SCREEN IS BLACK. We hear the opening piano chords of the song “Doctor My Eyes.”
MUSIC CONTINUES OVER:
FADE IN:
INT. UNDERGROUND NEWSPAPER – DAY
SUPERIMPOSE CREDITS as several casually dressed young people in their mid- to late-twenties dismantle the office of an underground newspaper. Their hands rip Meher Baba, Jimi Hendrix, Bob Dylan and Janis Joplin posters off the walls. Numerous copies of the L.A. New Society get shoved into the garbage. One MALE in wire—rimmed glasses stands staring out the window, his hands on a stack of books, including “Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee”, “Our Gang” “The Last Whole Earth Catalog” and “The Exorcist.” A hand opens a drawer marked “First Aid”; joints, pills and paraphernalia clatter together, and the hand scoops them out. A YOUNG WOMAN with long straight hair and studded jeans solemnly rips from an easel a sketch illustrating Richard Nixon’s landslide re—election. One pair of hands empties paper clips, staples, rulers, pencils, stamps, erasers and other supplies from a drawer. A masculine hand reaches for a large pair of editing scissors; this hand is attached to the WEARER of a long blond ponytail, which he unceremoniously hacks off and drops in the wastebasket, then returns the scissors, handles first, to the woman cleaning out the desk.
Five young people center on one desk. JOAN, a frizzy—haired, less-than-gorgeous woman, shuffles through a stack of files, wincing at some of the things she sees, smiling wistfully at others, shaking her head in disgust at others, throwing most of them away. MICHAEL, solemn—eyed, not conventionally handsome but uniquely attractive, picks up a boxful of books, then pauses with it as something on the other side of the room catches his eye: a young woman tearing a calendar in two, tears streaming down the cheeks of her expressionless face. CARLA, voluptuous with warm brown eyes, places a sympathetic hand on Michael’s shoulder. MARTY, big, blond and surfer—handsome, spends more time playing with the objects on the desk and ogling the women than he does helping with the move. TRUMAN, a bit shorter and stockier than average, pokes his nose into a paper cup half-filled with oily—looking liquid with a couple of fuzzy—looking greenish patches floating on top. He lifts it to his lips as if to take a sip, then looks up abruptly at the shocked faces of the others as they call out to him.
Someone pulls the plug which had been connecting a radio to an outlet. The MUSIC STOPS abruptly. A photograph of the five main characters, standing in front of McCarthy headquarters in hippie dress, sits alone on Joan’s desk. Michael picks it up and places it on top of what seems to be the last stack of books.
MICHAEL
Is this the end of it?
JOAN
There’s probably more– that’s all right, we’ll take care of it later. Listen. Thank you all for helping me.
CARLA
We only wish we could have done more. Really.
JOAN
Oh, Carla…
(she looks around the dismantled office)
I don’t know if this means the underground is dead, or they just don’t read any more.
MARTY
(Standing behind Joan, he throws his arms around her and kisses her)
I keep telling you, Babe. You just can’t have a newspaper without a sports section.
TRUMAN
I will miss the comics. And all the dirty words.
(The others shake their heads and laugh.)
MARTY, JOAN, MICHAEL AND CARLA
Truman…
(The girl who tore up the calendar passes near Joan on her way to the door. Joan follows Michael’s eyes in her direction, then approaches her. The two women clasp each other’s hands, speechless.)
JOAN
See you soon, huh?
(The other girl nods and turns to leave. Joan looks after her.)
MICHAEL
(Gently)
This must have been a really good place to work.
JOAN
Oh, it was, Michael. It was.
(The guy who cut off his ponytail now holds a typewriter at his hip. He claps his free hand on Joan’s shoulder and kisses her temple.)
PONYTAIL
This is all Nixon’s fault, you know.
JOAN
I thought it was McGovern’s.
(He smiles and turns to leave.)
JOAN
How does that go– “People ought to be one of two things, young or old. No, what’s the good of fooling? People ought to be one of two things, young or dead.” Know who said that?
TRUMAN
Mae West.
JOAN
Dorothy Parker.
TRUMAN
Close enough.
CARLA
Why don’t you all come over to our place? We have a lot of wine, don’t we, hon?
MICHAEL
I don’t know, I–
CARLA
Oh, I’m sure we do. Come on, Joanie, it’ll be good for you. Really.
(Joan nods weakly. The guy with the emasculated pony tail exits, the rubber band at the back of his head now holding together nothing but a collection of loose ends.)
INTO CARLA’S LIVING ROOM – NIGHT
As Carla gathers up empty wine glasses and plates containing pizza remains, Michael sits at the piano, aimlessly improvising parts of songs and staring far beyond the window.
CARLA
So– how soon are you leaving?
MICHAEL
Tuesday.
CARLA
Oh.
(She cleans with exaggerated vigor.)
CARLA
Don’t you want to write any—-
MICHAEL
I will be writing. Only from now on, I’ll do the stuff myself.
CARLA
Oh. What about being onstage? I mean, won’t you–
MICHAEL
I don’t know. I just– have to try– living differently.
CARLA
You know how I’ll worry about you.
(He stops playing and hangs his head.)
MICHAEL
Carla–
CARLA
You know, I’ve been thinking, honey, we really should turn Momma’s old sewing room upstairs into a music room for you– put the piano up there, a desk so you can write– I could do it while you’re away– have it waiting for you when you get back–
MICHAEL
Carla, don’t– don’t.
CARLA
Oh.
MICHAEL
I’m really, really sorry.
CARLA
It’s all right, Michael. Really. I mean, you don’t owe me anything. I mean, I understand– you’re a musician– you can’t be expected– to make a commitment to anything– except your work.
MICHAEL
Listen to me–
(He reaches for her. She stiffens and pulls away.)
CARLA
Can I– uh, get you a beer or anything? As long as I’m up?
MICHAEL
No!… Thank you.
INTO TRUMAN’S APARTMENT – MORNING
A pair of male hands shuffles through a stack of movie stills from the 1930s and ‘40s– Jean Harlow, Clark Gable, Astaire and Rogers, James Cagney, Joan Crawford, Greta Garbo. We see that it’s Marty. Joan looks over his shoulder. Truman gathers together pictures and program books, piling them into a box. Around him, the apartment nearly overflows with photographs, posters, books, programs and records. A poster of Montgomery Clift dominates one wall. Below it, on a shelf, sits a photograph of a soldier, inscribed to Truman.
MARTY
People pay you for this stuff?
TRUMAN
Does Rhoda have a weight problem?
JOAN
(Laughs)
I guess people want to recapture the glories of the past.
TRUMAN
This isn’t the past. It’s just a pile of old fantasies. The past is dead. It was shit anyway.
(Notices them looking at him)
Know who said that?
(They shake their heads)
Abbie Hoffman.