The Doors Page #12

JOURNALIST 3

What?

JIM:

What hurts you the most?

He cuts his hair with the scissors. A commotion.

JOURNALIST 3

What are you doing?

DISSOLVING OVER:

JIM:

Uh... got tired of the barbie doll

look. It hurt.

JOURNALIST 3

Are you serious?

JIM:

(cutting hair blindly)

About? Y'know when people are joking,

I find they are dead serious and

when they're dead serious, I find

them funny.

They're amazed. The point is made however -- visibly. The

anger in his action is so extreme yet so contained -- the

cynosure of all eyes as always. Eyes shooting back at

JOURNALIST 3... JOURNALIST 4 cuts in from the back of the

room altering the mood.

JOURNALIST 4

What do your parents think about

what you are doing?

JIM:

(pause)

Actually, I don't really remember

being born. It musta happened during

one of my blackouts.

Laughter. JOURNALIST 4 with dark hair and demeanor, gypsy-

like jewelry on her arm and avant garde clothing, large

glasses, is probably a rock magazine writer but seems to

like Jim and his work.

JOURNALIST 4

But they must've expressed some

feeling?

JIM:

(pause)

Well, to be honest they're not living

anymore so I don't like to talk about

that.

Flashbulbs hitting his face at that moment.

JOURNALIST 4

Could you at least tell us how they

died?

Jim puts the scissors down, going to a low mysterious voice.

JIM:

Oh, it was a... horrible car crash...

in the desert in the fifties,

Arizona... ran right into a truckload

of Indians... Navajos, they were

lying out on the road, all bleeding,

and I was with my Grandma and Grandad,

we were banged up and all... and I

was looking at my Dad and he was

lying there... but his throat was

severed and there was air coming

out.

He puts the room in a hush. He has mesmerized them and they're

not sure whether to believe it or not.

JOURNALIST 4

I'm sorry.

JOURNALIST 2

I have the feeling I'm being put on.

Jim rises, staggers slightly as he makes his way to the bar

on the way out of the room, smiles right at her, ignoring

everybody else in the room.

JIM:

Y'all believe what you want to

believe, you will anyway... but it

does kinda show you what excites

people?

(looking directly at

her)

Fear, pity, horror -- all those good

things that count. It's sorta I guess

like being on the edge of an orgasm,

y'know... that mystery just before

you come. When? If? Should I? Will

you die for me, eat me, this way,

the end...

He goes. The room in silence, embarrassed, nervous titters

looking at Journalist 4 who flushes deeply as we cut to:

INT. PATRICIA'S SOHO LOFT - THAT DAY (RAIN)

Rain, rain, rain... pelting the large windows as we glide to

JIM f***ing JOURNALIST 4 (PATRICIA KENNEALY) madly in the

twisted sheets...

He gives up, exhausted. The SONG CRYSTAL SHIP backbeats the

scene...

He wanders around her place. Her place is crammed with books

and intellectualabilia, skulls, candles, globes of the world,

plants. She puts her glasses back on.

PATRICIA:

You want to do some more cocaine?

It'll loosen you up.

JIM:

Great! A new thing.

As she goes to a bowl of cocaine, laid alongside a bottle of

champagne and a basketful of items all catered by Jim. He's

at her bookcase, thumbing through an ancient manuscript.

JIM:

Wow how old is this?

INSERT -- the DRAWINGS in the book pertain to Witchcraft.

PATRICIA:

(snorting)

14th Century. I practice the Craft.

JIM:

The Craft?

PATRICIA:

I'm a witch

(smiles)

A white one.

JIM:

(impressed)

Wow! You Patricia? Who would've

guessed?

Ironic of course when you look at her long dark locks and

demeanor. She looks back at him, challenging.

PATRICIA:

The Kennealy's were Celtic cheiftains

and pre-Christian shamans when your

Druid ancestors the Morrisons were a

minor Scottish clan founded by a

bastard son of the king of Norway.

JIM reappraising her. Her eye contact is very direct.

PATRICIA:

It's a religion, witchcraft. Witches

are the protectors of the seasons,

the harvests, goddesses of the grain.

And when crossed, destroyers.

Jim waits. Something in the feeling of the room has shifted.

The sound of her razor chopping coke. He snorts -- the first

time.

PATRICIA:

You ever try drinking blood?

JIM:

What?

PATRICIA:

It works you know. You drink blood

the right time of the moon... they

used to dance in the forests naked.

I think that's what offended the

Puritans and led to the Burnings.

They were a sexual threat to their

male order like the Bacchae -- five

days a year for Dionysus, they used

to wander the hills in ancient Greece,

the first witches, clans of wild

women f***ing, looting, eating animals

raw, the wine in their blood running

hot -- looking for Dionysus... to

tear him to pieces -- isn't that

wild?

Jim is down on his knees crawling around her. She is crawling

back.

JIM:

(hooked)

Where do you get the blood?

Patricia laughs.

SUPERIMPOSITION TO:

PATRICIA drawing blood from her arm -- wipes it on his mouth.

Some of it spills out, tamping the white powder with red

stains. Jim watching enthralled, coked out. She hands him

the jewelled Moroccan dagger.

PATRICIA:

Blood is the rose of mysterious union,

symbol of potency... now you.

JIM:

No... I don't like... cutting myself.

PATRICIA:

(stern)

Don't be such a child! If I do it,

you have to do it.

He extends his arm. The look between them. He closes his

eyes like a little boy. She makes the cut.

DOORS SONG:

Before you slip into unconsciousness

I'd like to have another kiss

Another flashing chance at bliss

Another kiss, another kiss

SUPERIMPOSITIONS:

Candles, incense burn. As Jim and Patricia dance in the loft

naked to music, drinking champagne.

JUMP CUT:
He is chasing her with one of her goat horns between

his legs. They wrestle, yell, lusty bacchanale.

SUPERIMPOSITIONS TO:

They're f***ing madly on the wooden floor of the loft, bathed

in blood and white powder all over the place, rain pelting

the windows, thunder, Orff's "Carmina Burana" cutting in

over the Doors' song.

PATRICIA:

(sexy)

Come on rock god, f*** me, f*** me

good.

In slightly ape-like SLOW MOTION, he's wildly thrusting at

her like a stallion, then reaches down, yanks out her

diaphragm -- holds it to her eyes briefly and throws it across

the room into the fireplace.

JIM:

(lips out of sync)

I'm gonna burn you down.

PATRICIA:

Come on...

Incants him to climax with CELTIC WORDS.

Jim is wild, reaching for the Moroccan dagger, holding it to

her face as he continues to pump.

PATRICIA:

Cut me! Cut me go on!

JIM:

(knife to her cheek)

Nobody'd ever look at you again --

'cept me. I'd scar you forever.

PATRICIA:

Yeah YEAH!

JIM:

AWRIGHT! AWRIGHT!

PATRICIA:

F*** ME! F*** ME!! GO ON F*** ME!!!

DOORS SONG:

The crystal ship is being filled

A thousand girls, a thousand thrills

A million ways to spend your time

When we get back I'll drop a line

The camera shooting up to the ceiling in a tilting dutch

angle as the world comes unglued. Jim yelling with release.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. PHOTOGRAPHIC STUDIO - NEW YORK - ANOTHER DAY

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