Sideways
KNOCKING at a door and distant dog BARKING.
SATURDAY:
The rapping, at first tentative and polite, grows insistent.
Then we hear someone get out of bed.
MILES (O.S.)
...the f***...
A DOOR is opened, and the black gives way to BLINDING WHITE
LIGHT, the way one experiences the first glimpse of day amid,
say, a hangover.
A WORKER is there.
MILES (O.S.)
Yeah?
WORKER:
Hi, Miles. Can you move your car,
please?
MILES (O.S.)
Why?
WORKER:
The painters got to put the truck
in, and you didn't park too good.
MILES (O.S.)
(a sigh, then --)
Yeah, hold on.
He closes the door with a SLAM.
EXT. MILES'S APARTMENT COMPLEX - DAY
SUPERIMPOSE --
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
Wearing only underwear, a bathrobe and clogs, MILES RAYMOND
comes out of his unit and heads toward the street. He passes
some SIX MEXICANS waiting to work.
He climbs into his twelve-year-old CONVERTIBLE SAAB, parked
far from the curb and blocking part of the driveway. The car
starts fitfully.
As he pulls away, the guys begin backing up the truck.
EXT. STREET - DAY
Miles rounds the corner and finds a new parking spot.
INT. CAR - CONTINUOUS
He cuts the engine, exhales a long breath and brings his
hands to his head in a gesture of headache pain or just
anguish. He leans back in his seat, closes his eyes, and
soon NODS OFF.
INT. MILES'S APARTMENT - DAY
The door bursts open. Miles runs into the kitchen, looking
just past camera.
MILES:
F***!
THE MICROWAVE CLOCK that reads 10:50.
Miles hurriedly throws clothes into a suitcase.
MILES:
Yeah, no, I know I said I'd be there
by noon, but there's been all this
work going on at my building, and
it's like a total nightmare, and I
had a bunch of stuff to deal with
this morning. But I'm on my way. I'm
out the door right this second. It's
going to be great. Yeah. Bye.
INT. MILES'S BATHROOM - DAY
Miles has a BOOK propped open on his knees. He turns a page,
lost in his reading.
LATER --
Miles SHOWERS.
Miles FLOSSES.
Miles finally makes it to the front of the line.
BARISTA:
Hey, Miles.
MILES:
Hey, Simon. Triple espresso, please.
BARISTA:
Rough night, huh?
(ringing it up)
For here?
MILES:
No, I'm running late. Make it to go.
And give me a New York Times and...
(scanning the display
case)
...a spinach croissant.
EXT. 5 FREEWAY ENTRANCE RAMP - DAY
Miles's Saab chugs up the ramp and merges.
INSERT - NEW YORK TIMES CROSSWORD PUZZLE --
-- pressed against the STEERING WHEEL. The puzzle is about
1/3 finished.
EXT. 5 FREEWAY - DAY
As though from an adjacent car, we see Miles driving while
carefully filling in an answer.
INT./EXT. SAAB - DAY
THROUGH THE WINDSHIELD --
A SIGN reads:
RANCHO PALOS VERDES
PALOS VERDES ESTATES
1/4 MILE
PAN TO MILES as he signals to change lanes. The finished
puzzle lies on the passenger seat.
EXT. PALOS VERDES STREET - DAY
The houses on this block are blandly palatial as in so many
affluent Southern California suburbs.
Miles's car pull into the driveway behind an older BMW and
two LEXI. He gets out and trots toward the front door.
A GIANT PROJECTION TV --
In a large split-level living room displays a GOLF TOURNAMENT.
WIDE --
Watching from the ultra-comfortable furniture are MIKE
ERGANIAN, a tanned, silver-haired real estate caudillo; bride-
to-be CHRISTINE ERGANIAN, his oldest daughter; and JACK
LOPATE, wearing bowling shirt, shorts and flip-flops.
MRS. ERGANIAN, a warm and elegant housewife, shows Miles
into the room.
MRS. ERGANIAN
Look what the cat dragged!
MILES:
Hi, everybody.
Mr. Erganian and Jack get to their feet and shake hands with
Miles. Jack remains affable, but we can discern his genuine
irritation.
JACK:
About time you got here, bud. Mr.
Prompt.
MR. ERGANIAN
We were thinking maybe you took the
wrong way and went to Tijuana and
they didn't let you back in.
The Erganians laugh. Miles works up a smile too.
MILES:
I had to bribe them.
More lame laughter.
CHRISTINE:
Hey, Miles.
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"Sideways" Scripts.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 4 Nov. 2024. <https://www.scripts.com/script/sideways_1370>.
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