Sideways

UNDER THE STUDIO LOGO:

KNOCKING at a door and distant dog BARKING.

NOW UNDER BLACK, a CARD --

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***!

WHIP PAN TO --

THE MICROWAVE CLOCK that reads 10:50.

ON THE PHONE --

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

ON THE TOILET --

Miles has a BOOK propped open on his knees. He turns a page,

lost in his reading.

LATER --

Miles SHOWERS.

IN THE MIRROR --

Miles FLOSSES.

INT. COFFEE HOUSE - DAY

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.

INT. ERGANIAN HOUSE - DAY

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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