Rear Window Page #5

EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT

The salesman looks toward the bedroom door, hesitates, then

reluctantly walks toward it. For a moment he is hidden by

the wall.

INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - CLOSEUP

Jeff shifts his look more to the right.

EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT

The man enters the bedroom. We can see a woman lying on the

far bed. Near her, a small table is covered with medicine

bottles, spoons, boxes of pills, a water pitcher and the

other impedimenta of the chronically ill. The woman sits up

as the man enters. She takes a wet cloth off her forehead.

Before the man even reaches her, she begins talking, somewhat

vigorously. Pointing to a wristwatch, she seems to be saying

something such as "You should have been home two hours ago!

I could be lying here dying for all you'd know -- or care!"

The man stops short of the bed, makes gestures of trying to

placate her, but she goes on scolding. His attitude changes

to weary patience, then irritation, then anger.

He shouts back at her, turns and goes out of the room.

Back in the living room, he picks up his hat, throws it

against the wall in anger, and leaves the apartment, slamming

the door behind him.

INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT

Jeff's attention is suddenly diverted to himself. His leg,

under the cast, begins itching. He squirms, tries to move

the leg a little. It gives no relief. He scratches the outside

of the cast, but the itch gets worse. He reaches for a long,

Chinese back scratcher lying on the windowsill. Carefully,

and with considerable ingenuity, he works it under the cast.

He scratches, and a look of sublime relief comes over his

face. Satisfied, he takes the scratcher out. As he replaces

it on the windowsill, his attention is drawn back to the

scene outside the window.

EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT

We see the man who left his apartment in anger come out of

the doorway into the backyard. He is easy to identify through

the color of his garish necktie. In one hand the man carries

a small garden hoe and rake, and in the other a pair of

trimming shears. He goes to a small patch of flowers, perhaps

three feet square.

They are beautiful, multi-colored three foot high zinnias.

He kneels down, inspects them, touches them affectionately

and with some pride. His anger seems to have left him,

replaced by the kind of peace that flowers bring many people.

He stands up, carefully hoes the ground, them rakes it. Then

he snips a few leaves off the lower parts of the plant.

Finally, he waters them.

INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - SEMI-CLOSEUP

Jeff's attention is turned to something else of interest.

EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY - SEMI-LONG SHOT

Into the next door yard we see emerging from the apartment

below the ballet dancer, the elderly lady.

She wear a broad sun hat, dark glasses, and a sunsuit

consisting of pink shorts and halter. She carries a copy of

the Herald Tribune, and still wears her hearing aid. She

settles into a folding, canvas deck chair.

Her skin is dead white, and her body is thin to the point of

emaciation. No sooner has she settled into her chair, than

she is attracted by the sound of the salesman working in his

garden. She gets up, walks to the fence, and looks over. He

notices her, but doesn't speak.

She begins gesturing to him how to take care of his flowers.

He listens for a moment, then looks directly at her. The

strong movements of his mouth show us that he objects

vigorously to the annoyance of her comments. She moves away

from the fence, started and a little shocked.

INT. JEFF'S APARTMENT - DAY - MEDIUM SHOT

Jeff is seated in the foreground, in a waist shot.

Behind him, the entrance door to his apartment opens.

STELLA McGAFFERY comes in. She is a husky, unhandsome, dark-

haired woman who is dressed like a district nurse, with dark

coat, dark felt hat, with a white uniform showing underneath

the coat. She carries a small black bag.

Stella pauses on the landing to watch Jeff. He doesn't appear

to notice her entrance.

STELLA:

(Loud)

The New York State sentence for a

peeping Tom is six months in the

workhouse!

He doesn't turn.

JEFF:

Hello Stella.

As she comes down the stairs of the landing, holding on the

wrought iron railing with one hand:

STELLA:

And there aren't any windows in the

workhouse.

She puts her bag down on a table. It is worn, and looks as

if it belongs more to a fighter than a nurse. She takes off

her hat coat, and hangs them on a chair.

STELLA:

Years ago, they used to put out your

eyes with a hot poker. Is one of

those bikini bombshells you always

watch worth a hot poker?

He doesn't answer. She opens the bag, takes out some medical

supplies:
a thermometer, a stop watch, a bottle of rubbing

oil, a can of powder, a towel. She talks as she works.

STELLA:

We've grown to be a race of peeping

Toms. What people should do is stand

outside their own houses and look in

once in a while.

(She looks up at him)

What do you think of that for homespun

philosophy?

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