Titanic (Scriptment) Page #10

RUTH:

My God, Rose, what's gotten into you?

ROSE:

Well, it's not as if they're solving world hunger.

CAL:

Brace yourself, Ruth. I sense the start of another tirade on socialism, women's suffrage, the plight of labor, and whatever other naive liberalism she's picked up from too much reading.

RUTH:

You should spend a little less time sulking and a little more time thinking about standing up in front of 500 of society's finest people when you haven't even chosen colors for the bridesmaids.

Rose says nothing. She pokes at her crab salad with a tiny fork.

CAL:

I thought that was all settled. Isn't it peach? Or are we back to that pale yellow?

RUTH:

No, no... I despise yellow. That was Rose's idea.

Ruth and Cal spin off into a discussion of the wedding details. Cal and Ruth clearly have a kind of unholy alliance here. And Ruth is making all the decisions. Contrast her mother's obsession with the wedding arrangements... who to invite, what the place settings will be like, who will arrange the flowers, the design of the dress etc... with Rose's emotional state. For her it's like planning her own execution, but now there are hundreds of people involved, and to call it off would be a social disaster, a complete embarrassment for her mother, to say nothing of ruin for the family.

CLOSE ON ROSE, staring at her plate, listening to the inconsequential babble around her. She pokes the crab-fork into the skin of her arm, harder and harder until it draws blood. She is a girl in deep trouble, drowning silently amid the vacuous chatter. To her the voyage is a trip to the gallows.

ON THE POOP DECK Jack, Fabrizio and Tommy Ryan are enjoying the mild afternoon. Tommy and Fabrizio are smoking cigarettes at the rail, while Jack sits on a wrought-iron bench and draws.

A crewmember comes by, walking three small dogs around the deck. One of them, a BLACK FRENCH BULLDOG, is among the ugliest creatures on the planet, with bugging black eyes in a flat faced mutant head.

TOMMY:

That's typical. First class dogs come down to here to third class to take a shite.

Jack looks up from his sketch.

JACK:

Guess we know where we rank in the cosmic scheme of things.

He glances across the well deck. At the aft railing of B deck promenade stands ROSE, in a long creamy yellow dress and white gloves.

CLOSE ON JACK, unable to take his eyes off of her. They are level to each other, about 70 feet apart, with the well deck like a valley between them. She on her promontory, he on his. She stares at the water spreading away from the ship in a huge V, her head tilted down and in profile to Jack.

He watches her unpin her elaborate hat and take it off. She looks at the frilly absurd thing, then tosses it over the rail. It sails far down to the water and is carried away, astern. A spot of yellow in the vast ocean.

Her loosened hair blows in the wind, dancing in tendrils across her face. She looks like a figure in a romantic novel, sad and isolated.

He is riveted by her... not just by her beauty, but by the sadness in her face, the tilt of her head. Jack flips to a fresh sheet of paper and sketches her, capturing her emotional essence with a few efficient lines. She reminds him of a melancholy princess locked in a tower.

Fabrizio taps Tommy and they both watch Jack drawing the beautiful girl. Soon the drawing is forgotten, and Jack is just staring. Fabrizio and Tommy grin at each other.

Rose turns suddenly and looks right at Jack. He is caught staring, and looks down. But then he glances up and she is still looking at him. Their eyes meet across the space of the well deck, across the gulf between worlds. Then she turns away.

AFTER DINNER, IN THE THIRD CLASS COMMON ROOM, Tommy and Fabrizio are giving Jack a hard time about his dream girl. Tommy says there's no point thinking about her. The distance between them is greater than the journey of a lifetime. It's the distance between the classes. She's in another world, Jackie boy. You'd as likely grow wings and fly as even ever talk to a girl like that. And then what would you have to talk about, eh?

JACK:

She looked right at me.

This sets Tommy off again, even more mercilessly. You just know she's got some rich boyfriend, some bastard with plenty of money and a shiny motorcar, a house in the country and servants to wipe his bottom for him. Some guy that can buy her jewels and champagne and caviar. Where you gonna take her for a fine evening out? The corner pub for a pint?

JACK:

She's not happy.

Jack goes up on deck to get away from the heckling.

CUT TO ROSE, running along the B deck promenade. Her expression is something we haven't seen before, simultaneously hollow-eyed and determined. She has been crying, her cheeks streaked with tears. A strolling couple watch her pass. First class passengers are seldom prone to such emotional displays. How extraordinary.

Rose steps over the chain at the top of the aft well deck stairs. She goes down the stairs quickly to the well deck, a third class open area. There are a few steerage passengers on deck, who turn and look at the first class lady running through their midst.

Jack is on the poop deck, kicked back on one of the benches just forward of the DOCKING BRIDGE, a narrow raised platform spanning the width of the ship. He is gazing at the stars. The poop deck is unlighted, to discourage passengers from hanging around up here after dark. It is a moonless night and the stars blaze gloriously overhead.

Hearing something, he turns as Rose comes up the stairs from the well deck. They are the only two on the stern deck, except for QUARTERMASTER ROWE, twenty feet above them on the docking bridge catwalk. She doesn't see Jack in the shadows, and walks right past him.

TRACKING WITH ROSE as she crosses the deserted fantail. Her breath hitches in an occasional sob, which she suppresses.

HER POV... the stern rail getting closer. There are a couple of running lights here, casting stark shadows around the deck.

Rose grips the base of the stern flagpole and climbs over the railing. Moving methodically she turns her body and gets her heels on the white-painted gunwale, her back to the railing, facing out toward blackness. 60 feet below her, the massive propellers are churning the Atlantic into white foam, and a ghostly wake trails off toward the horizon.

IN A LOW ANGLE, we see Rose standing like a figurehead in reverse. Below her are the huge letters of the name "TITANIC".

She leans out, her arms going straight... looking down hypnotized, into the vortex below her. Her dress and hair are lifted by the wind of the ship's movement. The only sound, above the rush of the water below, is the flutter and snap of the twelve foot long Union Jack right above her.

And suddenly, a MAN'S VOICE

JACK:

Don't do it.

She whips her head around at the sound of his voice. It takes a second for her eyes to focus.

ROSE:

Don't come any closer!

Jack sees the tear tracks on her cheeks in the faint glow from the stern running lights.

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