The Silence of the Lambs

FADE IN:

INT. GRUBBY HOTEL CORRIDOR - DAY (DIMLY LIT)

A woman's face BACKS INTO SHOT, her head resting against

grimy wallpaper. She is tense, sweaty, wide-eyed with

concentration. This is CLARICE STARLING, mid-20's, trim,

very pretty. She wears Kevlar body armor over a navy

windbreaker, khaki pants. Her thick hair is piled under a

navy baseball cap. A revolver, clutched in her right hand,

hovers by her ear. She raises a speedloader, in her left

hand, locks it into her cylinder, twists and reloads.

CLOSE ON:

A guest room door, with a small, wired pack attached to its

knob. Suddenly, wish a sharp CRACK!, the knob explodes, and

the door bursts open.

WITH CLARICE - MOVING SHOT

as she runs around a corner, through a cloud of smoke. She

shoulders aside the shattered door and rushes inside, gun at

the ready in both hands...

CUT TO:

INT. HOTEL ROOM - DAY

CLARICE'S POV - MOVING - as she first sees, sitting on the

edge of a bed - a FEMALE HOSTAGE. Black, late 20's, gagged,

hands behind her back. Then, SWIVELLING... she sees a startled

MALE SUSPECT, white, mid-20's, standing by a window with a

rifle in his hands. He is turning towards her...

Clarice drops into a combat crouch, gun extended, and shouts.

CLARICE:

Freeze! FBI!

CLARICE'S POV - SLOW MOTION

all natural SOUND suspended - as the Suspect faces her with

a strange, pleading expression. The rifle is rising in his

hands, but oddly enough, it is held across his chest, not

pointing. Then another puzzling detail registers...

THE SUSPECT'S HANDS

are taped to his gun, away from the trigger; he couldn't use

it even if he tried. Suddenly we hear a metallic CLICK, which

registers with unnatural amplification, as - Clarice reacts,

drops to the floor, rolling sideways, and -

THE "HOSTAGE"

pulls a revolver out from behind her back, still in SLOW

MOTION, raising it in her untied hands. She fires repeatedly,

flames leaping from the muzzle; the SOUND is an echoing roar

in these close quarters, but -

Clarice has come up on one knee, beside an armchair, and is

already firing back herself, two quick SHOTS, which send -

THE "HOSTAGE"

pitching over the bed, backwards, to shudder and lie still

in a haze of gunsmoke. Clarice rushes to her, clamping one

knee down on her gun hand, still keeping her covered in case

of movement. HOLD for a few beats... then we hear the shrill

blast of a WHISTLE from somewhere, off screen, as normal

ACTION and SOUND are restored.

BRIGHAM (O.S.)

Okay, people, good exercise...

Clarice relaxes, lowering her gun. The lights brighten.

PULLING BACK:

we see that we're in some sort of auditorium, with the "hotel

room" and its "corridor" built as a training set. JOHN BRIGHAM

walks onto this set, thumbing a stopwatch. Mid-40's, ex-

Marine. His T-shirt's lettering says "Firearms Instructor /

FBI Academy."

BRIGHAM:

Starling's reaction time was

excellent. Let's break. Critique in

five.

A class of about forty young FBI trainees, of both sexes,

begins to rise from their seats, mingling and chatting.

Clarice nods amiably to the "Suspect", then gives her

"Hostage" a hand up. It's ARDELIA MAPP, her roommate. Her

broad, clever face breaks into a big smile, as they both

remove ear plugs. Clarice's voice has just a soft trace of

southern accent.

ARDELIA:

Damn, Clarice, how'd you make me?

CLARICE:

(indicating her gun)

Never cock. Just squeeze.

ARDELIA:

(grins)

I love it when you talk dirty.

As Brigham joins them, Clarice can't resist a star pupil's

little smile of pride. He frowns good-naturedly.

BRIGHAM:

What're you laughin' at, Junior G-

Man? She got off four rounds to your

two.

He takes out a steel-coiled grip flexer, drops it onto her

palm.

BRIGHAM:

(continuing)

One hundred reps, each hand, every

day. Now tidy up, the Section Chief

wants to see you.

He nods a direction, then moves off. Clarice, with her smile

finally fading, looks out into the auditorium.

SPECIAL AGENT JACK CRAWFORD

sits on the top step of the aisle, looking down at her. He

is 53, strongly built. He rises impassively, exits through

the back door. He carries a think manila envelope under one

arm.

Ardelia who is helping Clarice unbuckle her bullet-proof

vest, follows her worried gaze.

CLARICE:

What'd I do?

ARDELIA:

Stay cool. Just remember to call him

"God."

CUT TO:

EXT. FBI ACADEMY GROUNDS, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA - DAY

Crawford is watching a group of trainees on the firing range,

as Clarice joins him. He looks tired, haunted. Between master

and student, we sense a subtle, muted tug of sexuality.

CRAWFORD:

Starling, Clarice M., good morning.

CLARICE:

Good morning, Mr. Crawford.

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