The Lost Weekend Page #17

C-13 THIRD AVENUE

Don comes out of Gloria's house, staggers towards Nat's bar,

the typewriter in one hand, the five dollars in the other.

DON:

Nat! I've got money now, Nat, I've

got money!

The fall has been too much for him. He sinks to his knees,

drags himself a few feet.

DON:

I need a straight one, Nat! Quick,

quick!

He collapses. People become aware of him -- one, two, four.

A crowd closes in.

Don lies on the sidewalk, looking up helplessly. His eyes

are dim. He tries to hold the money up but is too weak. His

hand drops back. The ring of faces looks down at him, among

them the familiar face of Nat.

DON:

Nat. I got the money, Nat.

There is the clang of an ambulance, the shriek of brakes.

The faces part to let two stretcher-bearers bend over Don

and take him on a stretcher.

Don is carried to the ambulance as the crowd watches.

The doors of the ambulance are closed. The ambulance starts

off, bell ringing like mad.

Nat has picked up the typewriter and looks after the

ambulance, his eyes full of pity.

C-14 INT. MOVING AMBULANCE

Don lies half-conscious, his eyes staring through the

ambulance window.

C-15 TO C-25 OUT OF THE AMBULANCE WINDOW - (TRANSPARENCIES)

Fleeting impressions of a wild `U' turn on Third Avenue --

the elevated, the Chrysler Building, the tall midtown

structures, the lower houses of downtown, a high iron fence,

the entrance of Bellevue Hospital.

C-26 DON - IN THE AMBULANCE

His eyes close. He loses consciousness.

FADE OUT:

END OF SEQUENCE "C"

SEQUENCE "D"

FADE IN:

D-1 A WIRE BASKET WITH FOUR MILK BOTTLES IN IT

moving away from the CAMERA. Gradually we see that it is in

the hand of a milkman ascending the stairs of the Birnam

apartment house. He leaves a bottle by the door of the rear

apartment on the third floor, one in front of Mrs.

Deveridge's, then starts up to the fourth floor.

As he gets halfway up, he stops momentarily in surprise.

In the embrasure by the banister at the top of the stairs,

wrapped in her leopard coat, is Helen St. James, dozing

wearily. Beyond her is the door to the Birnam apartment,

Helen's note still pinned to the panel, two milk bottles and

the newspapers of the last two days on the threshold.

The milkman resumes his walk, careful not to wake up the

young lady. He deposits a milk bottle beside the others and

descends carefully. As he reaches the third floor, Mrs.

Deveridge, in a kimono, has just opened her door and is taking

in her milk bottle.

MRS. DEVERIDGE

(Briskly)

Good morning.

The milkman gestures to her not to speak so loudly, then

makes a mysterious gesture of the thumb indicating the upper

hall. Mrs. Deveridge looks up. The milkman proceeds down the

stairs. Mrs. Deveridge sets down the milk bottle and goes up

the stairs. As she goes, she calls sharply.

MRS. DEVERIDGE

Anything wrong up there? Anything

wrong?

Helen wakens at the first syllable, orientates herself as to

where she is, and gets up.

MRS. DEVERIDGE

Are you all right?

HELEN:

I'm fine, thank you.

MRS. DEVERIDGE

Have you been here all night?

HELEN:

I've been waiting for Mr. Birnam.

MRS. DEVERIDGE

Mr. Don Birnam?

HELEN:

Yes. I suppose he must have stayed

overnight with -- some friends. He

has some friends on Long Island.

MRS. DEVERIDGE

Now, now, what kind of story is that?

HELEN:

I beg your pardon?

MRS. DEVERIDGE

Look, I'm his landlady. I know what

goes on in this house. I know Mr.

Don Birnam. I knew all about him the

first week they moved here, three

years ago. Heard those bottles rattle

in their garbage can. I know all

about you. You're Don Birnam's girl.

I also know he's not staying with

any friends in Long Island. He's off

on another toot and you know I'm

darned right. Now come on down and

I'll make you some breakfast.

HELEN:

I don't care for any breakfast, nor

do I care for that kind of talk,

even supposing you were right.

MRS. DEVERIDGE

Which I am. Now you're going to have

some coffee.

They start downstairs, Mrs. Deveridge talking as they descend.

MRS. DEVERIDGE

I could have kicked him out fifty

times. The last when two taxi drivers

dumped him into the entrance hall,

out cold on the floor, with all my

tenants going in and out, and children

leaving for school.

HELEN:

Oh please, please!

MRS. DEVERIDGE

Well, I didn't put him out, not as

long as his brother could pay the

rent. You couldn't help liking him

anyway. He was so good-looking, he

had such nice manners. He always had

a little joke.

HELEN:

Stop talking about him as if he were

dead.

MRS. DEVERIDGE

Did I? I didn't mean to. Hope it

wasn't bad luck.

DISSOLVE TO:

D-2 THE ALCOHOLIC WARD

We start on Don Birnam's face. He is lying on a cot, his

eyes closed. He has a three-day growth of beard. His face

has the pallor and immobility of death.

Over the shot come curious sounds of moaning, of incoherent

mumbling, of slippered feet shuffling along a concrete floor,

of a mysterious metallic chattering.

Don isn't dead. The sounds reach his ears at last. His eyes

open for a second. Then his gaze is directed emptily upward.

D-3 THE BILE-COLORED CEILING OF A LARGE ROOM

Over it the same strange noises. Don's eyes (i.E. THE CAMERA)

slowly descend the bile-colored walls, broken by opaque leaded-

glass windows and the large glassed swinging door leading to

an outer room. At last the nature of the room itself is

revealed. It is filled with rows of strangely low cots, about

thirty of them, standing on dwarf legs. Eight of them are

occupied by men whose ages range from 20 to 60. Six of them

are white, two of them colored, All are unshaven and dressed

in shabby flannel hospital pajamas.

Don's dull eyes don't quite comprehend. His head aches

furiously. In the cot next him is a man about 50, burrowing

into the mattress in drunken sleep, his mouth fallen open.

In the cot opposite him, a very thin young fellow lies shaking

and sweating profusely. His entire frame, all of it, trembles

as if a fine motor operated somewhere beneath the mattress

itself.

On the other side of Don's cot, a huge negro lies babbling

incoherently. No words are audible, save now and then a

number. His voice has the sound of infinite worry.

Against the wall, not far from Don, stands a man about 30,

in a faded terry-cloth bathrobe. He has an incredibly

sensitive face. One ear is bandaged. He looks as though he

wanted to crawl into the wall from shame. The rest of the

men in the cots are sleeping lumps.

Don addresses the man standing against the wall.

DON:

What's this place?

The man looks at Don but doesn't answer.

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