Trumbo Page #7

(to Cleo)

I love him, too, the warty son of a

b*tch.

(then, to Trumbo)

Oh and I got a great offer on the

Monet, if you want to bribe the

jury.

INT. THIS SAME WASHINGTON, D.C. COURTHOUSE - DAYS LATER

As the JURY FOREMAN reads:

JURY FOREMAN:

In the matter of the United States

versus Dalton Trumbo...

Trumbo stands at the bar, next to attorney Robert Kenny.

JURY FOREMAN (CONT’D)

...we find the defendant guilty of

contempt of Congress.

He was ready for this, but the reality hits hard. His eyes

betray just a flicker of agony. Then, aware of all the

stares, his battler’s armored visage returns.

INT. WASHINGTON, D.C. COURTHOUSE - CORRIDOR - DAY

Trumbo and Kenny exit the courtroom in a river of COURT FOLK.

DALTON TRUMBO:

I have total contempt for Congress,

I just thought a jury’d see why.

INT. WASHINGTON, D.C. COURTHOUSE - HALLWAY - DAY

Trumbo and Kenny fight their way through the clinging PRESS.

(CONTINUED)

TRUMBO - JOHN MCNAMARA 37.

CONTINUED:

ROBERT KENNY:

(to Reporters)

The Supreme Court will drop kick

this verdict into speeding traffic

and end the most shameful chapter

of Congressional history I ever

want to live through.

INT. WASHINGTON, D.C. COURTHOUSE - STAIRCASE - MOMENTS LATER

Trumbo and Kenny.

ROBERT KENNY:

How’re you doing for money?

DALTON TRUMBO:

Broke as a bankrupt’s bastard.

Why?

ROBERT KENNY:

You owe me thirty-thousand dollars.

The appeal’s gonna be twice that.

DALTON TRUMBO:

Well, better get to work.

ROBERT KENNY:

Doing what?

INT. LAZY-T RANCH - STUDY - DAY

Trumbo writes furiously on his typewriter. The sounds of

LAUGHTER pierce his CLATTER. He looks up at the window, then

rises, crossing to it.

AT THE WINDOW - TRUMBO SEES

Cleo on the driveway, where a ping-pong table’s been set up.

She’s teaching Niki, 4-year-old Mitzi and Chris how to play

the game. There is much GIGGLING amid the missed shots.

TRUMBO WATCHES,

Silently separated from his family by the sheet of glass.

Then he has to let the curtain drop back across the window.

Back to it.

EXT. LAZY-T RANCH - NIGHT

One light on. Trumbo’s study.

TRUMBO - JOHN MCNAMARA 38.

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - DAY

Arlen Hird lies in a weakened, post-surgery stupor. His eyes

open and he sees Trumbo setting down some flowers.

DALTON TRUMBO:

How are you?

ARLEN HIRD:

Breathin’. With one lung. Which

is half as good as two. How bad’re

things out there?

DALTON TRUMBO:

Everybody envies you.

Hird looks around the pleasant, private room.

ARLEN HIRD:

Why not. Got the best room in the

joint. You oughta know, you paid

for it.

(then, woozy)

Thanks. By the way.

Trumbo smiles at Hird, whose eyes flutter shut.

INT. A MODERN BUILDING - ENTRY - DAY

BUDDY ROSS (PRE-LAP)

Mayer’s a dinosaur...

Over the streamlined entrance, a steel-sculpted banner: ROSS

INTERNATIONAL PICTURES.

BUDDY ROSS (PRE-LAP) (CONT’D)

...they all are, extinct and don’t

even know it.

INT. ROSS INTERNATIONAL - BUDDY’S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS

Enormous and pristine.

BUDDY ROSS:

Let’s see now, to, uh...

Buddy, Trumbo and other MOVIE-INDUSTRY COMPATRIOTS raise

champagne glasses in the winter of 1948.

(CONTINUED)

TRUMBO - JOHN MCNAMARA 39.

CONTINUED:

BUDDY ROSS (CONT’D)

...to no more MGM, no more Mayer, I

am strictly independent, got cans

of film, wads of Wall Street dough

and my favorite boss --me!

(all CHUCKLE, CLINK, sip,

then to Trumbo)

And you, you crazy son of a b*tch,

are gonna write all my movies, once

this Washington crap clears up.

A throat is CLEARED. Trumbo is a bit more pensive than we’ve

seen him.

DALTON TRUMBO:

And how’ll that happen?

BUDDY ROSS:

Hey. I’m not political. Thank

Jesus. But if they called me in,

accused me? I’d just say, yep, did

it, sorry, didn’t mean it.

Trumbo nods, willing to move on. But somehow just can’t help

himself.

DALTON TRUMBO:

(evenly)

So Congress asks, “Are you now or

have you ever been a Democrat...?”

BUDDY ROSS:

“I am... and God, I just feel awful

about it, never again...”

DALTON TRUMBO:

But now they want the names of

other Democrats.

(points at random MEN)

Bill... Stan... Earl... Nat.

BUDDY ROSS:

Then I say go to hell.

DALTON TRUMBO:

Really. And how many banks fund

enemies of the state? Your money’s

gone. Unless you give the names of

your friends here. They’ll never

work again. But it’s the only way

you ever will.

(then)

(MORE)

(CONTINUED)

TRUMBO - JOHN MCNAMARA 40.

CONTINUED:
(2)

DALTON TRUMBO (CONT'D)

We’re all friends here, we all know

each other... we hope. What would

you do, Buddy?

Buddy stares, chilled. Silence. Then -

BUDDY ROSS:

Piss on the best day of a guy’s

life! Only you!

BIG LAUGHS all around. But from those four men Trumbo

singled out, nervous ones. And from Trumbo, not so much as a

smile.

INT. LAZY-T RANCH - STUDY - NIGHT

Trumbo hard at the keys, surrounded by full ashtrays, piles

of typescript and a half-empty scotch bottle. He pauses to

shift in his seat and twist his aching back.

INT. LAZY-T RANCH - LIVING ROOM - DAWN

He lies on the couch, scotch on his chest, pillow under his

back, scribbling on typed copy, still in some pain. Niki,

almost 11 now, walks in wearing her nightgown.

DALTON TRUMBO:

Morning, Nikola.

NIKI:

I thought you weren’t allowed to

write anymore.

DALTON TRUMBO:

No. Just can’t put my name on it

or get paid.

NIKI:

How’s that work?

INT. DINER - DOWNTOWN L.A. - DAY

Niki eats a sundae, watching Trumbo and Hunter as the latter

thumbs a dog-eared screenplay with scribbles on many pages

and bold handwriting on the cover.

DALTON TRUMBO:

Well?

IAN MCLELLAN HUNTER

(the script)

It’s funny, breezy, romantic.

(MORE)

(CONTINUED)

TRUMBO - JOHN MCNAMARA 41.

CONTINUED:

IAN MCLELLAN HUNTER (CONT'D)

(then, sarcastically)

Who the hell wrote it?

DALTON TRUMBO:

You did, old boy. Stick your name

on my labor, hand it in to your

studio and -

IAN MCLELLAN HUNTER

Look, it’s just dumb luck I wasn’t

subpoenaed. The hearings’re gonna

start up again soon, I’m gonna get

called and canned...

DALTON TRUMBO:

Then quick, lad, let’s sell this

little beauty and split the take,

fifty-fifty.

IAN MCLELLAN HUNTER

Ridiculous. I’ll take ten percent.

DALTON TRUMBO:

You’ll take twenty. No, thirty.

That’s my final offer.

IAN MCLELLAN HUNTER

You are the worst businessman,

ever.

(then)

I hate the title.

NIKI:

Me too.

She gets a sharp look from her father that drives her back to

her ice cream.

IAN MCLELLAN HUNTER

I mean, The Princess and the

Peasant...

(scribbling on the cover)

...sounds like a puppet show.

DALTON TRUMBO:

(shrugs)

Change it.

IAN MCLELLAN HUNTER

I did.

(CONTINUED)

TRUMBO - JOHN MCNAMARA 42.

CONTINUED:
(2)

He slides the script across the table to Trumbo, its new

title atop the cover page’s handwritten notes, in bold felt

and circled. Trumbo’s distaste for it is immediate.

DALTON TRUMBO:

Now, who the hell’s going to go see

a movie called Roman Holiday?

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