The Man in the Iron Mask

FADE IN:

From the BLACKNESS before the first images, we hear a young

woman's tortured SCREAM, muffled by her own will. We see her

mouth, open in agony; her face, beaded with sweat. Her name

is ANNE, and she is Queen of France. She lies in

A ROYAL BEDCHAMBER

The royal DOCTOR kneels at the foot of her bed; her own royal

mother grips her hands...

On the opposite side of the huge bedchamber, and separated

from the queen's bed by an artistically painted screen, are

royal ADVISORS sweating and anxious for any word to take to

their king. They wince as the Queen moans again in the pain

of childbirth.

Her fingers claw out for help, but her Doctor ignores her

need to be touched and comforted; he is concerned only for

the baby. Only her PRIEST, FATHER BELLES, sits at her head,

stroking her hair gently and rapidly whispering prayers.

DOCTOR:

The head is born! One arm... the

other arm... it is a boy!

The advisors, disregarding the Queen's privacy, scurry around

the screen to see the doctor lift the beautiful baby, wet

with birth. The mother -- the Queen -- is still in agony,

yet she struggles to lift her head.

ADVISOR 1

I shall tell the king!

ADVISOR 2

I shall tell him!

They hurry for the door. But their race to be first to bring

this great news to the King is interrupted as the Queen emits

another cry; it surprises the doctor.

DOCTOR:

M'lady...?

He kneels again to examine the Queen.

DOCTOR:

Another...? It is another!

The joy vanishes from the faces of the advisors. They look

gravely at each other, as they hear a second BABY'S CRY.

SMASH TO:

A DARK COURTYARD - NIGHT

A door groans open in a hidden corner of the palace courtyard

and into the darkness steps a dashing figure. His face is

hidden in shadow, but we know from the silhouette of his

cloak and plumed hat that he is a MUSKETEER.

He carries an OBLONG BASKET.

A carriage is just rattling onto the flagstones of the

courtyard. The Musketeer steps into its interior, with a

sharp word to the driver --

MUSKETEER:

Away.

The whip CRACKS and the carriage plunges into the night.

TIME DISSOLVE:

EXT. ESTABLISHING THE ISLAND FORTRESS PRISON - DAY

On a gash of rock thrusting upward from the sea along the

southern coast of France stands an island fortress, a prison,

like an Alcatraz of the Mediterranean. Just off a coastline

renowned for its beauty, the fortress is horrible and

foreboding. As we SUPERIMPOSE:

1662

TWENTY-TWO YEARS LATER

INT. THE FORTRESS PRISON

With the camera as our moving POV, we survey the prison. It

is a horrible place: dungeons where prisoners lie in their

own filth; corners where jailers rut with unresisting captive

women; long twisting corridors lined with cells, from which

prisoners whimper, or moan in madness. Up a long winding

staircase our POV moves; we push through the barred window of

a cell... It is somewhat cleaner than the rest of the places

we've seen, but still a prison. We PAN the cell.

And we see a man. A MAN IN AN IRON MASK. It is terrifying,

to think of anyone imprisoned in this way. We push in on his

eyes... They are blue, childlike.

A greasy jailer -- the prisoner's KEEPER -- puts his face to

the barred window of the door, and speaks with bored cruelty.

KEEPER:

You dead yet?

MAN IN THE IRON MASK

No, Keeper.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. ESTABLISHING PARIS - DAY

SUPERIMPOSE:

PARIS:

EXT. PARIS STREET - NIGHT

Through the narrow streets of the old city gallops a dashing

figure, his cloak flying behind him and catching the

moonlight, his horse's hooves clattering along the

cobblestones as he dodges the beggars living in the filthy

shadows. He is a magnetic sight, riding the horse as easily

as if they were racing across an open field and not through a

cluttered street, and guiding the stallion as if its grace

and power came not from the animal but from the rider.

Sitting lightly in the saddle is

D'ARTAGNAN

famous Musketeer, Captain of the King's Royal Bodyguard. He

is still handsome at mid-life, still erect, unambiguous in

his courage and his loyalty.

He rides past a knot of angry beggars, moving through the

streets breaking windows and scavenging for food. When they

see d'Artagnan, some throw rocks at him. They sail by

d'Artagnan's head; he ducks them with the fluid grace of a

boxer dodging punches, and keeps on riding.

OUTSIDE THE CATHEDRAL

D'Artagnan rides into the courtyard of a grand old residence

beside Notre Dame Cathedral. Priests are dispensing food to

beggars gathered in the courtyard. As d'Artagnan reins his

horse to a stop the wretched people stare with contempt at

the royal symbols on his uniform. But d'Artagnan is not a

man anyone would be quick to confront; as he dismounts and

moves toward the doorways the people part for him.

He pauses as he sees, parked to one side of the old

residence, a big rickety carriage. D'Artagnan smiles.

D'ARTAGNAN

Porthos too!

D'Artagnan hears drunken feminine giggles echoing down the

staircase of the tower above him.

INT. PRIESTS' RESIDENCE - A STAIRWAY - DAY

Four people are moving up a winding stairway; three are

women, bosoms spilling from their gaudy dresses; the fourth

is PORTHOS, the former Musketeer, now a nobleman of great

wealth and even greater girth. He and the women are drinking

wine as they stagger up the stairs, the women towing Porthos

like rowboats tugging a ship to dock. Porthos is not so

drunk that his hands fail to find pleasant places to grip

their bodies as they walk and giggle.

PORTHOS:

Ah ha! Here we are! Aramis!

Porthos is here!

They reach a doorway. Porthos kicks it open, staggers back,

and begins shoving the women inside.

INT. A PRIEST'S APARTMENT - DAY

The first of the partying women tumbles inside; she stops

short at what she sees. The second and third stumble in

after her and they too stop dead still, sobered by what they

see. Then with a great roar Porthos barrels in.

PORTHOS:

Aaaaaaaramis!! Porthos is --

He stops dead in his tracks. From the POV OF PORTHOS AND THE

WOMEN, we see ARAMIS. Always the most theological of the

Musketeers, and ruthlessly brilliant, he is still lean and

powerful. And still handsome, or at least he would be; but

now he kneels before a single candle at a private altar,

wearing sackcloth and ashes in penitent prayer.

PORTHOS:

Sorry, my dears. You would have

enjoyed it too. He's hung like a

donkey.

WENCH 1

So are you.

PORTHOS:

Really? I haven't been able to see

it for fifteen years. Go on now,

leave His Holiness alone. I'll

bring you back tomorrow when he's in

a better mood.

He whacks their bottoms, herding them out, then swaggers to

Aramis, heaving himself to a seat beside his praying friend.

PORTHOS:

Please revel with me, Aramis, I need

my spirits lifted. I'm old, I'm

weak, my strength is gone --

ARAMIS:

Be quiet, you fat fool. Can't you

see I'm praying?

PORTHOS:

I just said you're praying! Are you

deaf too? I know you're blind,

because if you had seen the tits

that just walked out of here, you'd

have tears in your eyes.

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