Mr. Smith Goes To Washington

The CAPITOL DOME at Washington fades in. It is night, and

the dome is flooded in light.

This view dissolves to the exterior of a Newspaper Office

WINDOW, seen at night. The letters on the window, illuminated

by a street light, are picked out with increasing

distinctness. They read: WASHINGTON POST-DISPATCH. This

dissolves into the NIGHT CITY EDITOR'S OFFICE, where a

lethargic, eyeshaded man behind a desk reaches for the

telephone which is ringing.

EDITOR:

(mechanically)

Desk--

(Then, perking up)

What?

Inside a PHONE BOOTH in a Hospital Corridor, where a nurse

seated at the corridor desk is visible through the glass

doors of the booth, a man is telephoning:

REPORTER:

Senator Samuel Foley--dead. Died a

minute ago--here at St. Vincent's.

At the bedside was state political

sidekick, Senator Joseph Paine--

And we see the HOSPITAL OFFICE where Senator Joseph Paine, a

trim, rather dignified man of fifty-eight, occupying the

desk of the nurse who stands by, is talking rapidly and

agitatedly into a phone.

PAINE:

(into the phone)

Long distance? Senator Joseph Paine

speaking. I want the Governor's

residence at Jackson City--Governor

Hubert Hopper. Hurry--

The scene dissolves into a skimming view of TELEPHONE WIRES

strung over a vast distance--and then into the BEDROOM of

Governor and Mrs. Hopper, where the Governor and his wife

are found in their twin beds, the room darkened. The buzzer

is sounding. Mrs. Emma Hopper, wife of the Governor, sits

bolt upright in the dark.

EMMA:

(a shrew)

I knew it! I knew a night's rest

wasn't possible in this house!

(As the buzzer is

heard again)

Hubert!

HUBERT:

(waking with a start,

bewildered)

Wha--? Yes, sweetheart-- Wha--?

EMMA:

That infernal phone!

HUBERT:

Yes, yes--phone, phone--

(Fumbling for the

light)

A--an outrage, pet--an outrage--I'll

look into this--

(Seizing the phone)

Hello--Joe!--What!--No! Not really!

Terrible!

EMMA:

What is it?

In the HOSPITAL ROOM, we see Paine on the phone.

PAINE:

It couldn't have come at a worse

time. Call Jim Taylor. Tell him I'm

taking a plane tonight for home.

In GOVERNOR HOPPER'S BEDROOM:

HUBERT:

(on the phone)

Yes, Joe, yes--right away.

(He hangs up--then

lifts the receiver

again and begins to

dial)

EMMA:

What is it?

HUBERT:

Sam Foley--dead!

EMMA:

Great saints!

HUBERT:

Of all the times! Of all the times!

Two months to the end of his term--

and Foley has to go and die on us--

EMMA:

Whom are you calling--in the dead of

night?

HUBERT:

Taylor, my dear.

EMMA:

Can't that wait, Hubert?

HUBERT:

No, no--believe me, pet--this is

*most* urgent--

(Into the phone)

Hello, hello. Is Taylor there?--

Governor Hopper. Quickly, please--

EMMA:

This isn't a home, it's the crossroads

of the world!

HUBERT:

Now, now, Emma, dear--you mustn't

forget we have been chosen by the

people of this commonwealth to--

EMMA:

(sharply)

Save that for the laying of

cornerstones, Hubert!

(Groaning)

Oh, that morning you looked in the

mirror and saw a statesman!

HUBERT:

Now, pet--

(Then, excitedly into

the phone)

Jim!

In political boss TAYLOR'S ROOM, we see JIM TAYLOR, a hard-

bitten, taciturn, impressive man in his fifties. At the

moment, he stands at a phone, in vest and rolled up sleeves,

a cigar between his fingers. Behind him, in a smoke-filled

room, man are seated at a card table from which Taylor

evidently has just risen.

TAYLOR:

What's up, Happy?

In HOPPER'S BEDROOM:

HUBERT:

Sam Foley--died tonight in Washington.

Joe just called. Can you imagine

anything more--?

In TAYLOR'S ROOM:

TAYLOR:

Died, huh? Well, take it easy, Happy.

Is Paine coming?--Good. Keep your

shirt on--and your mouth shut. No

statements.

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