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The Ladykillers Page #17
DORR:
Ahh but gentlemen, we delude
ourselves. Think of the woman's
piteous moans as we lay tier upon
tier of brick. Think of her
lamentations as we fit the last brick
into place, appealing to our better
selves, the higher angels of our
nature, our recollections of our own
sainted mothers... No, I fear that
we lack the sand to commit such an
act. No... no... shortest and most
painless is best. Let us confront
reality. Gawain's gun... the retort
muffled by a pillow... into the
brain... the affair of an instant.
The only question is... who wields
the weapon.
He looks around the table. Silence. No volunteers.
DORR:
...I believe it is traditional, in
such circumstances, to draw straws.
PANCAKE:
Well, sure, fair enough.
He takes a broom leaning against the wall, bends back and
snaps a handful of its bristles.
PANCAKE:
...I'm thinking, though, that since
I lost my finger -- I mean, literally
lost it because of that goddamn cat --
maybe I should be excused from this
thing. Hard for me to squeeze a
trigger anyway--
GAWAIN:
You one whiney motherf***er! I squeeze
your nutsack you keep that up!
PANCAKE:
Listen, punk--
DORR:
Gentlemen, no special pleading, no
exceptions. It's in the nature of
the situation that we would all prefer
to be excused.
Pancake grumbles as he counts out five bristles, takes one
and snaps it in half, displaying the short straw to the group,
and then hands the four long and one short to the Professor:
PANCAKE:
Well, okay... it was just a trial
balloon...
With a flap of his cape the professor jumbles the straws and
encloses them in one hand.
Sweaty CLOSE-UPS. Each man stares at the straws. Some
hesitant, some resolute, they draw:
First, the General: long straw. His reaction: impassive.
Next, Lump:
long straw. His reaction: relieved.Next, Pancake. Long straw.
PANCAKE:
Long straw. You all see it. All your
fuss over nothing, punk.
Two straws left. Gawain stares at them, licks his lips.
He reaches for one straw, touches it, hesitates.
GAWAIN:
...Motherf***er...
He touches the other straw, hesitates.
He goes back to the first straw, closes his hand around it,
closes his eyes, and pulls.
He lifts the straw into frame before his squeezed-shut eyes,
raises his eyebrows, and slowly opens fluttering eyelids to
look:
short straw.The Professor, smiling, opens his fist to confirm that he
holds the last long one.
Gawain moans.
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - CELLAR - NIGHT
Slowly, slowly, Gawain mounts the cellar stairs. Behind him,
gathered in a semi-circle and looking up from the foot of
the stairs, the other men wait.
As he plants one plodding foot in front of the other Gawain
raises the gun, slides back its primer to make sure there is
a round in the chamber, and then slides it shut as he reaches
the door.
INT. MUNSON - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
In the foreground Mrs. Munson sits knitting, humming an old
temperance tune. In the background the cellar door swings
open. Marva Munson doesn't notice; her knitting needles
continue their rhythmic clack.
We PULL Gawain, gun at the ready, as he takes slow, cautious
steps across the floor.
We INTERCUT his POV of the back of the old lady's head, bowed
over her knitting.
As Gawain passes the sofa he picks up a cushion and buries
in it his hand holding the gun.
He looks back up at the old lady. But now, still cautiously
approaching, he c*cks his head, his expression bemused.
HIS POV:
nearing the old lady is now different somehow. The perspective
is somewhat lower; the humming woman sounds not quite the
same; the rocking chair and the room itself are subtly
different.
he is a runty, TEN-YEAR-OLD CHILD walking slowly across the
floor; he is cradling not a gun in a pillow but a squirming
little puppy dog.
The dog yips; the woman turns to look at us. It is not Mrs.
Munson, but another black woman of about the same age.
MAMA:
What you got there, Gawain?
CHILD GAWAIN:
Why -- nothin', mama.
MAMA:
Nothin' my ass! You got a dog there!
CHILD GAWAIN:
No, Mama!
MAMA:
A filthy noisy little pest of a puppy
dog gonna sh*t all over the house!
CHILD GAWAIN:
He won't sh*t in the house, Mama,
I'm gonna train him, I promise, gonna
train him real good--
WHAP! She cuffs him on the side of his head.
MAMA:
I'm gonna train you real good! I
told you don't bring no stray dogs
into this house!
WHAP! Another slap.
MAMA:
...You wait til your Daddy gets home,
he gonna lay into you proper!
WHAP!
The little boy, weeping, throws his arms around his mother:
CHILD GAWAIN:
Please don't hurt me no more! I love
you, Mama!
MAMA:
Daddy gonna kick your ass!
WHAP!
MAMA:
...Bringin' in a filthy dirty dog!
WHAP! Gawain's little brothers and sisters, drawn by the
commotion, have gathered excitedly to watch.
SISTER:
Mama's whuppin' Gawain's ass!
BROTHER:
(eagerly)
Ain't you gonna use the strap, Mama?
WHAP! WHAP! Gawain is sobbing:
CHILD GAWAIN:
Please don't hurt me, Mama!
Now it is the adult Gawain blubbering.
The clack of knitting needles stops and Mrs. Munson turns to
look.
MRS. MUNSON
What you doin'? What you doin' with
my pillow there?
He surreptitiously slides the gun into his pocket, sniveling:
GAWAIN:
I'm sorry, ma'am, I--
WHAP! She cuffs him on the side of the head.
MRS. MUNSON
I'm displeased with you! Colored boy
like you, falling in with that trash
downstairs!
WHAP!
MRS. MUNSON
...Ashamed a yourself! Didn't your
mama raise you right!
INT. MUNSON HOUSE - CELLAR - NIGHT
Gawain is tramping down the stairs.
GAWAIN:
I can't do it!
The men are stunned.
DORR:
Why... this is most... irregular.
GAWAIN:
She reminds me of my mama. I can't
shoot my mama! You motherfuckers
just draw straws again.
PANCAKE:
Wait a minute. You've got to accept
your responsibilities, young man.
GAWAIN:
F*** you. And your irritated bowel.
I can't shoot that old lady.
GENERAL:
Must shoot!
PANCAKE:
Now look here, it's the easiest thing
in the world. Pretend her head is a
casaba melon, and the gun is a melon-
baller, and--
GAWAIN:
What the f*** you talkin' about,
man? You think this a melon-baller,
you do it, man!
DORR:
My my, this is most irregular.
PANCAKE:
Look, with equal rights come equal
responsibilities--
DORR:
I'm afraid that Mr. Pancake is right,
my dear fellow. We cannot draw straws
credibility if you show that the
loser can simply beg off doing the
job.
GENERAL:
Must shoot!
Gawain shoves the gun toward Pancake.
GAWAIN:
She just an old colored lady to you --
you do it, man!
PANCAKE:
Why you sniveling little coward!
GAWAIN:
What you say, you whiney motherf***er?
I come up your irritated ass with
this -- motherfuckin' gun--
He is waving the gun.
PANCAKE:
You think you scare me, you mewling
punk! You don't scare me! Bull Connor
and all his dogs didn't scare me!
He shoves Gawain.
PANCAKE:
...Be a man!
GAWAIN:
You f***!
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"The Ladykillers" Scripts.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 31 Aug. 2024. <https://www.scripts.com/script/the_ladykillers_891>.
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