- —四川最大高校综合门户网
Niki Wurster Mao Guangqin 2 1 2000-01-23T12:51:00Z 2000-01-23T12:51:00Z 24 10319 58820 Pumpkin Software 490 117 72235 9.2504 1 21 0 0 Taxi Driver Screenplay by PaulSchrader Produced by Michael Phillips JuliaPhillips Directed by
YOUNG PASSENGER
I'm gonna kill her with a .44 Magnum pistol.
CAMERA returns to SEVENTH FLOOR WINDOW. Woman is standing in the light.
YOUNG PASSENGER (O.S.)
Did you ever see what a .44 can do to a woman's face,
cabbie?
(pause)
Did you ever see what it can do to a woman's pussy,
cabbie?
Travis says nothing.
YOUNG PASSENGER (O.S.)
I'm going to put it right up to her, cabbie. Right in
her, cabbie. You must think I'm real sick, huh? A real pervert. Sitting here
and talking about a woman's pussy and a .44, huh?
CAMERA CLOSES IN on Travis' face: He is watching the woman in the seventh floor
window with complete and total absorption. It's the same glazed-over stare we
saw in his eyes as he watched the porno movie.
FADE TO:
THE TRAVELING SALESMAN
BROOKLYN STREET CORNER – DAY
Travis stands near the corner wearing his boots, jeans, western shirt and army jacket.
He pulls his aspiring bottle out of his pocket, shakes three or four
into his palm, pops them into his mouth and chews.
An "Off Duty" taxi pulls up to the curb. Travis gets in.
INSIDE TAXI
Dough-Boy leans back from the wheel and greets Travis as he enters.
DOUGH-BOY
Hey Travis. This here's Easy Andy. He's a travelling
salesman.
In the back seat, beside Travis, sits ANDY, an attractive young man about 29. He wears
a pin-striped suit, white shirt and floral tie. His hair is modishly long.
ANDY
Hello Travis.
Travis nods as the taxi speeds off.
Dough-Boy slows down near an economy hotel. Not a flop house, but not do fancy they care what the guests do in the privacy of their rooms.
ANDY
This is fine, Dough-Boy
(to Travis)
Pay Dough-Boy here.
Travis pulls a twenty out of his pocket and gives it to Dough-Boy.
TRAVIS
20 bucks?
DOUGH-BOY
(takes bill)
Yeah. Hey thanks. That's real nice, Travis.
Travis and Andy get out of the cab and walk toward the hotel. Dough-Boy pulls away.
As they enter the hotel, they pass a JUNKIE, stoned out and spread-eagled across the
hood of a derelict old blue dodge.
INT. HOTEL
Travis follows Andy up the worn carpeted stairs and down the hallway . Andy unlocks the door to one of the rooms.
The HOTEL ROOM is barren and clean; there's no sign anyone is staying in it. The fire
escape is appropriately near.
Andy locks the door behind them, steps over to the closet, unlocks it and pulls out two grey Samsonite suitcases – the kind you can drive a truck over.
ANDY
Dough-Boy probably told you I don't carry any Saturday
Night Specials or crap like that. It's all out of State, clean, brand new,
top-of-the-line stuff.
Andy places the suitcases on the white bedspread. The suitcases are equipped with special locks, which he quickly opens.
Andy opens the suitcases: Stacked in grey packing foam are rows and rows of brand new hand guns.
TRAVIS
You got a .44 Magnum?
ANDY
That's an expensive gun.
TRAVIS
I got money.
Andy unzips a cowhide leather pouch to reveal a .44 Magnum pistol. He holds it gingerly, as if it were a precious treasure. Andy opens the chambers and cradles the long eight-inch barrel in his palm. The .44 is a huge, oversize inhuman gun.
ANDY
(admiringly)
It's a monster. Can stop a car – put a bullet right
into the block. A premium high resale gun. $350 – that's only a hundred over
list.
Easy Andy is a later version of the fast-talking, good-looking kid in college who was always making money on one scheme or another. In high school he sold lottery tickets, in college he scored dope, and now he's hustling hand guns.
Andy holds the Magnum out for Travis' inspection. There's a worshipful CLOSEUP of the .44 Magnum. It is a monster.
Travis hefts the huge gun. It seems out of place in his hand. It is built on Michelangelo's scale. The Magnum belongs in the hand of a marble god, not a slight taxi driver. Travis hands the gun back to Andy.
ANDY
I could sell this gun in Harlem for $500 today – but I
just deal high quality goods to high quality people.
(pause)
Now this may be a little big for practical use, in
which case I'd recommend the .38 Smith and Wesson Special. Fine solid gun –
nickel plated. Snub-nosed, otherwise the same as the service revolver. Now
that'll stop anything that moves and it's handy, flexible. The Magnum, you
know, that's only if you want to splatter it against the wall. The movies have
driven up the price of the Magnum anyway. Everybody wants them now. But the
Wesson .38 – only $250 – and worth every dime of it.
(he hefts the .38)
Throw in a holster for $10.
Travis hefts the nickel-plated .38, points it out the window.
ANDY (CONT'D)
Some of these guns are like toys, but a Smith and
Wesson, man, you can hit somebody over the head with it and it will still come
back dead on. Nothing beats quality.
(pause)
You interested in an automatic?
TRAVIS
I want a .32 Revolver. And a palm gun. That .22 there.
ANDY
That's the Colt .25 – a fine little gun. Don't do a
lot of damage, but it's as fast as the Devil. Handy little gun, you can carry
it almost anywhere. I'll throw it in for another $125.
Travis holds the .32 Revolver, hefts it, slips it under his belt and pulls his shirt over it. He turns from side to side, to see how it rides in his waist.
TRAVIS
How much for everything.
ANDY
The .32's $150 – and you're really getting a good deal
now – and all together it comes to, ah, seven eighty-five for four pieces and a
holster. He'll, I'll give you the holster, we'll make it seventy-five and
you've got a deal – a good one.
TRAVIS
How much to get a permit to carry?
ANDY
Well, you're talking big money now. I'd say at least five
grand, maybe more, and it would take a while to check it out. The way things
are going now $5.000 is probably low. You see, I try not to fool with the
small-time crap. Too risky, too little bread. Say 6 G's, but if I get the
permit it'll be as solid as the Empire State Building.
TRAVIS
Nah, this'll be fine.
ANDY
You can't carry in a cab even with a permit – so why
bother?
TRAVIS
Is there a firing range around?
ANDY
Sure, here, take this card, go to this place and give
'em the card. They'll charge you, but there won't be any hassle.
Travis pulls out a roll of crisp one hundred dollar bills and counts
off eight.
ANDY
You in Nam? Can't help but notice your jacket?
TRAVIS
(looking up)
Huh?
ANDY
Vietnam? I saw it on your jacket. Where were you? Bet
you got to handle a lot of weapons out there.
Travis hands Andy the bills. Andy counts them and gives Travis a twenty and five.
TRAVIS
Yeah. I was all around. One hospital, then the next.
ANDY
(through counting)
It's he'll out there all right. A real shit-eatin'
war. I'll say this, though: It's bringing a lot of fantastic guns. The market's
flooded. Colt automatics are all over.
(pockets the money)
TRAVIS
(intensely)
They'd never get me to go back. They'd have to shoot
me first.
(pause)
You got anything to carry these in?
(gestures to pistols)
Travis is like a light switch: For long periods he goes along dark and silent, saying nothing; then suddenly, the current is turned on and the air is filled with the electricity of his personality. Travis' inner intensity sets Andy back a bit, but he quickly recovers.
ANDY
Sure.
Andy pulls a gym bag from under his bed. He wraps the gun in the sheet in the bag and zips it up. An identical gym bag can be partially seen under the bed. He hands Travis the bag.
ANDY
You like ball games?
TRAVIS
Huh?
ANDY
I can get you front and center. What do you like? I
can get you Mets, Knicks, Rangers? He'll, I can get you the Mayor's box.
TRAVIS
Nah. I ain't interested.
Andy closes and locks the suitcases.
ANDY
Okay, okay.
Travis turns to leave.
ANDY
Wait a second, Travis. I'll walk you out.
CUT TO:
TRAVIS GETS ORGANIZED – SEVERAL WEEKS LATER
The face of Travis' apartment has changed. The long, blank wall
behind the table is now covered with tacked-up charts, pictures, newspaper-clippings,
maps. CAMERA
does not come close enough to discern the exact contents of these clippings.
Travis is in CLOSEUP in the middle of the floor doing push-ups. He is bareback, wearing
only his jeans. There is a long scar across his left side.
TRAVIS (V.O.)
May 29, 1972. I must get in shape. Too much sitting
has ruined my body. Twenty-five push-ups each morning, one hundred sit-ups, one
hundred knee-bends. I have quit smoking.
Travis, still bareback, passes his stiff arm through the flame of a gas burner without flinching a muscle.
TRAVIS (V.O.)
Total organization is necessary. Every muscle must be
tight.
INT. FIRING RANGE
The CRACKING SOUND of rapid-fire pistol shots fills the musty air of the firing range.
The walls are heavily soundproofed, and sawdust is spread over the floor.
Travis stands rock solid, firing the .44 Magnum at an arm's length. With each blasting discharge from the Magnum, Travis' body shudders and shakes, his arm as if each recoil from the giant gun was a direct attack on his masculinity.
Travis fires the Magnum as quickly as he can re-set, re-aim and re-fire. The Magnum is empty, he sets it down, picks up the .38 Special and begins firing as soon as he can aim. After the .38, comes the .25: It is as if he were in a contest to see how quickly he can fire the pistols. After all the guns are discharged, he begins reloading them without a moment's hesitation.
Downrange, the red and white targets have the black outline of a human figure drawn over them. The contour-man convulses under the steady barrage of Travis' rapid-fire shots.
INT. APARTMENT
Travis, now wearing an unfastened green plaid western shirt, sits at the table writing in his diary. The vial of bennies rests on the table.
TRAVIS (V.O.)
My body fights me always. It won't work, it won't
sleep, it won't shit, it won't eat.
LATER
Travis, his shirt still open revealing his bare chest, sits on his straight-backed chair watching the TV. The .44 Magnum rests on his lap.
The TV is broadcasting "Rock Time", a late afternoon
teenage dance and rock show. On screen YOUNG TEENYBOPPERS are dancing, and the TV CAMERAMAN, as any devotee of the genre knows, is
relentlessly ZOOMING IN ON their
firmly young breasts, fannies and crotches – a sensibility which reflects
Travis' own. These supper-hour rock dance shows are the most unabashedly
voyeuristic form of broadcasting the medium has yet developed.
The HARD ROCK NUMBER ends, and the TV CAMERA CUTS TO
the local DISC JOCKEY, a hirsute
plastic-looking man about 35. FIVE
scrumptious TEENYBOPPERS are
literally hanging on his shoulders and arms, their faces turned up to him in
droolish awe. Out of his mouth comes an incessant stream of disc jockey
blather. He is the complete asshole; I don't know who is currently performing
this function in New York, but in Los Angeles his name is Real Don Steele.
TV DISC JOCKEY
Freshingly, fantastic, freaked-out dance time. Can you
dig it? Dig on it. You got it, flaunt it.
Travis watches the show, his face hard and unmoving. He is, as the Scriptures would say, pondering all these things in his heart. Why is it the assholes get all the beautiful young chicks? He takes a swip of peach brandy.
TO BE CONTINUED...
