Taxi Driver

TRAVIS BICKLE, age 26, lean, hard, the consummate loner. On

the surface he appears good-looking, even handsome; he has a

quiet steady look and a disarming smile which flashes from

nowhere, lighting up his whole face. But behind that smile,

around his dark eyes, in his gaunt cheeks, one can see the

ominous stains caused by a life of private fear, emptiness

and loneliness. He seems to have wandered in from a land

where it is always cold, a country where the inhabitants

seldom speak. The head moves, the expression changes, but

the eyes remain ever-fixed, unblinking, piercing empty space.

Travis is now drifting in and out of the New York City night

life, a dark shadow among darker shadows. Not noticed, no

reason to be noticed, Travis is one with his surroundings.

He wears rider jeans, cowboy boots, a plaid western shirt

and a worn beige Army jacket with a patch reading, "King

Kong Company 1968-70".

He has the smell of sex about him: Sick sex, repressed sex,

lonely sex, but sex nonetheless. He is a raw male force,

driving forward; toward what, one cannot tell. Then one

looks closer and sees the evitable. The clock sprig cannot

be wound continually tighter. As the earth moves toward the

sun, Travis Bickle moves toward violence.

FILM OPENS on EXT. of MANHATTAN CAB GARAGE. Weather-beaten

sign above driveway reads, "Taxi Enter Here". Yellow cabs

scuttle in and out. It is WINTER, snow is piled on the

curbs, the wind is howling.

INSIDE GARAGE are parked row upon row of multi-colored taxis.

Echoing SOUNDS of cabs idling, cabbies talking. Steamy

breath and exhaust fill the air.

INT. CORRIDOR of cab company offices. Lettering on ajar door

reads:

PERSONAL OFFICE:

Marvis Cab Company

Blue and White Cab Co.

Acme Taxi

Dependable Taxi Services

JRB Cab Company

Speedo Taxi Service

2.

SOUND of office busywork: shuffling, typing, arguing.

PERSONAL OFFICE is a cluttered disarray. Sheets with heading

"Marvis, B&W, Acme" and so forth are tacked to crumbling

plaster wall:
It is March. Desk is cluttered with forms,

reports and an old upright Royal typewriter.

Dishelved middle-aged New Yorker looks up from the desk. We

CUT IN to ongoing conversation between the middle-aged

PERSONNEL OFFICER and a YOUNG MAN standing in front on his

desk.

The young man is TRAVIS BICKLE. He wears his jeans, boots

and Army jacket. He takes a drag off his unfiltered cigarette.

The PERSONNEL OFFICER is beat and exhausted: he arrives at

work exhausted. TRAVIS is something else again. His intense

steely gaze is enough to jar even the PERSONNEL OFFICER out

of his workaday boredom.

PERSONNEL OFFICER (O.S.)

No trouble with the Hack Bureau?

TRAVIS (O.S.)

No Sir.

PERSONNEL OFFICER (O.S.)

Got your license?

TRAVIS (O.S.)

Yes.

PERSONNEL OFFICER

So why do you want to be a taxi

driver?

TRAVIS:

I can't sleep nights.

PERSONNEL OFFICER

There's porno theatres for that.

TRAVIS:

I know. I tried that.

The PERSONNEL OFFICER, though officious, is mildly probing

and curious. TRAVIS is a cipher, cold and distant. He

speaks as if his mind doesn't know what his mouth is saying.

PERSONNEL OFFICER

So whatd'ya do now?

3.

TRAVIS:

I ride around nights mostly.

Subways, buses. See things. Figur'd

I might as well get paid for it.

PERSONNEL OFFICER

We don't need any misfits around

here, son.

A thin smile cracks almost indiscernibly across TRAVIS' lips.

TRAVIS:

You kiddin'? Who else would hack

through South Bronx or Harlem at

night?

PERSONNEL OFFICER

You want to work uptown nights?

TRAVIS:

I'll work anywhere, anytime. I know

I can't be choosy.

PERSONNEL OFFICER

(thinks a moment)

How's your driving record?

TRAVIS:

Clean. Real clean.

(pause, thin smile)

As clean as my conscience.

PERSONNEL OFFICER

Listen, son, you gonna get smart,

you can leave right now.

TRAVIS:

(apologetic)

Sorry, sir. I didn't mean that.

PERSONNEL OFFICER

Physical? Criminal?

TRAVIS:

Also clean.

PERSONNEL OFFICER

Age?

PERSONNEL OFFICER

Twenty-six.

PERSONNEL OFFICER

Education?

4.

TRAVIS:

Some. Here and there.

PERSONNEL OFFICER

Military record?

TRAVIS:

Honorable discharge. May 1971.

PERSONNEL OFFICER

You moonlighting?

TRAVIS:

No, I want long shifts.

PERSONNEL OFFICER

(casually, almost to himself)

We hire a lot of moonlighters here.

TRAVIS:

So I hear.

PERSONNEL OFFICER

(looks up at Travis)

Hell, we ain't that much fussy

anyway. There's always opening on

one fleet or another.

(rummages through his

drawer, collecting

various pink, yellow

and white forms)

Fill out these forms and give them

to the girl at the desk, and leave

your phone number. You gotta phone?

TRAVIS:

No.

PERSONNEL OFFICER

Well then check back tomorrow.

TRAVIS:

Yes, Sir.

CUT TO:

CREDITS:

CREDITS appear over scenes from MANHATTAN NIGHTLIFE. The

snow has melted, it is spring.

A rainy, slick, wet miserable night in Manhattan's theatre

district.

5.

Cabs and umbrellas are congested everywhere; well-dressed

pedestrians are pushing, running, waving down taxis. The

high-class theatre patrons crowding out of the midtown shows

are shocked to find that the same rain that falls on the

poor and common is also falling on them.

The unremitting SOUNDS of HONKING and SHOUTING play against

the dull pitter-patter of rain. The glare of yellow, red and

green lights reflects off the pavements and autos.

"When it rains, the boss of the city is the taxi driver" -

so goes the cabbie's maxim, proven true by this particular

night's activity. Only the taxis seem to rise above the

situation:
They glide effortlessly through the rain and

traffic, picking up whom they choose, going where they please.

Further uptown, the crowds are neither so frantic nor so

glittering. The rain also falls on the street bums and aged

poor. Junkies still stand around on rainy street corners,

hookers still prowl rainy sidewalks. And the taxis service

them too.

All through the CREDITS the exterior sounds are muted, as if

coming from a distant room or storefront around the corner.

The listener is at a safe but privileged distance.

After examining various strata of Manhattan nightlife,

CAMERA begins to CLOSE IN on one particular taxi, and it is

assumed that this taxi is being driven by TRAVIS BICKLE.

END CREDITS:

CUT TO:

Travis's yellow taxi pulls in foreground. On left rear door

are lettered the words "Dependable Taxi Service".

We are somewhere on the upper fifties on Fifth Ave. The rain

has not let up.

An ELDERLY WOMAN climbs in the right rear door, crushing her

umbrella. Travis waits a moment, then pulls away from the

curb with a start.

Later, we see Travis' taxi speeding down the rain-slicked

avenue. The action is periodically accompanied by Travis'

narration. He is reading from a haphazard personal diary.

TRAVIS (V.O.)

(monotone)

April 10, 1972. Thank God for the

rain which has helped wash the

garbage and trash off the sidewalks.

6.

TRAVIS' POV of sleazy midtown side street: Bums, hookers,

junkies.

TRAVIS (V.O.)

I'm working a single now, which

means stretch-shifts, six to six,

sometimes six to eight in the a.m.,

six days a week.

A MAN IN BUSINESS SUIT hails Travis to the curb.

TRAVIS (V.O.)

It's a hustle, but it keeps me busy.

I can take in three to three-fifty

a week, more with skims.

MAN IN BUSINESS SUIT, now seated in back seat, speaks up:

MAN IN BUSINESS SUIT

(urgent)

Is Kennedy operating, cabbie? Is it

grounded?

On seat next to TRAVIS is half-eaten cheeseburger and order

of French fries. He puts his cigarette down and gulps as he

answers:

TRAVIS:

Why should it be grounded?

MAN IN BUSINESS SUIT

Listen - I mean I just saw the

needle of the Empire State Building.

You can't see it for the fog!

TRAVIS:

Then it's a good guess it's grounded.

Rate this script:4.1 / 16 votes