Se7en

INT. OLD HOUSE -- DAY

Sunlight comes through the soot on the windows, more brown than

bright. SOMERSET, 45, stands in one corner of this small,

second-story room. He looks over the ceiling, looks down at the

worn wooden floors, looks at the peeling wallpaper.

He walks to the center of the room, continues his study, taking

his time. He halts, turns to one wall where the current

wallpaper is torn away to reveal flowery wallpaper underneath.

Somerset goes to this wall and runs his finger across one of the

pale, red roses which decorates the older paper. He pushes the

grime away, brings the rose out more clearly.

He reaches into his suit pocket and takes out a switchblade. He

flips the thin, lethal blade free. Working deliberately,

delicately, Somerset cuts a square around the rose, then peels

the square of dry wallpaper away from the wall. He studies it in

his hand.

EXT. OLD HOUSE -- DAY

Somerset stands in front of the old home. He looks out at the

surrounding farms and forests. He ponders something. Birds

sing.

MAN (O.S.)

Is something wrong?

Somerset does not respond, just stares off. The MAN, 34, wears a

real-estate broker's jacket and stands beside a FOR SALE sign in

the muddy lawn.

MAN:

Is there something the matter?

Somerset turns to face the man, then looks back at the house.

SOMERSET:

No. No... it's just that everything here

seems... so strange.

MAN:

Strange? There's nothing strange about

this place. The house'll need a little

fixing up, that's for sure...

SOMERSET:

No. I like the house, and this place.

MAN:

I was about to say. Cause this place is

about as normal as places get.

Somerset nods, taking a deep breath. He smiles.

SOMERSET:

That's what I mean. Strange.

Somerset looks back to the beautiful landscape. The man does not

understand.

INT. AMTRACK TRAIN -- LATER DAY

Somerset is in the window seat, looking out the window of the

speeding train, smoking a cigarette. He is near the back of the

car, away from the few other passengers.

Outside, farms, fields, small homes and lawns rush by. The

panorama is dappled by the rays of the soon to be setting sun.

INT. AMTRACK TRAIN -- LATER DAY

The train is almost full, moving slower. Somerset has his

suitcase on the aisle seat beside him. He holds a hardcover book

unopened on his lap. He still stares out the window, but his

face is tense. The train is passing an ugly, swampy field. The

sun has gone under.

Though it seems impossible it ever could have gotten there, a

car's burnt-out skeleton sits rusting in the bracken.

Ahead, the city waits. The sky is full of smokestacks and huge

industrial cranes.

INT. AMTRACK TRAIN -- LATER DAY

The train is passing urban streets below. Slums and smashed

cars. People stand in groups in the corners. Bleak.

Somerset's suitcase is now on the window seat. Somerset has

moved to the aisle. He is reading his book. He looks up from

the book and rubs his eyes, then looks back to continue reading,

not once looking out the window.

EXT. CITY STREET -- NIGHT

Somerset carries his suitcase outside the train station. The

city demands attention: cars screeching, people yelling, sirens

blaring.

Somerset passes a family of bewildered tourists. A WEIRD MAN has

a hand on the tourist-father's suitcase.

It has become a tugging match with the Weird Man shouting, "I'll

take you to a taxi... I'll take you." Ahead, a group is gathered

on the sidewalk near two ambulances. People clamor to get a look

at a BLOODY BODY which lies on the street.

Policeman try to hold the crowd off. Ambulance attendants

administer aid to the victim, who convulses. Somerset moves by,

ignoring it all. He motions for a cab. One pulls up from the

street's stream of vehicles.

INT. CAB -- NIGHT

Somerset throws his suitcase in and shuts the door behind him.

CAB DRIVER:

(about the crowd)

What's the big fuss?

Somerset looks out at the crowd, looks at the driver.

SOMERSET:

Why do you care?

CAB DRIVER:

(under his breath)

Well, excuse me all to hell.

The driver leans forward, checking it out. The circle of

spectators shifts suddenly. A man has shoved another man and

they're really going at it now. The swing at each other and tear

at each other's clothing. One man's flailing fist connects and

the other man's face is instantly bloodied. The fight grows even

more spastic. Policemen try to stop it.

CAB DRIVER:

Crazy fucks.

The driver pulls away and the cab rages down the street.

Somerset watches the parade of neon passing on the avenue. He

slumps back in the seat and closes his eyes.

CAB DRIVER:

Where you headed?

Somerset opens his eyes.

SOMERSET:

Far away from here.

INT. SOMERSET'S APARTMENT -- NIGHT

The curtains are closed. The SOUNDS of the CITY are here as they

will be everywhere in this story. A CAR ALARM is SOUNDING,

shrill and clear. Somerset's life is packed into moving boxes,

except for some clothing in a closet and hundreds and hundreds of

books on the shelves of one wall. Somerset is lying on the bed,

dressed only in his underwear.

He reaches to the nightstand, to a wooden, pyramidical metronome.

He frees the metronome's weighted swingarm so it moves back and

forth. Swings to the left -- TICK, swings to the right -- TICK.

Tick... tick... tick... measured and steady.

Somerset situates on the bed, closes his eyes. Tick... tick...

tick. The metronome's sound competes with the sound of the car

alarm. Somerset's face tightens as he concentrates on the

metronome. His eyes close tighter. Tick... tick... tick. The

swingarm moves evenly. Somerset's breathing deepens.

Tick... tick... tick. The car alarm seems quieter.

Tick... tick... tick. Somerset continues his concentration. The

metronome's sound seems louder.

Rate this script:3.4 / 8 votes