The Doors Page #10

Their voices distorting. A GIRLCHILD squeezing thru the cordon

with the fatal bullet. In slightly SLOW MOTION, Jim seeing

her come... as she glues herself hip to hip, lip to lip with

Jim, her hands clawing at his leather pants. It takes TWO

COPS to peel her off. Pamela furious. Jim is gracious with

everyone, signs patiently, talks, kisses, shakes hands with

the boys, lets them touch his hair, his body, poses for a

picture, seems to like it.

DOORS SONG:

For if we don't find the next little girl

I tell you we must die

I tell you

I tell you

I tell you we must die

INT. CBS BACKSTAGE - THAT EVENING

The nervous PRODUCER, HERB, leading "MR. SULLIVAN" thru the

corridor to the Doors' DRESSING ROOM past several "ACTS"

getting ready to go on... animals, tumblers, a soprano

wailing...

PRODUCER:

Right this way Mr. Sullivan. They're

called "the Doors". They got the

number one single in the country --

"Light Your Fire".

SULLIVAN:

"Light Your Fire"? Is that sooo?

PRODUCER:

They look pretty grungy but we're...

INT. DOORS DRESSING ROOM - EVENING

Bedlam. MAKE-UP ARTISTS pancaking the faces of the DOORS --

the nightmare coming true. RAY in a white suit with too many

pinstripes. ROBBIE a spearmint turtleneck, beads, long

sideburns, JOHN in red velveteen head to foot with a tie-dye

splotch on the front of it. Their hair's being violated enough

by a nervous gay black HAIR DESIGNER to make them totally

self-conscious and nervous about their first live TV

appearance -- all except JIM who remains in his signature

black leather with the silver navajo belt and shiny spangles --

watching a portable TV... A GIRL leaving his side, crossing

Pamela. Eye contact between them speaks of Pamela's jealousy.

JOHN:

(indignant)

You're gonna cut it!

HAIRDRESSER:

(doing John)

No, I'm going to worship it. What

kind of shampoo are you using?

JOHN:

The kind you get in hotels.

HAIRDRESSER:

Pamper yourself sweetheart, you don't

want split ends, you're a celebrity

now.

(moving to Ray)

You have very serious-serious hair,

it needs to rebel. I'll give it a

tinge of something freaky.

RAY:

I'd rather stay the same color.

HAIRDRESSER:

Scaredy cat.

ROBBIE:

What about me?

HAIRDRESSER:

(a look)

Honey, we don't have enough time.

TELEVISION INSERT -- images of DETROIT burning, summer of

67.

TV NEWSMAN:

...here in Detroit, 42 people dead,

more than 2000 injured... 1400

buildings burned, 5000 people have

just lost their homes as Detroit

joins more than 100 cities torn by

riots this hot summer!

On JIM, as they pancake him, reflective.

JIM:

No wonder "Light My Fire's" number

one.

HAIRDRESSER:

(to JIM)

What about you handsome?

JIM:

(friendly)

The biggest mistakes in my life have

been haircuts.

PAM:

Don't wash it. Don't set it. He likes

it the way it is...

HAIRDRESSER:

(backing off)

All right, be mean...

Commotion from the doorway as the PRODUCER leads the lock-

jawed MR. SULLIVAN in with everyone bowing and scraping to

the Pope.

PRODUCER:

Boys -- meet Mr. Sullivan

Mr. Sullivan waves from the doorway.

SULLIVAN:

Hi boys, heard your song "Light That

Fire"

(Herb corrects)

...think you're great... good luck

out there.

DOORS:

(ad lib)

Oh thanks Mr. Sullivan.

PRODUCER:

(moving alongside Ray)

Well the guys at Network have told

us they have a small problem with

the lyrics "girl we couldn't get

much higher". You can't say "higher"

on network so they asked if... you

could say, "girl we can't get much

better"... can you dig that?

A look from the guys. Jim sullen. Tension in the air. Mr.

Sullivan waiting.

JIM:

How 'bout, "girl you couldn't bite

my wire".

Pause. The producer puzzled a beat. It doesn't go down.

PRODUCER:

I don't think Standards and Practices

would...

Sullivan exiting, waving at no one in particular like Nixon

would.

SULLIVAN:

Look, you boys don't forget to smile

now. Don't be so sullen out there...

JIM:

Uh well, we're kind of a sullen group,

Ed.

SIDDONS reassuring the Producer.

SIDDONS:

We'll work it out Herb, promise.

Give me five.

PRODUCER:

(not totally convinced,

exiting)

Groovy! Uh you boys should know Mr.

Sullivan is considering you boys for

four more shows. You dig?

Pause.

JOHN:

Well?

JIM:

What -- are we the Beatles now John?

RAY:

(laughs)

It's only a word man. The Stones

changed...

JIM:

Hey Ray, why don't you change your

name to Sid or Irving Manzarek or

something... it's only a word y'know.

ROBBIE:

It's my words. I don't care, let's

just jam.

Ray's seething tension. Younger brother starting to get out

of hand.

INT. STUDIO STAGE - THAT NIGHT

SULLIVAN stiffly introducing them.

SULLIVAN:

Now here on our stage direct from

Los Angeles, California, ladies and

gentlemen, The Doors!

The lights come up on the DOORS in their ultimate nightmare --

each Door appearing consecutively in a lightspot as Jim sings

the ubiquitous "Light My Fire", trapped in this Elvis Presley --

Vegas act, he looks like he couldn't care less. DOORS hang

suspended everywhere on the set -- their name spelled out in

big block standup letters.

Jim has a hard-on in his pants, barely concealed by his tight

leathers.

PRODUCER:

(in control booth)

What's that?... oh Jesus!... get off

it!! Where's he going?

Jim misses his marks deliberately, the camera having a hard

time following him.

JIM & DOORS

You know that it would be untrue

You know that I would be a liar

If I was to say to you

Girl, we couldn't get much higher

Come on baby light my fire

INT. CONTROL BOOTH (SIMULTANEOUS) - THAT NIGHT

The PRODUCERS freaking out.

PRODUCER:

(hyperventilating)

He said it! He said it! On National

TV You can't do that! You can't do

that!!! You blew it you little sh*t!

You'll never play Ed Sullivan again.

Jim on the monitors, singing through to his freedom, falls

on the floor flat, the camera missing him completely.

JIM:

Come on baby, light my fire

Try to set the night on FIIIIRRRRRE!

INT. HOTEL BEDROOM -- NEW YORK - NIGHT

OVERHEAD ANGLE -- JIM lies there in a sweat. PAMELA pulls

off him, naked, frustrated, trying to rouse him.

PAM:

(tender)

What can I do, what do you want me

to do?... Jim?

JIM:

I don't know... I guess I should see

a doctor or something... maybe I

should go to someone of the straight

Jungian philosophy.

PAM:

It happens to other guys too...

Jim, quietly pissed, reaches for the whiskey bottle at the

side of the bed.

JIM:

It's so scary up there. To be adored.

Isn't that irony? Teenage death girls

want my dick -- a mere clown -- not

my words. I'll never wake up in a

good mood again... Lament for my

cock, a tongue of knowledge deep in

the feathered night, gives life,

soar and crucify, I seek to know

you...

PAM:

It's not so complicated Jim, it's

just sex, y'know.

JIM:

You should marry an insurance

salesman.

PAM:

It's the hours man, the pressure,

everything's like your last

performance, you're setting yourself

up.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes