Misery

FADE IN ON:

A SINGLE CIGARETTE. A MATCH. A HOTEL ICE BUCKET that holds a

bottle of champagne. The cigarette is unlit. The match is of the

kitchen variety. The champagne, unopened, is Dom Perignon. There

is only one sound at first: a strong WIND --

-- now another sound, sharper -- a sudden burst of TYPING as we

PULL BACK TO REVEAL

PAUL SHELDON typing at a table in his hotel suite. It's really a

cabin that's part of a lodge. Not an ornate place. Western themed.

He is framed by a window looking out at some gorgeous mountains.

It's afternoon. The sky is grey. Snow is scattered along the

ground. We're out west somewhere. The WIND grows stronger -- there

could be a storm.

PAUL pays no attention to what's going on outside as he continues

to type.

He's the hero of what follows. Forty-two, he's got a good face,

one with a certain mileage to it. We are not, in other words,

looking at a virgin. He's been a novelist for eighteen years and

for half that time, the most recent half, a remarkably successful

one.

He pauses for a moment, intently, as if trying to stare a hole in

the paper. Now his fingers fly, and there's another burst of

TYPING. He studies what he's written, then --

CUT TO:

THE PAPER, as he rolls it out of the machine, puts it on the

table, prints, in almost childlike letters, these words:

THE END:

CUT TO:

A PILE OF MANUSCRIPT at the rear of the table. He puts this last

page on, gets it straight and in order, hoists it up, folds it to

his chest, the entire manuscript -- hundreds of pages.

CUT TO:

PAUL, as he holds his book to him. He is, just for a brief moment,

moved.

CUT TO:

A SUITCASE across the room. PAUL goes to it, opens it and pulls

something out from inside: a battered leather briefcase. Now he

takes his manuscript, carefully opens the briefcase, gently puts

the manuscript inside. He closes it, and the way he handles it, he

might almost be handling a child. Now he crosses over, opens the

champagne, pours himself a single glass, lights the one cigarette

with the lone match -- there is a distinct feeling of ritual about

this. He inhales deeply, makes a toasting gesture, then drinks,

smokes, smiles.

HOLD BRIEFLY, then --

CUT TO:

LODGE - DAY

PAUL -- exiting his cabin. He stops, makes a snowball, throws it,

hitting a sign.

PAUL:

Still got it.

He throws a suitcase into the trunk of his '65 MUSTANG and,

holding his leather case, he hops into the car and drives away.

CUT TO:

A SIGN that reads "Silver Creek Lodge." Behind the sign is the

hotel itself -- old, desolate. Now the '65 Mustang comes out of

the garage, guns ahead toward the sign. As "Shotgun" by Jr. Walker

and the Allstars starts, he heads off into the mountains.

CUT TO:

THE SKY. Gun-metal grey. The clouds seem pregnant with snow.

CUT TO:

PAUL, driving the Mustang, the battered briefcase on the seat

beside him.

CUT TO:

THE ROAD AHEAD. Little dainty flakes of snow are suddenly visible.

CUT TO:

THE CAR, going into a curve and

CUT TO:

PAUL, driving, and as he comes out of the curve, a stunned look

hits his face as we

CUT TO:

THE ROAD AHEAD -- and here it comes -- a mountain storm; it's as

if the top has been pulled off the sky and with no warning

whatsoever, we're into a blizzard and

CUT TO:

THE MUSTANG, slowing, driving deeper into the mountains.

CUT TO:

PAUL, squinting ahead, windshield wipers on now.

CUT TO:

THE MUSTANG, rounding another curve, losing traction --

CUT TO:

PAUL, a skilled driver, bringing the car easily under control.

CUT TO:

THE ROAD. Snow is piling up.

CUT TO:

PAUL driving confidently, carefully. Now he reaches out, ejects

the tape, expertly turns it over, pushes it in and, as the MUSIC

continues, he hums along with it.

CUT TO:

THE SKY. Only you can't see it.

There's nothing to see but the unending snow, nothing to hear but

the wind which keeps getting wilder.

CUT TO:

THE ROAD. Inches of snow on the ground now. This is desolate and

dangerous.

CUT TO:

PAUL, driving.

CUT TO:

THE SNOW. Worse.

CUT TO:

THE ROAD, curving sharply, dropping. A sign reads: "Curved Road,

Next 13 Miles."

CUT TO:

THE MUSTANG, coming into view, hitting the curve -- no problem --

no problem at all -- and then suddenly, there is a very serious

problem and as the car skids out of control --

CUT TO:

PAUL, doing his best, fighting the conditions and just as it looks

like he's got things going his way --

CUT TO:

THE ROAD, swerving down and

CUT TO:

THE MUSTANG, all traction gone and

CUT TO:

PAUL, helpless and

CUT TO:

THE MUSTANG, skidding, skidding and

CUT TO:

THE ROAD as it drops more steeply away and the wind whips the snow

across and

CUT TO:

THE MUSTANG starting to spin and

CUT TO:

THE MOUNTAINSIDE as the car skids off the road, careens down,

slams into a tree, bounces off, flips, lands upside down, skids,

stops finally, dead.

HOLD ON THE CAR A MOMENT.

There is still the sound of the WIND, and there is still the music

coming from the tape, perhaps the only part of the car left

undamaged. Nothing moves inside. There is only the WIND and the

TAPE. The wind gets louder.

CUT TO:

THE WRECK looked at from a distance. The MUSIC sounds are only

faintly heard.

CUT TO:

THE AREA WHERE THE WRECK IS -- AS SEEN FROM THE ROAD. The car is

barely visible as the snow begins to cover it.

CUT TO:

THE WRECK from outside, and we're close to it now, with the snow

coming down ever harder -- already bits of the car are covered in

white.

CAMERA MOVES IN TO

PAUL. He's inside and doing his best to fight is, but his

consciousness is going. He tries to keep his eyes open but they're

slits.

Slowly, he manages to reach out with his left arm for his

briefcase --

-- and he clutches it to his battered body. The MUSIC continues

on.

But PAUL is far from listening. His eyes flutter, flutter again.

Now they're starting to close.

The man is dying.

Motionless, he still clutches the battered briefcase.

HOLD ON THE CASE. Then --

DISSOLVE TO:

The BRIEFCASE in Paul's hands as he sits at a desk.

SINDELL (o-s)

What's that?

PULL BACK TO REVEAL

We are in New York City in the office of Paul's literary agent,

MARCIA SINDELL. The walls of the large room are absolutely crammed

with book and movie posters, in English and all other kinds of

other languages, all of them featuring the character of MISERY

CHASTAIN, a perfectly beautiful woman. Misery's Challenge,

Misery's Triumph -- eight of them. All written by Paul Sheldon.

CUT TO:

PAUL, lifting up the battered briefcase -- maybe when new it cost

two bucks, but he treats it like gold.

PAUL:

An old friend. I was rummaging through

a closet and it was just sitting there.

Like it was waiting for me.

CUT TO:

SINDELL:

(searching for a compliment)

It's ... it's nice, Paul. It's got...

character.

CUT TO:

THE TWO OF THEM.

PAUL:

When I wrote my first book, I used to

carry it around in this while I was

looking for a publisher. That was a

good book, Marcia. I was a writer

then.

SINDELL:

You're still a writer.

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