Meet John Doe

FADE IN:

EXT. BULLETIN OFFICE - SIDEWALK

CLOSE-UP:
Of a time-worn plaque against the side of a

building. It reads:

THE BULLETIN:

"A free press for a free people."

While we read this, a pair of hands come in holding

pneumatic chisel which immediately attacks the sign. As

the lettering is being obliterated,

DISSOLVE TO:

CLOSE-UP:
A new plaque on which the lettering has been

changed to:
THE NEW BULLETIN "A streamlined newspaper for

a streamlined era."

CUT TO:

INT. BULLETIN OUTER OFFICE.

MED. SHOT:
At a door at which a sign-painter works. He is

painting HENRY CONNELL's name on the door. It opens and a

flip office boy emerges. The painter has to wait until the

door closes in order to resume his work.

FULL SHOT:
Of the outer office. The activity of the office

seems to suddenly cease, as all eyes are centered on the

office boy.

MED. SHOT—PANNING: With the office boy—who has a small

sheet of paper in his hand. He walks jauntily to a desk,

refers to his paper, points his finger to a woman, emits a

short whistle through his teeth, runs a finger across his

throat and jerks his thumb toward managing editor's office.

The woman stares starkly at him while her immediate

neighbors look on with sympathy. The office boy now goes

through the same procedure with several other people. All

watch him, terror written in their eyes.

MED. SHOT:
Toward CONNELL's office door where painter works.

It opens and three people emerge. Two men and a girl. The

girl is young and pretty. All three look dourful. The

painter again has to wait for the door to shut before

resuming his work. The two men exit. The girl suddenly

stops.

CLOSE SHOT:
Of the girl. Her name is ANN MITCHELL. She

stands, thinking, and then suddenly, impulsively, wheels

around. CAMERA PANS with her as she returns to CONNELL's

office door, flings it open and disappears. The painter

remains poised with his brush, waiting for the door to

swing back. There is a slight flash of resentment in his

eyes.

INT. CONNELL'S OFFICE

FULL SHOT:
CONNELL is behind his desk on which is a tray

of sandwiches and a glass of milk, half gone. Near him

sits POP DWYER, another veteran newspaperman. ANN crosses

to CONNELL's desk.

CONNELL:

(on phone)

Yeh, D. B. Oh, just cleaning out

the dead-wood. Okay.

ANN:

(supplicatingly)

Look, Mr. Connell . . . I just

can't afford to be without work

right now, not even for a day.

I've got a mother and two kid

sisters to . . .

Secretary enters. (Her name is Mattie.)

SECRETARY:

More good luck telegrams.

ANN:

Well, you know how it is, I, I've

just got to keep working. See?

CONNELL:

Sorry, sister. I was sent down

here to clean house. I told yuh I

can't use your column any more.

It's lavender and old lace!

(flicks dictograph

button)

MATTIE:

(over dictograph)

Yeah?

CONNELL:

Send those other people in.

MATTIE:

(over dictograph)

Okay.

ANN:

I'll tell you what I'll do. I get

thirty dollars a week. I'll take

twenty-five, twenty if necessary.

I'll do anything you say.

CONNELL:

It isn't the money. We're after

circulation. What we need is

fireworks. People who can hit with

sledge hammers—start arguments.

ANN:

Oh, I can do that. I know this

town inside out. Oh, give me a

chance, please.

She can get no further, for several people enter. They are

cowed and frightened. ANN hesitates a moment, then, there

being nothing for her to do, she starts to exit. She is

stopped by CONNELL's voice.

CONNELL:

All right, come in, come in! Come

in!

(to Ann)

Cashier's got your check.

(back to others)

Who are these people? Gibbs,

Frowley, Cunningham, Jiles—

(to Ann at door)

Hey, you, sister!

Ann turns.

CONNELL:

Don't forget to get out your last

column before you pick up your

check!

ANN's eyes flash angrily as she exits.

INT. OUTER OFFICE.

MED. SHOT:
ANN storms out. The painter again has to wait

for the door to swing back to him.

INT. ANN'S OFFICE.

FULL SHOT:
ANN enters her office and paces around, furious.

A man in alpaca sleeve-bands enters. His name is JOE.

JOE:

You're a couple o' sticks shy in

your column, Ann.

ANN:

(ignores him,

muttering . . .)

A big, rich slob like D. B. Norton

buys a paper—and forty heads are

chopped off!

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