Taxi Driver

 

 

 

 

Screenplay by       Paul Schrader

 

Produced by       Michael Phillips

          Julia Phillips

 

Directed by       Martin Scorsese

 

 

 

Cast List:

 

Robert De Niro      Travis Bickle

Cybill Shepherd      Betsy

Jodie Foster     Iris Steensman

Peter Boyle      Wizard

Harvey Keitel     Sport

Albert Brooks      Tom

Leonard Harris     Charles Palantine

Martin Scorsese      Passenger

Diahnne Harris     Concession Girl

Frank Adu      Angry Black Man

 

 

 

 

 

"The whole conviction of my life now

rests upon the belief that loneliness,

far from being a rare and curious

phenomenon, is the central and inevitable

fact of human existence."

 

Thomas Wolfe, "God's Lonely Man"

 

 

 

TRAVIS BICKLE

 

Age 26, lean, hard, the consummate loner. On the surface he appears good-looking, even handsome; he has a quiet steady look and a disarming smile which flashes from nowhere, lighting up his whole face. But behind that smile, around his dark eyes, in his gaunt cheeks, one can see the ominous stains caused by a life of private fear, emptiness and loneliness. He seems to have wandered in from a land where it is always cold, a country where the inhabitants seldom speak. The head moves, the expression changes, but the eyes remain ever-fixed, unblinking, piercing empty space.

 

Travis is now drifting in and out of the New York City night life, a dark shadow among darker shadows. Not noticed , no reason to be noticed, Travis is one with his surroundings. He wears rider jeans, cowboy boots, a plaid western shirt and a worn beige Army jacket with a patch reading, "King Kong Company 1968-70".

 

He has the smell of sex about him: Sick sex, repressed sex, lonely sex, but sex nonetheless. He is a raw male force, driving forward; toward what, one cannot tell. Then one looks closer and sees the evitable. The clock sprig cannot be wound continually tighter. As the earth moves toward the sun, Travis Bickle moves toward violence.

 

 

TRAVIS GETS A JOB

 

Film opens on...

 

 

EXT. MANHATTAN CAB GARAGE

 

Weather-beaten sign above driveway reads, "Taxi Enter Here". Yellow cabs scuttle in and out. It is WINTER, snow is piled on the curbs, the wind is howling.

 

 

INSIDE GARAGE

 

Are parked row upon row of multi-colored taxis. Echoing SOUNDS of cabs idling , cabbies talking. Steamy breath and exhaust fill the air.

 

 

INT. CORRIDOR

 

Of cab company offices. Lettering on ajar door reads:

 

"PERSONAL OFFICE

 

Marvis Cab Company

Blue and White Cab Co.

Acme Taxi

Dependable Taxi Services

JRB Cab Company

Speedo Taxi Service"

 

SOUND of office busywork: Shuffling, typing, arguing.

 

PERSONAL OFFICE is a cluttered disarray. Sheets with heading "Marvis, B&W, Acme" and so forth are tacked to crumbling plaster wall: It is March. Desk is cluttered with forms, reports and an old upright Royal typewriter.

 

Dishelved middle-aged New Yorker looks up from the desk. We CUT IN to ongoing conversation between the middle-aged PERSONNEL OFFICER and a YOUNG MAN standing in front on his desk.

 

The young man is TRAVIS BICKLE. He wears his jeans, boots and Army jacket. He takes a drag off his unfiltered cigarette.

 

The Personnel Officer is beat and exhausted: He arrives at work exhausted. Travis is something else again. His intense steely gaze is enough to jar even the Personnel Officer out of his workaday boredom.

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER (O.S.)

No trouble with the Hack Bureau?

 

TRAVIS (O.S.)

No Sir.

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER (O.S.)

Got your license?

 

TRAVIS (O.S.)

Yes.

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER

So why do you want to be a taxi driver?

 

TRAVIS

I can't sleep nights.

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER

There's porno theatres for that.

 

TRAVIS

I know. I tried that.

 

The Personnel Officer, though officious, is mildly probing and curious. Travis is a cipher, cold and distant. He speaks as if his mind doesn't know what his mouth is saying.

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER

So whatja do now?

 

TRAVIS

I ride around nights mostly. Subways, buses. See things. Figur'd I might as well get paid for it.

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER

We don't need any misfits around here, son.

 

A thin smile cracks almost indiscernibly across Travis' lips.

 

TRAVIS

You kiddin? Who else would hack through South Bronx or Harlem at night?

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER

You want to work uptown nights?

 

TRAVIS

I'll work anywhere, anytime. I know I can't be choosy.

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER

(thinks a moment)

How's your driving record?

 

TRAVIS

Clean. Real clean.

(pause, thin smile)

As clean as my conscience.

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER

Listen, son, you gonna get smart, you can leave right now.

 

TRAVIS

(apologetic)

Sorry, sir. I didn't mean that.

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER

Physical? Criminal?

 

TRAVIS

Also clean.

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER

Age?

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER

Twenty-six.

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER

Education?

 

TRAVIS

Some. Here and there.

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER

Military record?

 

TRAVIS

Honorable discharge. May 1971.

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER

You moonlightin?

 

TRAVIS

No, I want long shifts.

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER

(casually, almost to himself)

We hire a lot of moonlighters here.

 

TRAVIS

So I hear.

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER

(looks up at Travis)

Hell, we ain't that much fussy anyway. There's always opening on one fleet or another.

(rummages through his drawer, collecting various pink, yellow and white forms)

Fill out these forms and give them to the girl at the desk, and leave your phone number. You gotta phone?

 

TRAVIS

No.

 

PERSONNEL OFFICER

Well then check back tomorrow.

 

TRAVIS

Yes, Sir.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

CREDITS

 

CREDITS appear over scenes from MANHATTAN NIGHTLIFE. The snow has melted, it is spring.

 

A rainy, slick, wet miserable night in Manhattan's theatre district. Cabs and umbrellas are congested everywhere; well-dressed pedestrians are pushing, running, waving down taxis. The high-class theatre patrons crowding out of the midtown shows are shocked to find that the same rain that falls on the poor and common is also falling on them.

 

The unremitting SOUNDS of HONKING and SHOUTING play against the dull pitter-patter of rain. The glare of yellow, red and green lights reflects off the pavements and autos.

 

"When it rains, the boss of the city is the taxi driver" – so goes the cabbie's maxim, proven true by this particular night's activity. Only the taxis seem to rise above the situation: They glide effortlessly through the rain and traffic, picking up whom they choose, going where they please.

 

Further uptown, the crowds are neither so frantic nor so glittering. The rain also falls on the street bums and aged poor. Junkies still stand around on rainy street corners, hookers still prowl rainy sidewalks. And the taxis service them too.

 

All through the CREDITS the exterior sounds are muted, as if coming from a distant room or storefront around the corner. The listener is at a safe but privileged distance.

 

After examining various strata of Manhattan nightlife, CAMERA begins to CLOSE IN on one particular taxi, and it is assumed that this taxi is being driven by Travis Bickle.

 

END CREDITS

 

CUT TO:

 

 

WE MEET TRAVIS

 

Travis's yellow taxi pulls in foreground. On left rear door are lettered the words "Dependable Taxi Service".

 

We are somewhere on the upper fifties on Fifth Ave. The rain has not let up.

 

An ELDERLY WOMAN climbs in the right rear door, crushing her umbrella. Travis waits a moment, then pulls away from the curb with a start.

 

Later, we see Travis' taxi speeding down the rain-slicked avenue. The action is periodically accompanied by Travis' narration. He is reading from a haphazard personal diary.

 

TRAVIS (V.O.)

(monotone)

April 10, 1972. Thank God for the rain which has helped wash the garbage and trash off the sidewalks.

 

TRAVIS' POV of sleazy midtown side street: Bums, hookers, junkies.

 

TRAVIS (V.O.)

I'm working a single now, which means stretch-shifts, six to six, sometimes six to eight in the a.m., six days a week.

 

A MAN IN BUSINESS SUIT hails Travis to the curb.

 

TRAVIS (V.O.)

It's a hustle, but it keeps me busy. I can take in three to three-fifty a week, more with skims.

 

Man in Business Suit, now seated in back seat, speaks up:

 

MAN IN BUSINESS SUIT

(urgent)

I Kennedy operating, cabbie? Is it grounded?

 

On seat next to Travis is half-eaten cheeseburger and order of french fries. He puts his cigarette down and gulps as he answers:

 

TRAVIS

Why should it be grounded?

 

MAN IN BUSINESS SUIT

Listen – I mean I just saw the needle of the Empire State Building. You can't see it for the fog!

 

TRAVIS

Then it's a good guess it's grounded.

 

MAN IN BUSINESS SUIT

The Empire State in fog means something, don't it? Do you know, or don't you? What is your number, cabbie?

 

TRAVIS

Have you tried the telephone?

 

MAN IN BUSINESS SUIT

(hostile, impatient)

There isn't time for that. In other words, you don't know.

 

TRAVIS

No.

 

MAN IN BUSINESS SUIT

Well, you should know, damn it, or who else would know? Pull over right here.

(points out window)

Why don't you stick your goddamn head out of the goddamn window once in a while and find out about the goddamn fog!

 

Travis pulls to the curb. The Business Man stuffs a dollar bill into the pay drawer and jumps out of the cab. He turns to hail another taxi.

 

MAN IN BUSINESS SUIT

Taxi! Taxi!

 

Travis writes up his trip card and drives away.

 

It is LATER THAT NIGHT. The rain has turned to drizzle. Travis drives trough another section of Manhattan.

 

TRAVIS (V.O.)

I work the whole city, up, down, don't make no difference to me – does to some.

 

 

STREETSIDE: TRAVIS' POV

 

Black PROSTITUTE wearing white vinyl boots, leopard-skin mini-skirt and blond wig hails taxi. On her arm hangs half-drunk seedy EXECUTIVE TYPE.

 

Travis pulls over.

 

Prostitute and John climb into back seat. Travis checks out the action in rear view mirror.

 

TRAVIS (V.O.)

Some won't take spooks – Hell, don't make no difference tom me.

 

Travis' taxi drives through Central Park.

 

GRUNTS, GROANS coming from back seat. Hooker and John going at it in back seat. He's having a hard time and she's probably trying to get him to come off manually.

 

JOHN (O.S.)

Oh baby, baby.

 

PROSTITUTE (O.S.)

(forceful)

Come on.

 

Travis stares blankly ahead.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

TRAVIS' APARTMENT

 

CAMERA PANS SILENTLY across INTERIOR room, indicating this is not a new scene.

 

Travis is sitting at plain table writing. He wears shirt, jeans, boots. An unfiltered cigarette rests in a bent coffee can ash tray.

 

CLOSEUP of notebook. It is a plain lined dimestore notebook and the words Travis is writing with a stubby pencil are those he is saying. The columns are straight, disciplined. Some of the writing is in pencil, some in ink. The handwriting is jagged.

 

CAMERA continues to PAN, examining Travis' apartment. It is unusual, to say the least;

 

A ratty old mattress is thrown against one wall. The floor is littered with old newspapers, worn and unfolded streets maps and pornography. The pornography is of the sort that looks cheap but costs $10 a threw – black and white photos of naked women tied and gagged with black leather straps and clothesline. There is no furniture other than the rickety chair and table. A beat-up portable TV rests on an upright melon crate. The red silk mass in another corner looks like a Vietnamese flag. Indecipherable words, figures, numbers are scribbled on the plain plaster walls. Ragged black wires dangle from the wall where the telephone once hung.

 

TRAVIS (V.O.)

They're all animals anyway. All the animals come out at night: Whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies, sick, venal.

(a beat)

Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets.

 

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