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shymoon
Reg.: 09 Ott 2001
Messaggi: 1314
Da: Perugia (PG)
|  Inviato: 17-12-2001 16:18 |
|
Basta che non mi tagli la gonna è già troppo corta ... 
_________________
... e mentre guardo la tua pace, dorme quello spirto guerrier ch'entro mi rugge. |
|
OneDas
Reg.: 24 Ott 2001
Messaggi: 4394
Da: Roma (RM)
| | Inviato: 17-12-2001 17:03 |
|
quote:
In data 2001-12-17 16:18, shymoon scrive:
Basta che non mi tagli la gonna è già troppo corta ...
|
La gonna mi piace appena sopra al ginocchio |
|
shymoon
Reg.: 09 Ott 2001
Messaggi: 1314
Da: Perugia (PG)
| | Inviato: 18-12-2001 15:54 |
|
quote:
In data 2001-12-17 17:03, OneDas scrive:
quote:
In data 2001-12-17 16:18, shymoon scrive:
Basta che non mi tagli la gonna è già troppo corta ...
|
La gonna mi piace appena sopra al ginocchio
|
Le maglie scollate?
_________________
... e mentre guardo la tua pace, dorme quello spirto guerrier ch'entro mi rugge. |
|
aguirre
Reg.: 07 Ott 2001
Messaggi: 8325
Da: Reggio Calabria (RC)
| | Inviato: 18-12-2001 22:30 |
|
quote:
In data 2001-12-18 15:54, shymoon scrive:
quote:
In data 2001-12-17 17:03, OneDas scrive:
quote:
In data 2001-12-17 16:18, shymoon scrive:
Basta che non mi tagli la gonna è già troppo corta ...
|
La gonna mi piace appena sopra al ginocchio
|
Le maglie scollate?
|
  : : : ed allora?
_________________
"Se io non ci fossi
mi mancherei un casino"
Aguy
http://ondedinchiostro.splinder.com/ |
|
shymoon
Reg.: 09 Ott 2001
Messaggi: 1314
Da: Perugia (PG)
| | Inviato: 19-12-2001 08:31 |
|
quote:
In data 2001-12-18 22:30, aguirre scrive:
quote:
In data 2001-12-18 15:54, shymoon scrive:
quote:
In data 2001-12-17 17:03, OneDas scrive:
quote:
In data 2001-12-17 16:18, shymoon scrive:
Basta che non mi tagli la gonna è già troppo corta ...
|
La gonna mi piace appena sopra al ginocchio
|
Le maglie scollate?
|
: : : ed allora?
|
Uffa, ma io mi vesto così solo perché piace a te 
Poi mica ho parlato dei completini di pizzo nero, dei tacchi a spillo, della frusta, delle manette. Quelle amore le dedico solo a te. 
_________________
... e mentre guardo la tua pace, dorme quello spirto guerrier ch'entro mi rugge. |
|
OneDas
Reg.: 24 Ott 2001
Messaggi: 4394
Da: Roma (RM)
| | Inviato: 19-12-2001 09:23 |
|
quote:
In data 2001-12-19 08:31, shymoon scrive:
quote:
In data 2001-12-18 22:30, aguirre scrive:
quote:
In data 2001-12-18 15:54, shymoon scrive:
quote:
In data 2001-12-17 17:03, OneDas scrive:
quote:
In data 2001-12-17 16:18, shymoon scrive:
Basta che non mi tagli la gonna è già troppo corta ...
|
La gonna mi piace appena sopra al ginocchio
|
Le maglie scollate?
|
: : : ed allora?
|
Uffa, ma io mi vesto così solo perché piace a te
Poi mica ho parlato dei completini di pizzo nero, dei tacchi a spillo, della frusta, delle manette. Quelle amore le dedico solo a te.
|
A proposito di manette, non erano niente male quelle ricoperte di pelliccia di leopardo che avevi l'altra sera ...   opps... |
|
shymoon
Reg.: 09 Ott 2001
Messaggi: 1314
Da: Perugia (PG)
| | Inviato: 19-12-2001 11:31 |
|
Das, ma che dici, un po' di discrezione mannaggia! 
Poi le mie sono foderate di pelliccia azzurro polvere, forse quelle foderate di leopardo erano di un'altra ragazza ...
_________________
... e mentre guardo la tua pace, dorme quello spirto guerrier ch'entro mi rugge. |
|
OneDas
Reg.: 24 Ott 2001
Messaggi: 4394
Da: Roma (RM)
| | Inviato: 19-12-2001 12:03 |
|
quote:
In data 2001-12-19 11:31, shymoon scrive:
Das, ma che dici, un po' di discrezione mannaggia!
Poi le mie sono foderate di pelliccia azzurro polvere, forse quelle foderate di leopardo erano di un'altra ragazza ...
|
Che rimanga tra di noi... è per fare ingelosire Agui, cmq quelle azzurro polvere ti stavano un amore....
(Ma allora di chi erano quelle leopardate...  ) |
|
shymoon
Reg.: 09 Ott 2001
Messaggi: 1314
Da: Perugia (PG)
| | Inviato: 19-12-2001 12:29 |
|
quote:
In data 2001-12-19 12:03, OneDas scrive:
quote:
In data 2001-12-19 11:31, shymoon scrive:
Das, ma che dici, un po' di discrezione mannaggia!
Poi le mie sono foderate di pelliccia azzurro polvere, forse quelle foderate di leopardo erano di un'altra ragazza ...
|
Che rimanga tra di noi... è per fare ingelosire Agui, cmq quelle azzurro polvere ti stavano un amore....
(Ma allora di chi erano quelle leopardate... )
|
Se non lo sai tu di chi erano, io le mie cose ce le ho tutte catalogate
Aguirre, non hai nessuna ragione di essere geloso
_________________
... e mentre guardo la tua pace, dorme quello spirto guerrier ch'entro mi rugge. |
|
OneDas
Reg.: 24 Ott 2001
Messaggi: 4394
Da: Roma (RM)
| | Inviato: 19-12-2001 13:20 |
|
quote:
In data 2001-12-19 12:29, shymoon scrive:
quote:
In data 2001-12-19 12:03, OneDas scrive:
quote:
In data 2001-12-19 11:31, shymoon scrive:
Das, ma che dici, un po' di discrezione mannaggia!
Poi le mie sono foderate di pelliccia azzurro polvere, forse quelle foderate di leopardo erano di un'altra ragazza ...
|
Che rimanga tra di noi... è per fare ingelosire Agui, cmq quelle azzurro polvere ti stavano un amore....
(Ma allora di chi erano quelle leopardate... )
|
Se non lo sai tu di chi erano, io le mie cose ce le ho tutte catalogate
Aguirre, non hai nessuna ragione di essere geloso
|
Aguirre, sì, stai tranquillo...
_________________
tu che lo vendi, cosa ti compri di migliore ? |
|
K9l009
Reg.: 06 Ago 2002
Messaggi: 1
Da: format (es)
| | Inviato: 06-08-2002 12:33 |
|
THE TRUMAN SHOW
A Screen Play
By
Andrew M. Niccol
FADE IN
A white title appears on a black screen.
"One doesn't discover new lands
without consenting to lose sight
of the shore for a very long time."
Andre Gide
The title fades off, replaced by a second title.
"We're all in this alone."
Lily Tomlin
INT. A WOMB. DAY.
A fiber optic camera observes a five-month-old MALE FETUS as he
gently floats, weightless, suspended in the amniotic fluid of
his mother's womb. We focus on the unborn's hand, already a
tiny, exquisite work of art, moving towards his newly formed
lips. He sucks his thumb.
INT. HOSPITAL - DELIVERY ROOM. DAY.
A seconds old BABY BOY - umbilical cord still attached,
smeared with blood and protective skin grease - is held up
by an anonymous pair of latex gloves to the camera. Shocked by
the unaccustomed light and cool of the delivery room, the
newborn fights for his first, arduous breath. Following almost
immediately, a cry.
From another angle we see the crying infant on a television
screen, the individual lines of the screen clearly visible.
MATCH DISSOLVE TO
INT. CAR - UTOPIA, QUEENS. MORNING.
The face of the baby thirty-four years later, still crying.
TRUMAN BURBANK, thinning hair, a body going soft around the
edges, appearing older than his thirty-four years sits at the
wheel of his eight-year-old Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. He
cries without shame, making no attempt to wipe away the tears.
Pausing at an intersection in a quiet, working-class suburban
street, a spherical glass object suddenly falls from the sky and
lands with a deafening crash on the roadway, several yards in
front of his idling car.
Truman exits the Oldsmobile to investigate. Amidst a sea of
shattered glass are the remains of a light mechanism.
He looks around him but the street is deserted. He checks that
all the surrounding streetlights are accounted for, even though
the fallen fixture is far larger. He looks up into the sky but
there is no plane in sight. With some effort, Truman picks up
what's left of the crumpled light, loads it into the trunk of
his car and drives away.
INT. CAR - TRAIN STATION PARKING LOT. MORNING.
TRUMAN sits behind the wheel of his car, unscrews the cap of
a miniature bottle of Jack Daniels and empties the contents into
his Styrofoam cup of coffee. Stirring it in with his finger, he
burns himself.
TRUMAN
Shit!
As Truman drinks, he becomes aware of the delighted squeals of
children coming from the gymnasium of Utopia Elementary School,
adjacent to the parking lot. The sound of the children triggers
a memory in his head.
EXT. LONG, WIDE BEACH. DAY, TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS EARLIER.
Unlike a conventional flashback, the scene in his memory appears
to be playing on a television screen.
A sandy-haired, SEVEN-YEAR-OLD TRUMAN, runs towards a bluff on
the beach.
The boy's father, KIRK, late-thirties, beer bottle in hand,
flirts with two TEENAGE GIRLS at the shoreline. Suddenly, the
father remembers his son. He looks anxiously around. The sight
of the boy at the far end of the beach causes him to drop his
bottle in the sand and run to him.
The boy is near the top of the cliff before his agitated father
comes within earshot.
FATHER
(out of breath, clutching his side)
Truman! Truman! Stop!
Truman turns from his perch and waves happily down to his
father. But the smile quickly vanishes when he registers the
anger and distress on his father's face.
FATHER
Come down now!
His father's unnatural anxiety makes the next bay even more
tantalizing. The boy considers defying his father. He puts
his hand on the rock above him to stretch up and sneak a peek at
the other side. One good stretch would do it.
FATHER
(reading Truman's mind, enraged)
No!
TRUMAN
(sensing his father is keeping
something from him)
Why? What's there?
FATHER
(unconvincing)
Nothing's there. It's the same as this.
(trace of desperation)
Come down, please!
Truman is suddenly aware that the hundreds of other BEACHGOERS
have stopped their activities to stare at him. Reluctantly
he starts to retrace his steps down the rocks. When he finally
jumps to the sand, his father grabs him roughly by the arm and
drags him away down the beach.
FATHER
I told you to stay close. Don't ever leave
my sight again. You gotta know your
limitations. You could've been washed
away by the tide.
EXT. LOWER MANHATTAN, FINANCIAL DISTRICT. MORNING.
TRUMAN emerges from a subway exit in Lower Manhattan and walks
briskly down the bustling street. A snarl of taxis, buses and
COMMUTER traffic. A STREET VENDOR thrusts a pretzel under
Truman's nose, a CAREER WOMAN catches his eye.
Truman stops at a newspaper stand and plucks an issue of
Cosmopolitan from the rack, quickly flicking through the glossy
pages. Glancing in the direction of the NEWSPAPER VENDOR and
finding him busy with another customer, Truman deftly tears a
portion of the open page and pockets the cutting.
He guiltily replaces the magazine, startled to find the
Newspaper Vendor standing close behind him.
TRUMAN
(quickly recovering)
Gimme a copy of "The Sydney Morning Herald".
VENDOR
We ran out.
TRUMAN
(hastily departing)
Thanks anyway.
As Truman hurries away, the Vendor picks up the copy of Cosmo
and instantly turns to the torn page. It is a Lancome
advertisement with ISABELLA ROSSELLINI's nose missing.
Truman is still in view but the Vendor makes no effort to
confront him, almost as if he were expecting it.
Passing one of the tall, black mirrored buildings that grow
out of the pavement, Truman glimpses himself in the reflective
glass. He doesn't like what he sees and attempts to suck in his
gut, but quickly concedes defeat. The image triggers another
childhood memory.
INT. SCHOOLROOM. DAY, TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS EARLIER.
Once again, the flashback appears to be playing on a television
screen.
The sandy-haired SEVEN-YEAR-OLD TRUMAN sits in the middle row of
a Catholic Elementary School classroom surrounded by thirty-or-
so other well-scrubbed, uniformed YOUNGSTERS. DOUGLAS, the boy
next to Truman is on his feet under the scrutiny of a sixty-
year-old NUN with a face as wrinkled as her habit is starched.
DOUGLAS
I wanna be a chiropractor like my dad.
SISTER
(impressed)
Tell the class what a chiropractor does,
Douglas.
DOUGLAS
He helps people by fixing their backs,
Sister Olivia.
SISTER
That's right, Douglas.
(holding her back, hamming it up)
Perhaps I'll be your first patient.
The CLASS titters. Douglas sits down, pleased with himself,
throwing a smirk to Truman.
SISTER
What about you, Truman?
Truman rises to his feet.
TRUMAN
I want to be an explorer
(with reverence)
...like Magellan.
The Sister's face falls.
SISTER
No one's going to pay you to do that,
Truman.
(with scarcely disguised glee)
Besides, you're too late. There's
nothing left to explore.
The class roars with laughter and Truman takes his seat.
EXT. LOWER MANHATTAN, FINANCIAL DISTRICT. MORNING.
From TRUMAN'S POV we see that he is staring up at relief
letters that proclaim, "American Life & Accident Insurance,
Inc." above an office building's entrance.
A POLICE OFFICER walking his beat, wanders in Truman's
direction. From another angle, we observe Truman from the
Police Officer's POV - shaky, handheld camera - on a television
screen. Truman enters the building.
INT. INSURANCE COMPANY - TWELFTH FLOOR. DAY.
In a cramped, cluttered, windowless cubicle, TRUMAN talks on
the telephone.
TRUMAN
(into receiver)
...okay, okay, let's call it what it is...
I'm not gonna lie to you...life insurance
is death insurance...you just gotta ask
yourself two questions...one, in the event
of your death, will anyone experience
financial loss?...and two, do you care?
A CLERK drops a large reference book on Truman's desk. He
checks the spine - "MORTALITY STATISTICS, 1986 to Present".
TRUMAN
(into receiver)
Hold on will ya?
(to Clerk, putting receiver
to chest, referring to the book)
This's no good. Lumps all drownings
together. I need drownings broken down
by category.
The Clerk shrugs, returns the book to his trolley and continues
his rounds.
TRUMAN
(returning to his call)
...just think about what I've been
saying and lemme...hello?...
The person on the other end has hung up. With an apathetic
shrug, Truman replaces the receiver. He looks over his shoulder
and places another call.
TRUMAN
(lowering his voice)
Can you connect me with directory
inquiries in Sydney, Australia?
(a long delay makes Truman
even more uncomfortable)
...er, yes. Do you have a listing
for a Lauren Powers...
(pause)
...nothing listed?...what about a Sylvia
Powers...nothing? Thanks...
Truman replaces the receiver, disappointed.
INT. LOCAL ITALIAN DELI. LUNCHTIME.
TRUMAN stands in line with a crush of other WHITE COLLAR
WORKERS. As he reaches the counter, the store owner, TYRONE,
has anticipated his order and ahs already begun preparing a
meatball and mozzarella sandwich on Italian roll. Truman gazes
at the sandwich skillfully under construction, pained by his own
predictability.
TYRONE
(nauseatngly cheerful)
How's it goin', Truman?
TRUMAN
(deadpan)
Not bad. I just won the State Lottery.
TYRONE
(not listening to Truman's
reply, as Truman anticipated)
Good. Good.
TRUMAN
Tyrone, what if I said I didn't want meatball today?
TYRONE
(not missing a beat)
I'd ask for identification.
Truman forces a half-smile.
We focus on another MALE OFFICE WORKER in line at the cash
register, watching Truman out of the corner of his eye. About
to depart with his sandwich, the man receives a guarded rebuke
from the FEMALE CASHIER.
FEMALE CASHIER
(a whisper to prevent Truman overhearing)
He's right there. You're supposed to pay
when he's here.
MALE CUSTOMER
(nonchalant shrug as he departs)
He never notices.
We re-focus our attention on Truman who is taking the wrapped
sandwich from Tyrone.
TYRONE
Hold on, Truman. I got somethin' to show ya.
Tyrone holds up a front page of the New York Post that
features a photograph of a scaled-down replica of Columbus'
Santa Maria, moored in front of the Manhattan skyline. Truman's
eyes widen at the photograph.
TYRONE
(referring to the photo)
The flagship of Christoforo...our Genoese
navigator, huh? I know you love this like me.
TRUMAN
(averting his eyes with difficulty)
Not me. You got the wrong man.
Tyrone tries not to let his disappointment show as Truman pays
the Cashier and exits.
TYRONE
See ya tomorrow, Truman.
EXT. CITY PARK. DAY.
TRUMAN eats lunch alone on a concrete bench in a cement park.
From his briefcase he pulls out an old hardcovered book, "To The
Ends Of The Earth - The Age Of Exploration".
A TRANSIENT in a wheelchair approaches, looking for a handout.
Truman gives the homeless man half of his sandwich, reconsiders
and gives him it all, his appetite gone. As the transient
wheels himself away, Truman loses himself in his book.
INT. A DIMLY-LIT ROOM SOMEWHERE. DAY.
Close up on an old man's face. CHRISTOF. Hair pure white,
late-sixties, a vitality in his eyes that belies his years.
He stands beside a floor-to-ceiling window in a dimly-lit room.
Outside the window, a single palm tree swaying against a deep
blue Californian sky. A news anchor-style earpiece disappears
down the neck of the unconventionally-cut suit he wears.
Suspended from the ceiling above his head is a television
monitor upon which a surveillance picture of Truman, engrossed
in his book, silently plays.
CHLOE, twenty-something, androgenous-looking, similarly-suited,
joins Christof at the window.
CHRISTOF
(never taking his eyes
from the monitor)
You ever pass a car wreck on the side of the
road? They're pulling out a body. You know
you shouldn't look, but you do.
INT. A CONFERENCE ROOM SOMEWHERE. DAY.
A group of a dozen MEN and WOMEN of varying ages sit around
a circular conference table in a sterile, windowless meeting
room. All stare at a single telephone placed in the center of
the table, anticipating a call. On cue, the phone rings and one
of the men, after waiting for the second ring, picks up.
MAN
Hello?...I'm sorry, I got more than enough
insurance.
He hangs up. After a moment the phone rings again.
INT. INSURANCE COMPANY. DAY.
TRUMAN sits at his desk, making a cold call.
TRUMAN
(into receiver)
...this isn't about insurance, this is
about the great variable - when will
death occur? Could be a week, a month,
a year. Could happen today...A sunbather,
minding his own business, gets stabbed in
the heart by the tip of a runaway beach
umbrella...No way you can guard against
that kinda thing, no way at all...
The prospect on the other end, unimpressed with his pitch, hangs
up. Truman's supervisor, LAWRENCE, younger than Truman by
several years, sharper suit, sharper haircut, appears around the
corner of the cubicle.
LAWRENCE
(handing Truman some documentation)
Hey, Burbank, I got a bridge-buyer in
Stapleton I need you to cloes by four.
Truman turns pale.
TRUMAN
Stapleton on Staten Island?
LAWRENCE
(sarcastic)
You know another one?
TRUMAN
I can't do it.
LAWRENCE
(insistent)
A half hour across the bay. Sea air. Do
you good.
TRUMAN
No, I...
(searching for a plausible excuse)
...I got an appointment uptown.
LAWRENCE
This is a sure thing.
(conspiratorial)
They're upping our quota. You need this.
Lawrence exits the cubicle. Truman's head drops. He picks up
the framed picture of his wife from his desk. MERYL, early
thirties, a petite woman easy to mistake for frail. He deposits
the photo in his briefcase and departs.
INT. MUNICIPAL FERRY TERMINAL. DAY.
TRUMAN, briefcase in hand, ashen-faced, stands in line for the
Staten Island ferry.
As the TOURISTS and COMMUTERS impatiently brush past him onto
the boat, Truman remains frozen to the spot, mesmerized by the
scummy water rising and falling beneath the dock, triggering
a flashback in his head.
EXT. LONG ISLAND SOUND. DUSK, TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS EARLIER.
The flashback once again appearing an a television screen, the
SEVEN-YEAR-OLD TRUMAN sits alongside his father, KIRK, in a
small sailing dinghy.
TRUMAN
(shouting above the wind)
Let's go further, daddy! Let's go further!
FATHER
(shouting back)
It's getting late, Truman.
TRUMAN
(entreating his father)
Please!...
Kirk shakes his head ruefully and indulges his son by heading
towards the gathering storm clouds on the horizon.
INT. MUNICIPAL FERRY TERMINAL. DAY.
TRUMAN turns and begins to fight his way back against the tide
of PASSENGERS boarding the ferry, emerging back on the street
into the bright sunlight, gasping for air.
Gathering himself, he makes for the entrance of Whitehall Street
subway station. Two COMMUTERS surrepticiously observe Truman as
he departs.
COMMUTER 1
(commenting out of Truman's earshot)
I can't believe he's taking the long way.
COMMUTER 2
He'll never make it.
INT. SUBWAY TRAIN. DAY.
TRUMAN stands in a packed subway car, anxiously glancing at his
watch, wiping his perspiring hairline with a hankerchief.
INT. TAXI. DAY.
A taxi crosses the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge towards Staten
Island. TRUMAN keeps his eyes shut tight all the way across.
refusing to look down at the entrance to New York harbor.
EXT. BAY STREET, STATEN ISLAND. DAY.
TRUMAN finally reaches his destination at a well-to-do
condominium on Bay Street. As he approaches the lobby, he
realizes he has perspiration showing through the armpits of his
suit jacket.
INT. CONDOMINIUM. DAY.
A middle-aged CONCIERGE behind a reception desk, is having his
hair brushed by a YOUNGER MAN in his mid-thirties. Anticipating
Truman's arrival, the hairdresser fusses one more time and
swiftly departs through a rear door. TRUMAN enters the lobby
and approaches the CONCIERGE, trying to keep his arms tightly at
his sides to hide the perspiration.
TRUMAN
I'm here to see a Mr Hamilton.
CONCIERGE
You from the insurance company? You missed him.
TRUMAN
When will he be back?
CONCIERGE
Vacation. Two months. He waited as long as
he could. You was supposed to be here by four.
A clock on the wall reads 4.l2pm.
INT. SUBWAY. AFTERNOON.
TRUMAN sits by himself in the rattling subway car, defeated.
The only other occupants in the train, a TALL WOMAN, mid-
thirties, reading a pulp novel and two MALE YOUTHS, late-teens,
sitting opposite the woman, slouching, ogling her.
YOUTH 1
(to woman)
You wanna read to me?
His companion smirks.
YOUTH 1
(more insistent)
You wannna read to me?
The woman looks up, unaware of the boys' presence until now.
She quickly avoids eye contact and returns to the book. The
other boy reaches over and snatches the novel from her grasp.
YOUTH 2
(menacing)
My friend asked you a question.
The woman picks up her bag from the floor in a reflex and
holds it to her. She looks around the train for assistance,
briefly catching Truman's eye. The youths also look in
Truman's direction, staring him down, daring him to interfere.
Truman quickly averts his gaze.
WOMAN
(reaching for the book)
Please...
The boy returns the book to the woman, but before doing so rips
out the last page from the novel and stuffs it in his shirt
pocket.
YOUTH 2
Now you're gonna have to ask me how it ends.
The train pulls into a deserted station. Feeling vulnerable,
the woman jumps up from her seat and exits. The youths, sensing
a chase, also exit. Scanning the empty platform, the woman
realizes she has made a serious error. Truman watches through
the train's open door as the boys corner the frightened woman
but still he remains in his seat.
YOUTH 1
We're gonna tell you how it ends, baby.
One of the youths produces a knife from his pocket and waves it
in the woman's face.
YOUTH 2
Don't you wanna know how it ends?
The boys pin the woman to the station wall with the weight of
their bodies. The woman looks again in Truman's direction.
Again she makes eye contact, eyes pleading.
WOMAN
(screams)
Help!! Please, help!!
The woman's second scream is muffled as the train door closes.
Truman looks up to the emergency handle beside the door. There
is still time to act. He stands up and half-reaches for the
handle but moves no further.
The train abruptly pulls away, leaving Truman time to see one of
the youths covering the woman's mouth while the other reaches
under her skirt before the train enters the tunnel. Truman bows
his head in shame as the train rattles on.
INT. SUBWAY STATION. DAY.
The train safely out of sight, the YOUTHS promptly release the
WOMAN. She calmly hitches down her skirt, no longer afraid.
The young men, no longer angry, help fix her hair and retrieve
her shoulder bag.
WOMAN
Thanks.
The threesome walk along the platform together, as if lifelong
friends.
WOMAN
(pondering the incident)
He did nothing.
YOUTH 1
(shrugs, suddenly more couth)
Physical violence paralyzes him. Always
has.
EXT. TRUMAN'S HOUSE. DUSK.
The backyard of a modest but tidy one-story tract home. Beyond
the plank fence at the end of the property flows a busy
Expressway.
TRUMAN wheels a lawnmower towards the garage as his wife, MERYL,
pulls up the drive in her four-year-old Toyota Camry. She has a
sensible blue vinyl bag over her shoulder and carries a new
knife-set in a wooden block. She kisses Truman affectionately
on the cheek.
MERYL
(proudly referring to the knife-set)
I got it free with the tune-up.
Looking over Truman's shoulder, she notices a small uncut patch
of grass, missed by Truman in one of his passes.
MERYL
You missed a section.
Meryl enters the house. Truman restarts the lawnmower and
obediantly pushes it towards the offending patch of lawn. As
the mower brushes up against the unconforming blades of grass,
Truman pulls back abruptly. He checks the kitchen window for
Meryl and wheels the mower away, leaving the patch uncut.
INT. TRUMAN'S HOUSE - KITCHEN. DAY.
MERYL is applying ointment to her wrists as TRUMAN enters.
TRUMAN
(referring to her hands)
Do they hurt?
MERYL
I was afraid I'd seize up during cross.
One of the keys kept sticking.
Truman picks up Meryl's newspaper and skims idly through it. He
notes an article headlined, "SLAYING TRIAL ENTERS SIXTH WEEK".
TRUMAN
(referring to the article)
Is he gonna take the stand?
MERYL
(dispassionate, matter-of-fact)
No point. Two eye witnesses saw him
near the dumpster where they found the legs.
She flexes her arthritic wrists.
MERYL
You gonna eat before you leave?
TRUMAN
I'll get something out.
MERYL
(sensing something odd
in his demeanor)
Did something happen today?
Truman turns to her too sharply, his guilt showing.
TRUMAN
(composing himself)
What could happen?
EXT. UNOPENED FREEWAY. NIGHT.
An abandoned freeway project in Queens. The four hundred yard
stretch of deserted freeway is paved but unmarked. At one end
is an off-ramp that abruptly ends in inid-air, reinforcing steel
protuding from the concrete.
TRUMAN stands at the end of the off-ramp with MARLON, thirty-
two, the kind of physique some descibe as fat, others big.
Marlon drinks beer from a can while Truman addresses a teed-up
golf ball with a number three wood.
Truman winds up and swings, making a healthy contact with the
ball. The ball arches away into the night sky, lit by the
adjacent operating roadway. From a new angle we see the ball
take a huge hop on the outside lane of the abandoned freeway and
continue down the asphalt.
Marlon tosses Truman another ball from a bucket of badly scarred
golf balls - a ball initialed with the letter, "T". Truman sets
the ball up on the makeshift tee area and launches himself into
his second shot. With a slight fade, the second ball carries
even further than the first.
Truman hands Marlon their sole golf club without comment.
Marlon is still looking admiringly in the direction of the shot.
MARLON
Ouch. Whose nuts were those?
TRUMAN
(opening a beer from the six pack)
Mine.
Marlon tees up a ball of his own. initialed with the letter "M".
TRUMAN
I gotta get out, Marlon.
MARLON
(mild interest only)
Yeah? Outta what?
TRUMAN
Outta my job, outta Queens...out!
Marlon takes a practise swing.
MARLON
Outta your job? What the hell's wrong
with your job? You gotta great job.
You gotta desk job. I'd kill for a desk
job.
Marlon addresses the ball and swings. A sweeping hook shot
that bounces off the freeway out of bounds.
MARLON
(annoyed by the errant tee shot)
Sonofabitch.
TRUMAN
It doesn't mean anything.
MARLON
(still looking in the
direction of his ball)
Nothing means anything. Try stocking vending
machines for a living. My biggest decision
of the day is whether the Almond Joys look
better next to the Snickers or the Baby Ruths.
Truman selects another "M" ball from the bucket and tosses it to
Marlon.
TRUMAN
(adamant)
I gotta get out.
Overcompensating with his second shot, Marlon slices the ball in
the other direction. A lucky bounce keeps it on the cement
fairway.
MARLON
(skeptical, picking up his beer)
Sure and go where?
Truman gulps his beer as he prepares his answer.
TRUMAN
(unable to disguise his reverence)
Australia.
MARLON
(impressed)
No shit. Where is Australia exactly?
Near England?
Truman picks up a golf ball to demonstrate. He points to a
dimple on his make-shift globe.
TRUMAN
See here, this is Queens.
(sliding his finger around
the other side of the ball)
All the way round here, Australia. You
can't get any further away before you start
coming back.
(tossing the world in his hand,
warming to his subject)
Y'know, there're still places in Australia
where no human being has ever set foot.
MARLON
(still dubious)
So when are you leaving?
TRUMAN
It's not that simple. Takes money, planning.
You can't just up and go.
(heading off Marlon's skepticism)
Oh, I'm gonna do it, don't worry about
that. I just gotta move slow. Pick a
moment. Bonus time's just around the
corner. Soon as I get a retaining wall
built on the back of the house I can
start thinking about selling up...and I'll be
gone. Up and away on that big steel bird.
(as if to convince himself)
I'm going, don't you worry about that.
Marlon nods even though the concept of taking flight is beyond
his imagination.
MARLON
I never knew anybody who got out.
An awkward moment. Truman, once again, not so sure of himself.
He masks his doubt by teeing up another ball.
DISSOLVE TO
EXT. FREEWAY. LATER THAT NIGHT.
TRUMAN and MARLON wander down the empty freeway, retrieving
the golf balls. As they return them to the bucket they check
the initial on each ball to determine the winner of their
long-drive competition.
TRUMAN
(slightly the worse for drink)
Tick-fucking-tock. That's the fucking
problem, Marlon. I'm thirty-four. I'm
older than Jesus Christ.
Marlon looks sideways at Truman. It sounds to him like the beer
talking.
TRUMAN
Where do the dreams go, Marlon?
MARLON
(picking up the last ball marked with an
initial "T", trying to ignore the question)
You win.
TRUMAN
I'm serious. Where do the dreams go?
MARLON
(humoring his maudlin friend)
They're still there. Just buried under what
we settled for.
They approach Truman's Oldsmobile. Truman opens the trunk to
deposit their humble golfing equipment. Inside are the remains
of the fallen light fixture.
TRUMAN
(referring to the light)
You really think it could've dropped off an
airliner?
MARLON
(unimpressed)
Sure. It's halogen. You oughta report it.
(quickly changing the subject)
You coming for a drink?
TRUMAN
I can't tonight.
EXT. EATON'S NECK POINT. DUSK, TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS EARLIER.
The lines of a television screen signal another of Truman's
flashbacks. A small group of MOURNERS in black, several openly
weeping, stand on the end of a small jetty, including the SEVEN-
YEAR-OLD TRUMAN, dry-eyed in an ill-fitting suit, his weeping
MOTHER, older sister, RAQUEL, and a PRIEST at the head of the
gathering.
The priest nods to Truman who holds an ornate wreath, heavy and
cumbersome in his tiny hands. He heaves it off the dock.
MATCH DISSOLVE TO
EXT. EATON'S NECK POINT, LONG ISLAND. NIGHT, PRESENT.
A smaller, more simple wreath lands on the calm, dark water
beyond the jetty twenty-seven years later. TRUMAN stares at the
wreath for a long moment, turns and wanders back towards the
shoreline.
In his work suit minus his shoes and socks, he sits on the sand.
He has a portable tape recorder slung over his shoulder and
points a corded microphone at the surf. For a long while we
watch Truman's impassive face as he makes the recording of the
lapping waves, staring up at the handful of stars visible
through the gloom.
We focus on the lantern room of a nearby lighthouse. From the
light's POV, through the green hue of a night vision camera, we
observe Truman get to his feet and walk towards the dark water.
TRUMAN
(shouting at the surf)
I'm sorry! I'm sorry!
INT. DIMLY-LIT ROOM SOMEWHERE. NIGHT.
CHRISTOF's dispassionate face is reflected in the screen of a
television monitor that displays the distraught TRUMAN at the
water's edge.
INT. TRUMAN'S HOUSE. NIGHT.
At the Formica kitchen table, TRUMAN makes calculations in a
school notebook, a bottle of beer close at hand. MERYL appears
in her robe, a glimpse of black negligee beneath, restless. She
throws her arms around Truman's neck.
MERYL
(suggestive)
What are you doing? Come to bed.
TRUMAN
(ignoring the suggestion)
I figure we could scrape together eight
thousand.
MERYL
(suddenly exasperated)
Oh. God, everytime you and Marlon--
TRUMAN
--We could bum around the world for a year
on that.
MERYL
And then what, Truman? We'd be back to
where we were five years ago. You're talking
like a teenager.
TRUMAN
Maybe I feel like a teenager.
Getting to his feet. Truman holds Meryl by the arms, talking
excitedly to her the way we imagine he did when they were
courting.
TRUMAN
Meryl, it'd be an adventure.
MERYL
We said we'd try for a baby. Isn't that
enough of an adventure?
TRUMAN
That can wait. I want to get away. See
some of the world. Explore.
Meryl gives a derisive laugh.
MERYL
You want to be an explorer? You mean like
all the other great explorers from Queens?
You don't even have a passport, Truman. I
bet you don't even know how to get one.
The words sting. Truman turns away.
Seeing the pain she's caused, she changes tack.
MERYL
This'll pass. Everybody thinks like this
now and then.
(making one more attempt
at seduction)
Come to bed.
EXT. A NIGHTWATCHMAN'S OFFICE SOMEWHERE. NIGHT.
In a nightwatchman's office, two UNIFORMED GUARDS drink coffee.
GUARD 1
How can they have a child?
GUARD 2
It's not gonna be his, you idiot.
GUARD 1
Why not?
GUARD 2
You think she'd go through with it?
(reassessing his own opinion)
Guess I always thought they'd adopt.
INT. TRUMAN'S HOUSE - BEDROOM. NIGHT.
TRUMAN stands in the darkened bedroom in his Hanes underwear
looking down at his bed. MERYL has fallen asleep waiting for
him, snoring lightly. Truman rests his hand tentatively on the
bed. The surface rocks. A waterbed. The motion triggers a
flashback in his head.
EXT. LONG ISLAND SOUND. DAWN, TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS EARLIER.
As always the flashback appears to play on a television screen.
The SEVEN-YEAR-OLD TRUMAN sits on the upturned hull of a small
dinghy in calm, deep water.
TRUMAN
(plaintively calling into the mist)
Daddy!!...Daddy!!...
His cries go unanswered.
INT. A LIVING ROOM SOMEWHERE. NIGHT.
Two OLD WOMEN, seventies, sit beside wach other on a sofa
against a bare wall, looking directly into camera as they
talk. Nothing else of the room is seen.
OLD WOMAN 1
(playing amateur psychiatrist)
It left him with more than his obvious fear
of the water. It's as if he felt his father
had gone beyond his limitations and he vowed
never to repeat the mistake. He was never
the same curious little boy again.
OLD WOMAN 2
We're all born with a pound of cocaine
up our nose. By the time we're eleven
it runs out.
OLD WOMAN 1
Half the people I knew named their
babies after him.
EXT. LOWER MANHATTAN. MORNING.
TRUMAN emerges from the subway station and as usual stops at the
newspaper stand. He picks up a copy of Vogue and flips through
the glossy cosmetic ads, surreptitiously tearing CLAUDIA
SCHIFFER's nose from one of the pages. He returns the magazine
to the rack and begins his daily pilgrimage to work through the
rush hour pedestrian traffic.
Pausing to check his profile in the mirrored building, he
glimpses the reflection of a HOMELESS MAN standing directly
behind him. Truman, spellbound by the man, suddenly wheels
around to face him. The Homeless Han is in his late-sixties.
more well-groomed and well-fed than the average vagrant, with a
serene smile on his face.
From a new angle we see a two-shot of Truman and the Man on a
television screen. The Homeless Man places his hand ever so
gently on Truman's cheek. Truman makes no effort to withdraw.
He is transfixed by the the man's eyes. He appears to recognize
him.
TRUMAN
(almost to himself, mouthing
the word)
Daddy...
Suddenly a distinguished OLD WOMAN walking a small dog and a
YOUNG MALE BUSINESS EXECUTIVE carrying a briefcase, walking in
opposite directions along the sidewalk, grab the Homeless Man,
one taking each arm.
A bus suddenly screeches to a halt beside the struggling group,
doors already open, and before Truman can react, the Old Woman
and the Young Executive force the Homeless Man onto the bus.
Truman lurches after them, but he is met by the bus doors,
closing sharply in his face.
TRUMAN
(to BUS DRIVER)
Hey, stop! Stop!!
Truman thumps against the doors, but the BUS DRIVER ignores his
cries and the bus roars away from the curb. He starts to run
after the bus, colliding with several PEDESTRIANS who make no
attempt to avoid him.
Stepping blindly into the street, he tries to hail a taxi.
A vacant cab suddenly switches off its "FOR HIRE" light as he
reaches it. Truman pleads with the TAXI DRIVER through the
closed windows and locked doors of the cab but the driver is
apparently oblivious to Truman's shouts.
Frantic, Truman, dashes into a nearby parking structure and
grabs a bunch of car keys from the key rack of the unsupervised
parking attendant's kiosk. Running along the rows of parked
cars, Truman desperately presses the car security buttons
attached to the key rings
A car alarm chirps and Truman turns in time to see the car's
winking sidelights. He jumps inside a brand new BMW and guns
the car. The PARKING ATTENDANT, alerted by the squealing tires,
appears from the Men's Room and attempts to wave Truman down.
ATTENDANT
(running after the car)
Hey!
Truman ignores the attendant and accelerates into the street
without looking, causing a taxi and a postal van to take
evasive action.
Catching sight of the bus in the distance, Truman leans on the
car's horn as he recklessly weaves past other motorists. He is
only a couple of car-lengths from the bus.
TRUMAN
(reading aloud, the
ID number of the bus)
Two, four, oh, six.
Suddenly the taxis and cars directly in front of him start to
slow for no apparent reason. Truman looks for a way around
but the cars crab across the street, blocking any passage,
working together almost as if they are running interference.
TRUMAN
(shouting at the cars)
Outta the way! Outta the way!
The bus is escaping.
Truman suddenly jumps the sidewalk in the car, scattering
PEDESTRIANS.
The same cars on the street that seemed intent on slowing his
progress suddenly accelerate in unison, anticipating his move.
By the time Truman reaches the end of the sidewalk, the cars are
clustered together on the corner in an impenetrable jam. Truman
spies the bus turn the corner at the far end of the street and
disappear from view.
Fumbling with the gear stick. he finally finds reverse but turns
to find a hostile group of PEDESTRIANS herded tightly together
behind the car, leaving Truman with nowhere left to go.
The car door is suddenly jerked open and the out-of-breath
PARKING ATTENDANT yanks Truman from the driver's seat.
ATTENDANT
What the fuck are you trying to pull?!
TRUMAN
(cowering, the fight instantly
gone out of him)
I'm sorry! I'm sorry! No harm done!
No harm done!
ATTENDANT
(feverishly inspecting the
fenders for dents, he finds none)
I oughta fuck you up!
The Attendant looks into Truman's terrified eyes. They get
the better of him.
ATTENDANT
Get the fuck outta here.
The Attendant shoves Truman's briefcase into his arms and
brushes him aside. As he departs, Truman notices that the
traffic jam in the street and the mysterious crowd of
pedestrians has dissolved.
EXT. BUS DEPOT. DAY.
Row after row of parked buses. TRUMAN and MARLON exit an
administration office. Instead of heading for the exit, Truman
begins marching down the first row of buses, inspecting the
number painted on the rear of each one.
MARLON
What're you doing?
(gesturing to the office)
The man told you there's no such bus.
TRUMAN
He's lying. Two, four, oh, six was
definitely the number.
Marlon stops walking. Truman continues his inspection. Seeing
there is no reasoning with him, Marlon hurries to catch him up.
TRUMAN
I never believed he was dead.
MARLON
(trying to be patient)
C'mon, Truman, a lotta times they don't find
a body. You know what the currents are like
in that water.
TRUMAN
(shudders, a memory
flashing in his head)
You had to see his face when that wave hit.
He wasn't scared Marion. It was like he
was expecting it, waiting for it. He
knew it was coming.
MARLON
Why would he fake it?
(trying to make light)
He's not Elvis Presley.
TRUMAN
(ignoring the joke, pondering
the morning's events)
You know what was really strange about today?
An old woman with a little dog and a
businessman, walking in opposite directions
on the sidewalk, both react like clockwork.
They force him onto a bus against his will,
a bus that doesn't normally stop outside
my building. And when I'm giving chase, the
bus never makes another stop and I get the
feeling that the traffic and the pedestrians
are working together to make sure I never
catch up with it.
MARLON
(sarcastic)
Oh, so now it's also the pedestrians and
the buses and the cars? What are you
saying, the entire population of Lower
Manhattan is conspiring to stop you finding
out that your father staged his death to
pursue a life as a street person? Oh yeah,
that makes sense.
Truman has no answer. We see an aerial shot of Truman and
Marlon on a television screen, continuing to check the rows of
buses, Marlon still marveling at Truman's obstinance. They
have come to the last bus in the final row. Truman hangs his
head. The offending bus is not amongst them. He makes towards
the exit without comment and Marlon follows.
Unseen by the pair, we focus on the ID number on one of the
buses they have previously checked - "2400". A single drip of
black paint trickles off the last freshly painted digit.
EXT. MANHATTAN STREET. DAY.
TRUMAN and MARLON, drinking beer, sit in the rear doorway of
Marion's delivery van, wholesale-sized boxes of candy stacked
behind them.
TRUMAN
You think I imagined it, don't you?
MARLON
I think you're missing your dad.
(trying to be delicate)
The anniversary was yesterday, wasn't it?
Truman is surprised Marlon remembered. Marlon nods to the
sidewalk.
MARLON
You got sand in your cuffs.
Truman looks down at his feet. A small, tell-tale pile of sand
has poured out of his tight trouser cuff.
TRUMAN
Maybe you're right. If only the old
woman hadn't left her dog behind.
We see a flashback in Truman's head of the earlier scene in the
Lower Manhattan street. It confirms that the old woman's DOG
was abandoned on the sidewalk.
INT. TRUMAN'S MOTHER'S APARTMENT, QUEENS. DAY.
TRUMAN stands in the corridor of his mother's cramped, fussy.
doilyed apartment with his older sister, RAQUEL, late forties,
prematurely grey. Through a doorway, the figure of his MOTHER
is visible asleep in bed, despite the early hour. Truman and
Raquel speak in hushed tones to avoid waking her.
RAQUEL
Don't you dare go in. Truman. I just
got her off to sleep.
TRUMAN
It was Dad. I swear.
Raquel fixes Truman with a contemptuous stare.
RAQUEL
Well, the next time he shows up. bring
him over. Until then, I'm not saying a
word about this to Mom and neither are you.
TRUMAN
If it wasn't him, it was his twin. Can you
think of a reason he'd want to hide from us?
RACQUEL
I know a reason he'd want to hide from you.
Look at how you treat us. You live ten minutes
away, we hardly see you from year to year and
then you turn up with this story so insane you
don't even believe it yourself. Haven't you
hurt her enough, Truman? She already blames you.
TRUMAN
(incredulous)
I was seven years old!
RAQUEL
But you're here and he's not. Has it really taken you
this long to invent a story to ease your conscience?
TRUMAN
I'm telling you he's alive!
RAQUEL
(snapping back bitterly)
And I'm telling you he's fish food!
Truman meets her unforgiving eyes. Without another word, he
walks out of the apartment.
Truman safely departed, the figure in the bed, rolls out.
CHRISTOF, fully clothed, relishing the danger of being so close
to Truman without being detected. Raquel's demeanor immediately
changes, all trace of bitterness gone from her face, she appears
younger, posture more upright, almost a different person.
Christof hugs Raquel.
CHRISTOF
You did well.
INT. DRESSING ROOM SOMEWHERE. NIGHT.
A cavernous dressing room contains a long row of identical
mirrored make-up tables. At the only occupied table, Truman's
contrite father, KIRK, is having what's left of his homeless
disguise cleaned from his face by a MAKE-UP ARTIST under the
watchful eye of two DARK-SUITED BODYGUARDS.
From a mezzanine floor out of Kirk's vision, CHRISTOF and CHLOE
also take in the proceedings. Behind their heads, a monitor
shows a surveillance picture of an agitated TRUMAN sitting in
his car, trapped in rush-hour traffic.
CHLOE
We've tightened security.
Christof nods indifferently, knowing the damage is already done.
CHLOE
(referring to Kirk)
Why would he do this to us?
CHRISTOF
Old age. Sentiment. You play someone's
father all those years, you are someone's
father...He sees the way Truman is. He
feels responsible.
Christof turns and enters an office adjacent to the balcony,
containing a state-of-the-art monitor and VCR. Chloe follows.
Christof plays the cued recording without comment. We focus on
the screen.
EXT. LONG ISLAND SOUND. DAY, TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS EARLIER.
A younger-looking CHRISTOF sits in a motorboat in the calm
water of Long Island Sound. Truman's father, KIRK, twenty-seven
years younger and a DARK HAIRED BOY, Truman's age at the time,
acting as a stand-in, sit in the stern of a sailing dinghy.
Two SCUBA DIVERS in the ocean.
YOUNG CHRISTOF
(barking instructions to Kirk)
...as soon as we give the cue, tack to windward...
Kirk rehearses turning the tiller in the instructed direction.
YOUNG CHRISTOF
The freak wave will strike from the
starboard side. Remember, you don't
go to the diver. The diver goes to you.
To simulate the wave, one of the divers puts his full weight on
the side of the dinghy to capsize it. Kirk and the boy are
tossed into the water. While the boy immediately bobs to the
surface in his life jacket, Kirk fails to surface. After a long
moment, he reappears with the second diver some distance away.
now wearing a spare aqualung.
YOUNG CHRISTOF
...Good! Good!...of course, on the day you
only surface once you're safely beyond the
cove...Try it one more time...You okay?
Kirk is staring at Truman's stand-in, clinging to the upturned
boat. Kirk's expression suggests he is not a totally willing
participant in the masquerade.
The present-day Christof freezes the monitor on Kirk's uncertain
face.
INT. TRUMAN'S GARAGE. DUSK.
A cluttered garage, dimly lit by a single work lamp. TRUMAN
looks over his shoulder before turning his attention to a dusty
trunk under a canvas sheet. The trunk is fastened with a
combination lock. He deftly dials the correct combination and
opens the lid.
Inside, mementoes from his youth. A "HOW TO SAIL" book, a
stack of "GREAT EXFLORERS" magazines, and beneath it all, a
garment in a drycleaning bag. Truman carefully lifts up the
plastic to reveal a schoolgirl's lavender cardigan decorated
with pearl beading. He puts the cardigan to his nose and
breathes deeply.
Footsteps. Truman hastily drops the cardigan in the trunk and
shuts the lid. MERYL, standing close behind.
MERYL
What're you doing out here?
TRUMAN
(turning attention to an upturned
mower on the garage floor)
Fixing the mower.
Meryl doesn't look like she buys it.
MERYL
(concerned)
Your sister called. She was worried about you.
TRUMAN
(matter-of-fact)
I saw my father on State Street dressed as
a homeless man.
MERYL
(attempting to comfort)
I kept seeing my brother for years after he died.
TRUMAN
(irritated at her subtle dismissiveness)
What do you want?
MERYL
I made macaroni.
TRUMAN
I gotta go out. About a replacement...
(hastily adding)
...mower blade.
Meryl nods, not at all convinced. After an uncomfortable
pause, she turns and heads back to the house.
EXT. CAR WASH. DUSK.
TRUMAN ruefully examines the broken car aerial on his freshly
washed Oldsmobile. In the background is the warning sign he
has just ignored, "CLOSE WINDOWS, LOWER AERIALS".
Truman removes the metal coathanger from beneath the lavender
cardigan and forces the bent wire into what's left of the
severed aerial.
INT. TRUMAN'S CAR. DUSK.
TRUMAN motors down a busy shopping street, crowded on both sides
with PEDESTRIANS. As he drives, he tests his car radio.
Adjusting the tuner knob, he finds a station.
FEMALE VOICE (from radio)
...west on Atlantic...he's making a right
on Woodhaven...
Truman glances up at the street signs along his route and finds
that they coincide exactly with the streets quoted on the radio.
Distracted, he almost bowls over an OLD LADY on a crosswalk.
MALE VOICE (from radio)
...God, Truman almost hit Marilyn!...he's
on the move again, passing the Burger King...
Truman readjusts the radio as it starts to fade out. Suddenly
there is a piercing blast of feedback. He looks up and, as far
as the eye can see, every PEDESTRIAN, MOTORIST and SHOPKEEPER
along the street suddenly winces in pain and holds their right
ear at exactly the same moment.
MALE VOICE
(fr |
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