The Ladykillers Page #4

The Director's feet enter in the foreground. He hooks the

dogs belly with one foot and hoists it roughly away from the

bowl. We

CUT UP TO:

The DIRECTOR. He scowls down at the animal.

DIRECTOR:

...Props!

A man in a Hemingway field-jacket with multiple pockets, and

also a loaded utility belt, trots up toward him, his belt

jangling as he runs. This is CLARK PANCAKE.

Pancake is a florid beer-bellied man in his late fifties. He

has a full blond-grey Grizzly Adams beard and wears multi-

pocketed shorts that form an ensemble with his Hemingway

jacket.

The director is angry.

DIRECTOR:

...The goddamn thing's canteen fell

off. It would have been a good take.

Pancake is unperturbed.

PANCAKE:

Okay. Okay. We're prepared for that...

He hits a button on the radio on his belt and talks into his

headset:

PANCAKE:

... Mountain, bring Otto with the

apparatus.

PULLING ANOTHER BULLDOG

He strains at his lead, muscling forward as quickly as his

minder and his own stumpy little legs will allow.

He peers through the two goggly eyeholes of an antique leather

gas mask, its pignose breathing apparatus covering his own

snout. His phlegmy breathing is amplified by the device.

We TILT UP the lead to show his minder, MOUNTAIN GIRL. She

is a solid woman in her late forties with freckles beginning

to merge into age spots. Her long straw-colored hair is

tightly braided into Heidi pigtails bound with red ribbon.

Otherwise her dress is unadorned.

The director squints at the dog.

DIRECTOR:

What the hell is this?

Pancake's manner is professorial:

PANCAKE:

World War I vintage gas mask. It's

authentic. Strapped on, of course,

so it can't fall off. The animal is

free to be as active as he wants,

doesn't inhibit his movement, and I

think it really sells the whole

doughboy thing--

DIRECTOR:

It looks like a f***ing joke.

Pancake stares at the director for a moment and, though not

doing anything, makes a sound of concentrated effort:

PANCAKE:

...Nnnnrnff!

The director squints at him:

DIRECTOR:

What?

Pancake comes out of his trance, or whatever it was:

PANCAKE:

No, nothing, uh... you're absolutely

right, the gas mask is a whimsical

concept--

DIRECTOR:

How the hell does it eat when it

gets to the Kennel Rations?

The dog looks up from person to person as each speaks,

twisting its neck to peer through the eyeholes. Its breathing

is growing louder.

PANCAKE:

Well, you're absolutely right�-

DIRECTOR:

Don't let the client see this.

PANCAKE:

Of course not, that would be

inappropriate--

DIRECTOR:

Or the Humane f***er.

PANCAKE:

No no--

The dog gets down on its knees, slowly, like a camel,

breathing ever more loudly.

DIRECTOR:

They'll shut the f***ing spot down,

Pancake. Put the goddamn canteen

back on. That says he's a soldier.

Dented tin canteen. Just tie the

damn thing to his collar.

The dog flops over into the mud.

PANCAKE:

Easiest thing in the world. I just

thought -- but the canteen is much

better. Good concept. Let's go with

that--

DIRECTOR:

What's he doing?

The dog has started to convulse.

PANCAKE:

Well, he's uh... Just breathe

normally, Otto.

DIRECTOR:

The f***ing dog can't breathe.

PANCAKE:

Oh, he can breathe, that thing is --

just breathe normally, Otto.

The dog's breath is rasping and horrible.

DIRECTOR:

The f***ing dog cannot breathe! Get

that f***ing thing off him!

PANCAKE:

Of course. Easiest thing in the world.

He stoops and fiddles at the straps.

PANCAKE:

...It's on good and tight, I, uh...

Just breathe normally, Otto.

He starts thumping at his pockets.

DIRECTOR:

Get the f***ing thing off him!

PANCAKE:

Don't have my Leatherman. Mountain!

Give me your Leatherman! Chop chop!

DIRECTOR:

Get the f***ing thing off him! Chitra,

make sure the Humane f***er doesn't

come over here! Bring him to craft

services!

As he makes to scoop up the dog:

PANCAKE:

Good idea! Ice water, treats-�

DIRECTOR:

Not the dog, you idiot! The Humane

f***er! Distract him!

PANCAKE:

Right! Of course!

He goes back to work on the mask.

DIRECTOR:

Oh my god, he's bleeding!

PANCAKE:

No, that's me -- I -- the

Leatherman... here we go.

His hand gouting blood, he finally manages to get the gas

mask off.

A crowd is starting to gather and gape. The director barks

at a grip:

DIRECTOR:

Put up a couple solids here -- I

don't want the client seeing this!

Pancake thumps on the inert dog's chest.

PANCAKE:

Come on, Otto!

DIRECTOR:

Otto is f***ing dead!

PANCAKE:

Mountain, have electric run me a

stinger! Don't give up on me, Otto!

Mountain, I need two live leads!

More people crowd in to look.

MOUNTAIN GIRL:

Clark, the gennie's a hundred yards

away!

PANCAKE:

Goddamnit! Otto's gonna have brain

damage in about ninety seconds! Okay!

He pulls the dog's lips back, exposing its teeth and slobbered

tongue.

PANCAKE:

...Kiss of life!

He sucks in a deep breath and starts mouth-to-mouthing the

beast.

EXT. FOOTBALL FIELD - DAY

POV:

We are looking out from inside a football helmet; we hear

the super-present breathing of the helmet's occupant. Just

over the breathing we can hear the muffled shouting of a

snap count.

We are in a crouch position looking downfield. At the call

of "Hike!" we and everyone on the field spring into action.

We sprint downfield, the breathing becoming even louder. A

very big person downfield is sprinting toward us.

After several yards, still on the move, we PAN quickly around

to look back for the quarterback. Barely visible among

converging bodies, he is releasing the football toward someone

else.

Easing up on the run we PAN BACK around to look downfield

just as the oncoming defender is upon us and -- CRUNCH --

slams into us. A STROBING PAN leaves us looking up at the

sky. Our loud breathing has stopped.

After a long beat the breathing resumes with a raggedy labored

inhale. It continues irregularly. Another helmeted player

appears above us to peer down into our helmet. He extends a

hand to help us up.

HUDDLE:

We are looking back and forth around the circle at our

gathered teammates.

QUARTERBACK:

Delta thirty-seven. On four!

All, with a simultaneous hand clap:

TEAM:

Huh!

LINE OF SCRIMMAGE

Lined up opposite us is a snarling defender.

Once again, over loud breathing, we can just hear the shouted

count.

At "Hike!" we straighten to meet the defensive lineman lunging

at us. His mouthpiece clatters against ours and in horrific

CLOSE-UP he strains against us, his animal gurgles of effort

audible over our own ragged breath.

With a primal roar from the defenseman our POV tips back and

up, BOOMING DOWN to stop with a CRUNCH against the ground,

staring up. Once again our breathing has stopped.

After a beat a foot is planted on our helmet as a looming

running back steps on us in his charge downfield. He is

pursued by defenders some of whom leap over us and some of

whom by the sound of it step on various body parts.

HUDDLE:

The same back-and-forth PAN.

QUARTERBACK:

Okay, Epsilon twenty-two! You the

man!... Hey! BUTTHEAD!

This brings our wandering attention PANNING back to the

quarterback:

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