The Truman Show Page #3

INT. A DIMLY-LIT ROOM SOMEWHERE. DAY.

Close up on an old man's face. CHRISTOF. Hair pure white,

late-sixties, a vitality in his eyes that belies his years.

He stands beside a floor-to-ceiling window in a dimly-lit room.

Outside the window, a single palm tree swaying against a deep

blue Californian sky. A news anchor-style earpiece disappears

down the neck of the unconventionally-cut suit he wears.

Suspended from the ceiling above his head is a television

monitor upon which a surveillance picture of Truman, engrossed

in his book, silently plays.

CHLOE, twenty-something, androgenous-looking, similarly-suited,

joins Christof at the window.

CHRISTOF:

(never taking his eyes

from the monitor)

You ever pass a car wreck on the side of the

road? They're pulling out a body. You know

you shouldn't look, but you do.

INT. A CONFERENCE ROOM SOMEWHERE. DAY.

A group of a dozen MEN and WOMEN of varying ages sit around

a circular conference table in a sterile, windowless meeting

room. All stare at a single telephone placed in the center of

the table, anticipating a call. On cue, the phone rings and one

of the men, after waiting for the second ring, picks up.

MAN:

Hello?...I'm sorry, I got more than enough

insurance.

He hangs up. After a moment the phone rings again.

INT. INSURANCE COMPANY. DAY.

TRUMAN sits at his desk, making a cold call.

TRUMAN:

(into receiver)

...this isn't about insurance, this is

about the great variable - when will

death occur? Could be a week, a month,

a year. Could happen today...A sunbather,

minding his own business, gets stabbed in

the heart by the tip of a runaway beach

umbrella...No way you can guard against

that kinda thing, no way at all...

The prospect on the other end, unimpressed with his pitch, hangs

up. Truman's supervisor, LAWRENCE, younger than Truman by

several years, sharper suit, sharper haircut, appears around the

corner of the cubicle.

LAWRENCE:

(handing Truman some documentation)

Hey, Burbank, I got a bridge-buyer in

Stapleton I need you to cloes by four.

Truman turns pale.

TRUMAN:

Stapleton on Staten Island?

LAWRENCE:

(sarcastic)

You know another one?

TRUMAN:

I can't do it.

LAWRENCE:

(insistent)

A half hour across the bay. Sea air. Do

you good.

TRUMAN:

No, I...

(searching for a plausible excuse)

...I got an appointment uptown.

LAWRENCE:

This is a sure thing.

(conspiratorial)

They're upping our quota. You need this.

Lawrence exits the cubicle. Truman's head drops. He picks up

the framed picture of his wife from his desk. MERYL, early

thirties, a petite woman easy to mistake for frail. He deposits

the photo in his briefcase and departs.

INT. MUNICIPAL FERRY TERMINAL. DAY.

TRUMAN, briefcase in hand, ashen-faced, stands in line for the

Staten Island ferry.

As the TOURISTS and COMMUTERS impatiently brush past him onto

the boat, Truman remains frozen to the spot, mesmerized by the

scummy water rising and falling beneath the dock, triggering

a flashback in his head.

EXT. LONG ISLAND SOUND. DUSK, TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS EARLIER.

The flashback once again appearing an a television screen, the

SEVEN-YEAR-OLD TRUMAN sits alongside his father, KIRK, in a

small sailing dinghy.

TRUMAN:

(shouting above the wind)

Let's go further, daddy! Let's go further!

FATHER:

(shouting back)

It's getting late, Truman.

TRUMAN:

(entreating his father)

Please!...

Kirk shakes his head ruefully and indulges his son by heading

towards the gathering storm clouds on the horizon.

INT. MUNICIPAL FERRY TERMINAL. DAY.

TRUMAN turns and begins to fight his way back against the tide

of PASSENGERS boarding the ferry, emerging back on the street

into the bright sunlight, gasping for air.

Gathering himself, he makes for the entrance of Whitehall Street

subway station. Two COMMUTERS surrepticiously observe Truman as

he departs.

COMMUTER 1

(commenting out of Truman's earshot)

I can't believe he's taking the long way.

COMMUTER 2

He'll never make it.

INT. SUBWAY TRAIN. DAY.

TRUMAN stands in a packed subway car, anxiously glancing at his

watch, wiping his perspiring hairline with a hankerchief.

INT. TAXI. DAY.

A taxi crosses the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge towards Staten

Island. TRUMAN keeps his eyes shut tight all the way across.

refusing to look down at the entrance to New York harbor.

EXT. BAY STREET, STATEN ISLAND. DAY.

TRUMAN finally reaches his destination at a well-to-do

condominium on Bay Street. As he approaches the lobby, he

realizes he has perspiration showing through the armpits of his

suit jacket.

INT. CONDOMINIUM. DAY.

A middle-aged CONCIERGE behind a reception desk, is having his

hair brushed by a YOUNGER MAN in his mid-thirties. Anticipating

Truman's arrival, the hairdresser fusses one more time and

swiftly departs through a rear door. TRUMAN enters the lobby

and approaches the CONCIERGE, trying to keep his arms tightly at

his sides to hide the perspiration.

TRUMAN:

I'm here to see a Mr Hamilton.

CONCIERGE:

You from the insurance company? You missed him.

TRUMAN:

When will he be back?

CONCIERGE:

Vacation. Two months. He waited as long as

he could. You was supposed to be here by four.

A clock on the wall reads 4.l2pm.

INT. SUBWAY. AFTERNOON.

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