The Battle of Algiers

VILLA HEADQUARTERS. INSIDE. NIGHT.

Inside a three-story villa, just built, with whitewashed walls.

An elevator shaft is empty, the large cables dangle.

On every landing two apartments. The front doors are wide open.

Whitewash on the floor of the halls, swirls of whitewash on the

windowpanes, naked light bulbs hung from electric wires. The rooms

contain hardly any furnishings.

The kitchens are still without sinks and stoves.

An agitated bustle, a rhythm of efficiency. Paratroopers go up and

down the stairs, pass along the halls, enter and leave the rooms.

The sounds in the background are indecipherable.

SHOUTED ORDERS, CRIES, HOWLS.

SHOUTS, HALF-SPOKEN REMARKS, LAUGHS.

SOMEWHERE A GRAMOPHONE IS PLAYING AT FULL BLAST.

The scene is tense. No pauses.

When the paras are tired, they move to another room.

They sit down, stretch out on the floor, drink coffee or beer, and

smoke cigarettes while awaiting the next shift. Suddenly, the rhythm

of this routine, the timing of these images is upset. A para rushes

down the stairs, and asks cheerfully while running:

MARC:

The colonel. Where's the colonel?

PARAS:

Why? What's happening?

MARC:

We know where Ali la Pointe is. One of

them "spoke" ...

His voice echoes through the corridors, on the landings, from one

floor to another. The excitement is contagious. Many crowd around

the door of the kitchen.

The Algerian who has "spoken" is there. He is young with a thin face

and feverish eyes. The paras are all around him: they help him stand

up, dry him, clean his face with a rag, give him some coffee in a

thermos cover. They are full of attention, sincerely concerned. One

of them tries to push away the others.

PARA:

C'mon, let him breathe!

Meanwhile others who are arriving ask if it is true.

OTHER PARAS:

So he spoke? Does he really know where

Ali is?

MARC:

It seems so. We'll go see. Give him a

little coffee.

Marc is tall and husky, his eyes young and cheerful. One of the others

asks him with a shade of admiration:

PARA:

Hey Marc, you made him talk?

MARC:

(smiling)

Sure.

He then begins to smoke again, and moves aside to rest a bit. The

Algerian is trying to drink, but his hands are trembling. Someone

helps him and holds still the cover of the thermos, drawing it to his

mouth:

LAGLOY:

C'mon Sadek ... Drink, you'll feel better.

The Algerian drinks, but his stomach can't take it, causing him to

double over and vomit again.

Colonel Mathieu enters, elegant and graceful.

MATHIEU:

(smiling)

At ease. Is it true?

MARC:

I think so. Rue des Abderames three ...

The colonel turns to the para, who had gone to call him, and who is

holding a pair of camouflage fatigues in his hands.

MATHIEU:

Dress him.

Then he goes near the Algerian, lifts his chin, inspects him for a

moment with curiosity.

MATHIEU:

Chin up, it's all over. Nothing can happen

to you now, you'll see. Can you stand up?

The Algerian nods yes. The colonel turns to the paras who are holding

him up.

MATHIEU:

Let him go.

He takes the camouflage fatigues and hands them to the Algerian.

MATHIEU:

Here, put them on.

The Algerian mechanically takes the fatigues, but he doesn't

understand. The colonel explains to him:

MATHIEU:

We're trying to help you. We're going to

the Casbah. Dressed like this, they won't

be able to recognize you. Understand?

We're going to see the place, then you'll

be free ... and under our protection ...

The Algerian shivers from the cold. He is completely naked. He

laboriously puts on the fatigues which are too big for him.

MATHIEU:

Go on, give him the cap.

They give him a wide belt and buckle it. The other paras, one on either

side of him, pull up his sleeves to the elbows. A third places the cap

on his head and c*cks it.

LAGLOY:

Nationalized!

The colonel turn to him angrily:

MATHIEU:

Don't be an idiot, Lagloy!

The Algerian is ready. The paras look at him repressing their laughter.

The Algerian continues to tremble. His breath is short, his eyes

glossy. He is crying.

CAPTAIN:

Let's go.

The Algerian looks around. He breathes deeply. Then, suddenly,

unexpectedly, he lets out a hoarse cry:

SADEK:

No!

and tries to jerk forward toward the window.

Marc seizes him immediately, and with his right hand grabs him by the

chest, almost lifting him. With his left hand he gives him two quick

slaps, not very hard.

MARC:

(persuadingly)

What do you think you're doing, you fool?

Do you want us to start all over again?

C'mon, be good. Don't make me look like

an idiot in front of the others.

He makes a reassuring sign to the colonel. Then, he takes the Algerian

by the arms, and they move off.

2STREETS OF ALGIERS. OUTSIDE. DAWN. OCTOBER 7, 1957.

The city is gray and white, by the sea which looks like milk. The dawn

outlines her features sharply.

The streets and wide avenues of the European quarters are empty.

Silence, until gradually is heard ...

A HUMMING OF MOTORS.

One truck after another. Their headlights on, with an opaque glow, by

now useless.

A line of trucks follow one another along the sea-front, all at the

same speed.

They turn right and go up toward Place du Gouvernement.

Here, without stopping, the columns divide in two. The two lines enter

each of the two roads that lead up to surround the Casbah.

In the brighter light, the Casbah appears completely white, limestone.

Enclosed by the European city, it stands at a greater height and

overlooks it.

Mosaic of terraces. White pavement, pavement interspersed by the black

outlays of narrow alleys. Only a jump from one terrace to another ...

Agile and silent, the paras jump one by one from the trucks in a hurry.

SOUND OF TRUCKS.

They arrange themselves geometrically, their movements synchronized.

They disperse and disappear in the alleys.

They reappear together, then once again scatter.

They meet without looking at one another; each one takes his own

course.

In like manner without a sound, they are above, even on the terraces,

in perfect geometry. Even up here, the paras tighten their grip ...

3RUE DES ABDERAMES. COURTYARD OF HOUSE. INSIDE/OUTSIDE. DAWN.

Every three yards, there is a para, even at all four corners of an

intersection.

They are also in the side streets as well as the main streets.

And also above, against the sky, many other paras appear.

Number three. The doorway is the height of a man. A squadron stands

ready in a semicircle with machine guns in firing position.

Marc continues to hold up the Algerian by his arm.

The captain glances at his watch, then looks up at the terrace and

gives a signal.

In a lowered voice, without turning around, he speaks to the para who

is at his back:

CAPTAIN:

Fire ...

The para nears the front door, his legs wide open, his machine gun,

clenched at his side, and aims at the lock.

MACHINE GUN FIRE.

He moves the gun barrel in a circular direction.

Immediately the others hurl themselves against the door.

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