No Country For Old Men (Shooting)
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137
pages
English
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Le téléchargement nécessite un accès à la bibliothèque YouScribe Tout savoir sur nos offres
Publié par
Nombre de lectures
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Licence :
Langue
English
Publié par
Nombre de lectures
328
Licence :
Langue
English
Adapted Screenplay by JOEL COEN & ETHAN COEN
Based on the Novel by CORMAC MCCARTHY
FADE IN:
EXT. MOUNTAINS - NIGHT
Snow is falling in a gusting wind. The voice of an old man:
I was sheriff of this county when I was twenty-five. Hard to believe. Grandfather was a lawman. Father too. Me and him was sheriff at the same time, him in Plano and me here. I think he was pretty proud of that. I know I was.
EXT. WEST TEXAS LANDSCAPE - DAWN/DAY
We dissolve to another West Texas landscape. Sun is rising.
Some of the old-time sheriffs never even wore a gun. A lot of folks find that hard to believe. Jim Scarborough never carried one. That's the younger Jim. Gaston Boykins wouldn't wear one. Up in Comanche County.
We dissolve through more landscapes, bringing us to full day. None of them show people or human habitation.
I always liked to hear about the old- timers. Never missed a chance to do so. Nigger Hoskins over in Bastrop County knowed everbody's phone number off by heart. You can't help but compare yourself against the old- timers. Can't help but wonder how they would've operated these times. There was this boy I sent to the gas chamber at Huntsville here a while back. My arrest and my testimony. He killed a fourteen-year-old girl. Papers said it was a crime of passion but he told me there wasn't any passion to it.
EXT. WEST TEXAS ROAD - DAY
The last landscape, hard sunbaked prairie, is surveyed in a long slow pan.
Told me that he'd been planning to kill somebody for about as long as he could remember. Said that if they turned him out he'd do it again.
The pan has brought into frame the flashing light bars of a police car stopped on the shoulder. A young sheriff's deputy is opening the rear door on the far side of the car.
Said he knew he was going to hell. Be there in about fifteen minutes. I don't know what to make of that. I surely don't.
Close on a pair of hands manacled behind someone's back. A hand enters to take the prisoner by one arm.
The crime you see now, it's hard to even take its measure. It's not that I'm afraid of it.
Back to the shot over the light bars: the deputy, with a hand on top of the prisoner's head to help him clear the door frame, eases the prisoner into the backseat. All we see of the prisoner is his dark hair disappearing into the car.
I always knew you had to be willing to die to even do this job -- not to be glorious. But I don't want to push my chips forward and go out and meet something I don't understand.
The deputy closes the back door. He opens the front passenger door and reaches down for something-apparently heavy-at his feet.
You can say it's my job to fight it but I don't know what it is anymore.
The deputy swings the heavy object into the front passenger seat. Matching inside the car: it looks like an oxygen tank with a petcock at the top and tubing running off it.
...More than that, I don't want to know. A man would have to put his soul at hazard.
The deputy slams the door.
On the door slam we cut to Texas highway racing under the lens, the landscape flat to the horizon. The siren whoops.
...He would have to say, okay, I'll be part of this world.
INT. SHERIFF LAMAR'S OFFICE - DAY
THE DEPUTY
Seated in the sheriff's office, on the phone. The prisoner stands in the background. Focus is too soft for us to see his features but his posture shows that his arms are still behind his back.
Yessir, just walked in the door. Sheriff he had some sort of a thing on him like one of them oxygen tanks for emphysema or somethin'. And a hose from it run down his sleeve...
Behind him we see the prisoner seat himself on the floor without making a sound and scoot his manacled hands out under his legs. Hands in front of him now, he stands.
...Well you got me, sir. You can see it when you get in...
The prisoner approaches. As he nears the deputy's back he grows sharper but begins to crop out of the top of the frame.
...Yessir I got it covered.
As the deputy reaches forward to hang up, the prisoner is raising his hands out of frame just behind him. The manacled hands drop back into frame in front of the deputy's throat and jerk back and up.
Wider: the prisoner's momentum brings both men crashing backward to the floor, face-up, deputy on top.
The deputy reaches up to try to get his hands under the strangling chain.
The prisoner brings pressure. His wrists whiten around the manacles.
The deputy's legs writhe and stamp. He moves in a clumsy circle, crabbing around the pivot-point of the other man's back arched against the floor.
The deputy's flailing legs kick over a wastebasket, send spinning the castored chair, slam at the desk.
Blood creeps around the friction points where the cuffs bite the prisoner's wrists. Blood is being spit by the deputy.
The prisoner feels with his thumb at the deputy's neck and averts his own face. A yank of the chain ruptures the carotid artery. It jets blood.
The blood hits the office wall, drumming hollowly.
INT. SHERIFF LAMAR'S BATHROOM - DAY
The prisoner walks in, runs the water, and puts his wrists, now freed, under it.
INT. OFFICE - DAY
Close on the air tank. One hand, a towel wrapped at the wrist, reaches in to hoist it.
EXT. ROAD - LATE DAY
Road rushes under the lens. Point-of-view through a windshield of taillights ahead, the only pair in sight.
A siren bloop.
The car pulls over. A four-door Ford sedan.
The police car pulls over behind.
The prisoner -- his name is Anton Chigurh -- gets out of the police car and slings the tank over his shoulder. He walks up the road to the man cranking down his window, groping for his wallet.
What's this about?
Step out of the car please, sir.
The motorist squints at the man with the strange apparatus.
Huh? What is...
I need you to step out of the car, sir.
The man opens his door and emerges.
Am I...
Chigurh reaches up to the man's forehead with the end of the tube connected to the air tank.
Would you hold still please, sir.
A hard pneumatic sound. The man flops back against the car. Blood trickles from a hole in the middle of his forehead.
Chigurh waits for the body to slide down the car and crumple, clearing the front door. He opens it and hoists the air tank over into the front seat.
EXT. ARID PLAIN - DAY
Seen through an extreme telephoto lens. Heat shimmer rises from the desert floor.
A pan of the horizon discovers a distant herd of antelope. The animals are grazing.
Reverse on a man in blue jeans and cowboy boots sitting on his heels, elbows on knees, peering through a pair of binoculars. A heavy-barreled rifle is slung across his back. This is Moss.
He lowers the binoculars, slowly unslings the rifle and looks through its sight.
The view through the sight swims for a moment to refind the herd. One animal is staring directly at us, its motion arrested as if it's heard or seen something.
Close on Moss's eyes, one at the sight, the other closed.
He mutters:
Hold still.
He opens the free eye and rolls his head off the sight to give himself stereo.
Close on the hatch-marked range dial on the sight. Moss delicately thumbs it.
He eases the one eye back onto the sight.
Point-of-view through the sight: Moss adjusts to bring the cross-hairs back down to the staring animal.
Moss's finger tightens on the trigger.
Shot: gunbuck swishes the point-of-view upward.
Moss fights it back down.
The point-of-view through the sight finds the beast again, still staring at us.
The sound of the gunshot rings out across the barial.
Short beat.
The bullet hits the antelope: not a kill. The animal recoils and runs, packing one leg.
The other animals are off with it.
Shit.
He stands and jacks out the spent casing which jangles against the rocks. He stoops for it and puts it in his shirt pocket.
EXT. ARID PLAIN - LATER
Moss is on foot, rifle again slung over his shoulder, binoculars around his neck. He is looking at the ground.
An intermittent trail of blood.
Moss's pace is brisk. Distances are long.
He suddenly stops, staring.
On the ground is the fresh trail of blood, the glistening drops already dry at the periphery. But this trail is crossed by another trail of blood. Drier.
Moss looks one way along this older trail:
His point-of-view: flatlands. Scrub. No movement.
He looks the other way.
A distant range of mountains. No movement.
He stoops to examine the trail.
He paces it 'til he finds a print clear enough to give him the animal's orientation.
He stands and looks again toward the distant mountains. He brings up the binoculars.
His point-of-view: landscape, swimming into focus, heat waves exaggerated by the compression of the lens.
Panning, looking for the animal.
Movement, very distant. The animal is brought into focus: a black tailless dog, huge head, limping badly, phantasmal by virtue of the rippling heat waves and the silence.
Moss lowers the glass. A moment of thought as he gazes off.
He turns and heads in the direction from which the dog came.
EXT. RISE NEAR BASIN - MINUTES LATER
Moss tops a rise. He scans the landscape below.
Not much to see except-distant glints, off something not native to the environment.
Moss brings up the binoculars.
Parked vehicles: three of them, squat, Broncos or other off- road trucks with fat tires, winches in the bed and racks of roof lights.
On the ground near the trucks dark shapes lie still.
EXT. BASIN - MINUTES LATER
Moss is walking cautiously up to the site, unslung rifle at the ready.
Flies drone.
He circles two dead bodies lying in the grass, covered with blood. A gut-shot dog of the same kind we saw limping toward the mountains lies beside them. A sawed-off shotgun with a pistol stock lies in the grass.
The tires and most of the window glass are shot out of the first pickup Moss approaches.
He opens the door and looks inside.
The driver is dead, leaning over the wheel. Moss shuts the door.
He opens the door of the second truck.
The driver, sitting upright, still in shoulder harness, is staring at him.
Moss stumbles back, raising the rifle.
The man does not move. The front of his shirt is covered with blood.
Agua.
Moss stares at him
...Agua. Por Dios.
Ain't got no water.
On the seat next to the man is an HK machine pistol. Moss looks at it. He looks back at the man. The man is still staring at him. Without lowering his eyes Moss reaches in and takes the pistol.
Moss straightens up out of the truck and slings the rifle back over his shoulder. He snaps the clip off the machine pistol, checks it and snaps it back on.
Moss crosses to the back of the truck and lifts the tarp that covers the truck bed.
A load of brick-sized brown parcels each wrapped in plastic.
He throws the tarp back over the load and crosses back to the open cab door.
Agua.
I told you I ain't got no agua. You speak English?
A blank look.
...Where's the last guy?
The injured man stares, unresponsive. Moss persists:
Ultimo hombre. Last man standing, must've been one. Where'd he go?
...Agua.
Moss turns to scan the horizon. He looks at the tire tracks extending back from the truck. He thinks for a beat.
(to himself)
I reckon I'd go out the way I came in...
He starts off.
Through the truck's open door:
La puerta... Hay lobos...
(walking off)
Ain't no lobos.
EXT. FLATLAND NEAR THE BASIN - LATER
Moss stops to look out at a new prospect. Flatland, no cover.
He raises the binoculars.
If you stopped... to watch your backtrack... you're gonna shoot my dumb ass.
He doesn't see anything. He lowers the glass, thinking.
He raises the glass again.
...But. If you stopped... you stopped in shade.
He sets off.
EXT. NEAR THE ROCK SHELF - DAY
A POINT-OF-VIEW
Through the binoculars, some time later. One lone shelf of rock throws shade toward us. Heat shimmers in between.
Hard sun makes the rock shadow impenetrable. But there is a booted foot sticking into the sun toe-up like the nub on a sundial.
Moss lowers the binoculars.
He looks at his watch.
11:30.
He sits down.
FAST FADE
EXT. NEAR THE ROCK SHELF - DAY
THE WATCH
