The Pianist
FADE IN:
INT. WARSAW (ARCHIVE) - DAY
Black and white. Street scene. People toing and froing. A
man rattles by.
SUPERIMPOSE CAPTION:
WARSAW 1939
INT. STUDIO, RADIO STATION, WARSAW - DAY
WLADYSLAV SZPILMAN plays Chopin's Nocturne in C sharp minor,
Posthumous. He's twenty-eight years old, elegant and
handsome.
In the booth, separated from the studio by a glass screen,
an engineer, wearing collar and tie, monitors the broadcast.
Behind him, a window to the street with strips of paper
taped on it as protection against blast.
Without warning, a bomb drops nearby, then another and
another. The whole building shudders alarmingly and the
window in the booth shatters.
The engineer and Szpilman exchange a look as a man enters
the booth and talks urgently to the Engineer, then goes.
The engineer makes a 'cut-throat' gesture, but Szpilman
shakes his head, determined to play on.
He plays, then glances at the booth. The engineer has gone,
but through the shattered window he sees fires raging.
Very near, a loud, terrifying explosion. The reverberations
cause plaster to flake and dust to trickle down over his
face.
And then a bomb explodes even closer. The glass screen
separating booth from studio implodes, showering Szpilman
with glass. He stops, frozen.
INT. STAIRS AND LOBBY, RADIO STATION - DAY
Pandemonium. Chaos. People rushing in all directions, many
carrying files, boxes, papers, shouting, calling. Some of
the men in military uniform. The bombing continuous.
Szpilman fights his way down the stairs. He has a small
cut on his forehead and is dabbing it with his handkerchief.
He has a dazed look. Halfway down the stairs, A young woman,
DOROTA, tugs at his sleeve:
DOROTA:
Mr. Szpilman.
He turns, to see an extremely pretty young woman gazing
adoringly at him while they're jostled and shoved. His
eyes light up.
SZPILMAN:
Hello.
DOROTA:
I came specially to meet you today.
I love your playing, but what a
day to choose.
SZPILMAN:
Who are you?
DOROTA:
My name's Dorota, I'm Jurek's
sister. oh! You're bleeding.
SZPILMAN:
It's nothing.
JUREK pushes in beside them and takes her arm.
JUREK:
C'mon, Dorota, you can write him a
fan letter later, this isn't the
best time, c'mon.
Jurek, pulling Dorota, fights his way down the stairs.
SZPILMAN:
(calling)
Jurek, why have you been hiding
her?
And he, too, is carried with the flow into the lobby. Debris
everywhere. Szpilman fights to get to the main door, when
another bomb explodes, filling the air with dust and debris,
obscuring him and everyone else.
The Szpilman family in panic: coming and going out of rooms,
packing clothes and belongings into open suitcases and a
trunk in a comfortable, tastefully furnished bourgeois
apartment, the living room lined with books, paintings and
boasting a boudoir grand, silver platters and candlesticks.
The family consist of MOTHER, in a state of great anxiety,
FATHER, REGINA, twenty-six, HALINA, twenty-two, and HENRYK,
twenty-four, the only one not in movement. He sits by the
radio set, ear to the speaker, trying to tune to a station.
No bombs now, just the distant sound of artillery fire.
Father, holding a silver-framed photograph, crosses to
Mother.
FATHER:
What you think, should I take Uncle
Szymon's photograph?
MOTHER:
Take it, don't take it, take what
you like. Can't you see I'm worried
sick?
FATHER:
He'll come home, he'll be all right.
He goes into his room. She can barely control her tears
and hurries into the kitchen just as the front door opens
and Szpilman enters, looks round bemused by the activity.
REGINA:
Mama, Wladek's home.
Mother dashes out of the kitchen.
MOTHER:
Thank God - Wladek! You're wounded.
SZPILMAN:
It's a little cut, nothing.
MOTHER:
I've been worried sick.
HENRYK:
I told her not to worry. You had
your papers on you. If you'd been
hit by a bomb, they'd have known
where to take you.
MOTHER:
Henryk, don't say things like that,
God forbid, God forbid.
HALINA:
(calling through a
door)
Papa, Wladek's home.
Father appears in the doorway, beaming, clutching a violin
case.
FATHER:
What did I tell you?
SZPILMAN:
(looking around the
room, bemused)
What are you doing?
REGINA:
What's it look like we're doing?
Translation
Translate and read this script in other languages:
Select another language:
- - Select -
- 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
- 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
- Español (Spanish)
- Esperanto (Esperanto)
- 日本語 (Japanese)
- Português (Portuguese)
- Deutsch (German)
- العربية (Arabic)
- Français (French)
- Русский (Russian)
- ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
- 한국어 (Korean)
- עברית (Hebrew)
- Gaeilge (Irish)
- Українська (Ukrainian)
- اردو (Urdu)
- Magyar (Hungarian)
- मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
- Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Italiano (Italian)
- தமிழ் (Tamil)
- Türkçe (Turkish)
- తెలుగు (Telugu)
- ภาษาไทย (Thai)
- Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
- Čeština (Czech)
- Polski (Polish)
- Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Românește (Romanian)
- Nederlands (Dutch)
- Ελληνικά (Greek)
- Latinum (Latin)
- Svenska (Swedish)
- Dansk (Danish)
- Suomi (Finnish)
- فارسی (Persian)
- ייִדיש (Yiddish)
- հայերեն (Armenian)
- Norsk (Norwegian)
- English (English)
Citation
Use the citation below to add this screenplay to your bibliography:
Style:MLAChicagoAPA
"The Pianist" Scripts.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 5 Nov. 2024. <https://www.scripts.com/script/the_pianist_72>.
Discuss this script with the community:
Report Comment
We're doing our best to make sure our content is useful, accurate and safe.
If by any chance you spot an inappropriate comment while navigating through our website please use this form to let us know, and we'll take care of it shortly.
Attachment
You need to be logged in to favorite.
Log In