Trumbo Page #12

(CONTINUED)

TRUMBO - JOHN MCNAMARA 65.

CONTINUED:

FRANK KING:

Are you kiddin’ me with this?

Trumbo looks up at him, alarmed. The Receptionist freezes in

mid-swat. Frank lunges at Trumbo, grabs his right hand,

shakes it hard, then YELLS into another doorway:

FRANK KING (CONT’D)

Hymie! Get out here! Pay the man!

Hymie emerges, pulls out a roll of cash, peels off fifties.

FRANK KING (CONT’D)

Now look, we got this one, killer

in a swamp? Best character’s the

swamp. Plus, women in prison,

fighting in their underwear -- it’s

perfect except it stinks.

(to Hymie)

What else?

HYMIE KING:

Pirates. Can’t afford the ocean.

FRANK KING:

Fix ’em all.

EXT. HIGHLAND PARK NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY

1952. A working-class section of Los Angeles. Small, neat

houses; older cars. On this Sunday, MEN in sport shirts tend

to both, while WOMEN walk baby carriages or trim flowers and

KIDS play. A moving truck RUMBLES past, followed by --

INT./EXT. TRUMBO’S CAR - DRIVING/HIGHLAND PARK - CONTINUOUS

Trumbo at the wheel, Cleo beside him, the three kids in back,

all taking in this new block.

Trumbo’s gaze settles on a presidential election lawn sign:

EISENHOWER/NIXON, featuring photos of the two candidates.

Trumbo focuses on Nixon’s wide grin.

EXT. THE NEW TRUMBO HOME - HIGHLAND PARK - DAY

Lovely, compact. MOVERS unload furniture from their truck.

Niki pours lemonade for some who take a break.

NIKI:

Hard work, you holding up okay?

TRUMBO - JOHN MCNAMARA 66.

EXT. TRUMBO HIGHLAND PARK HOUSE - BACK PATIO - DAY

Beside a shimmering pool, Trumbo and Mitzi tend to a tiny,

injured bird. She is upset, Trumbo warmly calm.

DALTON TRUMBO:

It’s a broken wing but he’s going

to be just fine, sweetie.

MITZI:

He’s scared.

DALTON TRUMBO:

We’ll get him some water, some

nice, yummy worms, go inside, ask

mom for a shoebox.

She runs into the house. Trumbo cups the bird.

INT. TRUMBO HIGHLAND PARK HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAYS LATER

The house has been completely moved into. Cleo comes down

the stairs in a bathing suit.

CLEO:

C’mon, Mitzi!

Mitzi races down the stairs, also in a bathing suit. Mother

and daughter cross through the house, excited. They pass a

YAWNING Trumbo still in his robe. He opens the front door --

EXT. TRUMBO HIGHLAND PARK HOUSE - FRONT DOOR - CONTINUOUS

-- to get the paper and lying next to it, sees a plain

envelope.

Trumbo picks it up and opens it. It reads in block letters -

WELCOME TRAITOR. WE DID THE POOL. - YOUR NEIGHBORS

Alarmed, Trumbo hurries out to -

INT./EXT. TRUMBO HIGHLAND PARK HOUSE - BACK PATIO -

CONTINUOUS:

-- where Cleo comforts Mitzi, upset as Trumbo exits the house

to see -

--their pool fouled with garbage, dirt, floating dead rats.

Trumbo immediately moves to his wife and child.

DALTON TRUMBO:

All right. Inside.

(CONTINUED)

TRUMBO - JOHN MCNAMARA 67.

CONTINUED:

He glances across his fence and sees his NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR,

30s, tight white t-shirt, watering his lawn. And an

unmistakably big, sh*t-eating grin on his face.

INT. TRUMBO HIGHLAND PARK HOUSE - DINING ROOM - NIGHT

Trumbo presides over the family dinner.

DALTON TRUMBO:

There are many ignorant, angry

people in the world. And they

appear to be breeding in record

numbers. All we can do is stay

together and remain vigilant.

EXT. LOS ANGELES MOVIE THEATRE 2 - NIGHT

Fall, 1953, as WE FIND the bright marquee, announcing:

Roman Holiday. Starring Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn.

Below that, a lit poster for the breezy romantic comedy.

TIGHT on the movie’s credits and ISOLATE:

Original Story by Ian McLellan Hunter.

INT. LOS ANGELES MOVIE THEATRE 2 - CONTINUOUS

Among the ROWS of MOVIE FANS, Dalton and Cleo Trumbo enjoy a

lovely, funny scene, LAUGHING with the rest of the audience,

though perhaps with a bit more restraint.

IAN MCLELLAN HUNTER (PRE-LAP)

Big hit, great reviews --

INT. DINER - DOWNTOWN L.A. - DAY

IAN MCLELLAN HUNTER

-- haven’t worked in nine months.

Trumbo sips coffee. Hunter reaches for the cream.

You?

IAN MCLELLAN HUNTER (CONT’D)

DALTON TRUMBO:

There aren’t quite enough zeroes in

a King Brothers salary to survive --

FLASHBACK TO:

INT. TRUMBO HIGHLAND PARK HOUSE - STUDY - DAY

Trumbo at the typewriter, surrounded by empty shelves.

(CONTINUED)

TRUMBO - JOHN MCNAMARA 68.

CONTINUED:

DALTON TRUMBO (V.O.)

-- but they need scripts like an

army needs food. Quality, minimal;

quantity, maximal.

THIS OFFICE MORPHS OVER THE YEAR

As Trumbo writes, never leaving the desk, as if chained. And

WITHOUT A SINGLE CUT, all around him, the shelves fill with

scripts, the office growing more and more cluttered.

DALTON TRUMBO (V.O.)

Every work week is seven days,

every day is fourteen hours, every

minute I’m behind. And I’m

becoming a stranger in my own home.

BACK TO:

INT. DINER - DOWNTOWN L.A. - DAY

IAN MCLELLAN HUNTER

They need five of you.

Trumbo smiles slyly.

INT. MUSSO AND FRANK - NIGHT - TIGHT ON A TABLE

Of FIVE MEN, including Ian McLellan Hunter and Arlen Hird.

Though they’re sipping cocktails and coffee, they have the

clenched look of people in the middle of a job interview.

Which is not far from the truth because -

FRANK KING (O.S.)

The only question is, can these

pinkos write?

SEVERAL TABLES AWAY - FRANK AND HYMIE KING AND TRUMBO

Sit, the Kings looking over the table of writers like used

goods at a garage sale:

DALTON TRUMBO:

(points)

That’s Ian McLellan Hunter.

FRANK KING:

(impressed)

Guy wrote Roman Holiday.

HYMIE KING:

Guy just got subpoenaed.

(CONTINUED)

TRUMBO - JOHN MCNAMARA 69.

CONTINUED:

FRANK KING:

Guy just got nominated.

DALTON TRUMBO:

Everyone at that table’s been

nominated.

Frank nods. A waiter delivers drinks as a BUXOM STARLET

bends to whisper to Frank, who nods, kisses her hand, sends

her along. Hymie looks faintly ill with dread.

DALTON TRUMBO (CONT’D)

It’d be like this... I find the

writer and work with him. He

delivers the script to me. If it’s

good, I’ll give it to you, if it’s

bad, I’ll fix it. Nobody gets paid

till you’re happy.

HYMIE KING:

(scared, whispers)

And these writers are... all...

all, uh...

FRANK KING:

Blacklisted, Jesus, you’re such a

chickenshit.

HYMIE KING:

Y’know, we’re at war with the

Communists.

FRANK KING:

No, we’re not.

HYMIE KING:

It’s a new kind of war.

FRANK KING:

Yeah, doesn’t exist, very new.

HYMIE KING:

What about the Rosenbergs?

FRANK KING:

What about ’em?

HYMIE KING:

They stole the atom bomb.

FRANK KING:

They didn’t steal it off a f***in’

camera truck.

(CONTINUED)

TRUMBO - JOHN MCNAMARA 70.

CONTINUED:
(2)

Four of the five writers try to appear blandly appealing.

Only Arlen waves, coquettish. Hunter throws him a glare.

FRANK KING (CONT’D)

(to Trumbo, earnestly)

Look. We bought a gorilla suit.

And we gotta use it.

INT. MUSSO AND FRANK - HALLWAY - NIGHT

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