't worry.

Zozo throws the van into gear and speeds off.

EXT. KIGALI STREETS. DAY

The white van, marked "THE HOTEL MILLE COLLINES," whips its way through

Kigali's packed streets and open-air markets.

EXT. KIGALI STREETS. DAY

Zozo works THE HORN, weaves in and out of traffic.

ZOZO:

What is it like to fly on a plane, sir?

PAUL:

It depends where you sit Zozo. In coach

it is like the bus to Giterama.

ZOZO:

That is why they call it coach?

PAUL:

Maybe. But in business class there are

fine wines, linens, Belgian chocolates.

ZOZO:

(impressed)

You have taken business class?

PAUL:

Many times.

Suddenly, Zozo slows.

Paul looks up, SEES: a gathering on the side of the road -- a large

crowd of men dressed in exotically, yet identically colored shirts.

They're members of the INTERAHAMWE - the Hutu Militia.

(Interahamwe - the Hutu Militia will de distinguished by these wildly

colored shirts) They chant, drink beer, dance onto the road,

obstructing cars, threatening the occupants. Several of them perform a

rhythmic dance - the INTERAHAMWE war dance to thumping drumbeat music

from a boombox.

PAUL (CONT'D)

Turn off.

Zozo, scared, looks for a side road, studies the traffic behind.

ZOZO:

There is nowhere to turn, sir.

As the van approaches,

PAUL:

Slow down.

The van pulls up beside the Militia.

PAUL (CONT'D)

Boys, do you know the way to Mr.

Rutagunda's warehouse?

Some Militia approach. They are suddenly friendly, helpful.

MILITIA MAN #1

It is one more mile on this road.

Paul reaches into his pocket, takes out some Rwandan dollars.

PAUL:

This is thirsty work, let me treat you to

some beers.

As the van pulls away Zozo looks to Paul, relieved.

INT. RUTAGANDA'S WAREHOUSE. DAY

At his desk in front of a fan. GEORGE RUTAGUNDA, late 30's, huge, gold

chains, Rolex watch, (like an African Mafia boss) but the same

Interahamwe shirt. He squeezes an orange rind into a cup of espresso.

Behind him, through his office window, the white van is being loaded

with cases of beer.

George holds out his massive shirt.

GEORGE:

You will join us at the rally today?

Paul sits opposite, sipping coffee.

PAUL:

I will try my best George but these days

I have no time for rallies or politics.

GEORGE:

Politics is power, Paul. And money.

Paul studies his watch.

PAUL:

Time is money, George. We need extra beer

today.

GEORGE:

Business is good at the hotel?

PAUL:

Very good.

GEORGE:

I am always glad to see you Paul.

George leads Paul out into the warehouse.

As a forklift lifts A WOODEN CRATE, George angers.

GEORGE (CONT'D)

Hell man, that is not beer, put it back!

DRIVER:

But, sir, the Carlsberg is behind...

GEORGE:

Forget the Carlsberg, give him Grolsch.

(to Paul)

I won't charge extra.

PAUL:

Thank you.

The driver of the forklift, anxiously, spins the machine to return the

crate but it slides off and CRASHES onto the floor: MACHETES, hundreds

of them, spill out.

An awkward moment then George picks one of the crude blades.

GEORGE:

A bargain buy, from China. Ten cents

each, I'll get a dollar.

PAUL:

At least.

Off Zozo terrified.

EXT. KIGALI AIRPORT TARMAC. DAY

A Sabena airliner lands. Passengers disembark via a roll-up staircase.

Paul's van pulls up by the luggage belt.

A large polystyrene box comes down the conveyor belt. It has Brussels -

Kigali destination stickers all over it.

As Zozo picks it up, water sloshes from the lid.

PAUL:

The ice has melted!

Zozo goes to open it.

PAUL (CONT'D)

Don't. Let's go.

Paul slips money to two customs officials.

EXT. KIGALI STREETS. DAY

The van speeds through traffic. More traffic jams, Zozo edges up on the

sidewalk. Then at an intersection they see.

THE INTERAHAMWE PARADE - a mass of young men and women, most in the

same colorful uniform. Line after line, waves all performing the

INTERAHAMWE war dance, in wild hypnotic sync, many wave sticks, spears,

wooden imitation guns. A large banner reads, "Hutu Power."

A flatbed truck, speakers blare drumbeat music. On it GEORGE RUTAGUNDA

dances the DANCE and waves a machete to the crowd.

Zozo sinks down behind the wheel.

PAUL:

Sit up, smile, Zozo, don't attract

attention to yourself.

Rate this script:2.0 / 2 votes