3753ff3da0842f8a1609e3cee8bb506c3b5b63f2
movie
http://www.imsdb.com/scripts/Gods-and-Monsters.html
Gods and Monsters
FADE OUT .
 The story opens in the 1950s, after the Korean War; it has been more than a decade since James Whale, director of Frankenstein and Bride of Frankenstein, has retired. He lives with his long-time housemaid, Hanna, who loyally cares for him but disapproves of his homosexuality. Whale has suffered a series of strokes that have left him fragile and tormented by memories: growing up as a poor outcast, his tragic World War I service, and the filming of The Bride of Frankenstein. Whale slips into his past, and indulges in his fantasies, reminiscing about gay pool parties and also sexually teasing an embarrassed, starstruck fan who comes to interview him. Whale battles depression, at times contemplating suicide, as he realizes his life, his attractiveness, and his health are slipping away.
Whale befriends his young, handsome gardener and former Marine, Clayton Boone and the two begin a sometimes uneasy friendship as Boone poses for Whale's sketches. The two men bond while discussing their lives and dealing with Whale's spells of disorientation and weakness from the strokes. Boone, impressed with Whale's fame, watches The Bride of Frankenstein on TV as his friends mock the movie, his friendship with Whale, and Whale's intentions.
Boone assures Whale that he is straight and receives assurance from Whale that there is no sexual interest, but Boone storms out when Whale graphically discusses his sexual history. Boone later returns with the agreement that no such "locker room" discussions occur again. Boone is invited to escort Whale to a party hosted by George Cukor for Princess Margaret. There, a photo op has been arranged for Whale with "his Monsters": Boris Karloff and Elsa Lanchester from "ancient" movie fame. This event exacerbates his depression. A sudden rain storm becomes an excuse to leave.
Back at Whale's home, Boone needs a dry change of clothes. Whale can only find a sweater, so Boone wears a towel wrapped around his waist. Whale decides to try to sketch Boone one more time. After some minutes, he shows his sketches to Boone, disclosing that he has lost his ability to draw. After Boone drops his towel to pose nude, Whale makes him wear a World War I gas mask and then uses the opportunity to make a sexual advance on Boone, kissing his shoulder. Boone becomes enraged and attacks Whale, who confesses that this had been his plan and begs Boone to kill him to relieve him of his suffering. Boone refuses, puts Whale to bed, then sleeps downstairs. The next morning, Hanna is alarmed when she can't find Whale, prompting a search by Boone and Hanna. Boone finds Whale floating dead in the pool, as a distraught Hanna runs out clutching a suicide note. Boone and Hanna agree that Boone should disappear from the scene to avoid a scandal.
The film closes roughly a decade later as Boone and his young son, Michael, watch The Bride of Frankenstein on television. The son is skeptical of his father's claim that he knew Whale, but Clayton produces a sketch of the Frankenstein monster drawn by Whale, and signed, "To Clayton. Friend?" "Friend?", being a plea from the original misfit, Frankenstein's monster, and disclosing Whale's true intentions.
The story opens in the 1950s , after the Korean War ; it has been more than a decade since James Whale , director of Frankenstein and Bride of Frankenstein , has retired . He lives with his long-time housemaid , Hanna , who loyally cares for him but disapproves of his homosexuality . Whale has suffered a series of strokes that have left him fragile and tormented by memories : growing up as a poor outcast , his tragic World War I service , and the filming of The Bride of Frankenstein . Whale slips into his past , and indulges in his fantasies , reminiscing about gay pool parties and also sexually teasing an embarrassed , starstruck fan who comes to interview him . Whale battles depression , at times contemplating suicide , as he realizes his life , his attractiveness , and his health are slipping away . Whale befriends his young , handsome gardener and former Marine , Clayton Boone and the two begin a sometimes uneasy friendship as Boone poses for Whale s sketches . The two men bond while discussing their lives and dealing with Whale s spells of disorientation and weakness from the strokes . Boone , impressed with Whale s fame , watches The Bride of Frankenstein on TV as his friends mock the movie , his friendship with Whale , and Whale s intentions . Boone assures Whale that he is straight and receives assurance from Whale that there is no sexual interest , but Boone storms out when Whale graphically discusses his sexual history . Boone later returns with the agreement that no such locker room discussions occur again . Boone is invited to escort Whale to a party hosted by George Cukor for Princess Margaret . There , a photo op has been arranged for Whale with his Monsters : Boris Karloff and Elsa Lanchester from ancient movie fame . This event exacerbates his depression . A sudden rain storm becomes an excuse to leave . Back at Whale s home , Boone needs a dry change of clothes . Whale can only find a sweater , so Boone wears a towel wrapped around his waist . Whale decides to try to sketch Boone one more time . After some minutes , he shows his sketches to Boone , disclosing that he has lost his ability to draw . After Boone drops his towel to pose nude , Whale makes him wear a World War I gas mask and then uses the opportunity to make a sexual advance on Boone , kissing his shoulder . Boone becomes enraged and attacks Whale , who confesses that this had been his plan and begs Boone to kill him to relieve him of his suffering . Boone refuses , puts Whale to bed , then sleeps downstairs . The next morning , Hanna is alarmed when she ca n't find Whale , prompting a search by Boone and Hanna . Boone finds Whale floating dead in the pool , as a distraught Hanna runs out clutching a suicide note . Boone and Hanna agree that Boone should disappear from the scene to avoid a scandal . The film closes roughly a decade later as Boone and his young son , Michael , watch The Bride of Frankenstein on television . The son is skeptical of his father s claim that he knew Whale , but Clayton produces a sketch of the Frankenstein monster drawn by Whale , and signed , To Clayton . Friend ? Friend ? , being a plea from the original misfit , Frankenstein s monster , and disclosing Whale s true intentions .
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gods_and_Monsters_(film)
Gods and Monsters (film)
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<head>
   <title>"Gods and Monsters", shooting draft, by Bill Condon</title>
</head>

<body bgcolor="#FFFFFF">
   <pre>







                         <u>"GODS AND MONSTERS"</u>

                              Screenplay
                                  by
                             Bill Condon



                          Based on the novel

                       "Father of Frankenstein"
                                  by
                           Christopher Bram





                             May 30, 1997

<b>                            SHOOTING DRAFT
</b>






<b>     NOTE: THE HARD COPY OF THIS SCRIPT CONTAINED SCENE NUMBERS
</b><b>     AND SOME "SCENE OMITTED" SLUGS. THEY HAVE BEEN REMOVED FOR
</b><b>     THIS SOFT COPY.
</b>



<b>     FADE IN:
</b>
<b>     MAIN TITLES BEGIN
</b>
     Writhing pools of light and dark, out of which emerge images
     from "The Bride of Frankenstein," directed by James Whale.
     Elsa Lanchester, as the Monster's Bride, looks up, down,
     left, right, startled to be alive.  The Monster stares at
     her.  "Friend?" he asks, tenderly, desperately.

<b>     EXT. COUNTRYSIDE - NIGHT (B & W)
</b>
     Lightning splits the black-and-white sky, revealing a single
     shattered oak in a desolate landscape.  Below, a HUMAN
     SILHOUETTE stumbles through the darkness, the top of his
     head flat, his arms long and heavy, his boots weighted with
     mud.

     Suddenly the storm fades.  Light creeps into the scene, and
     color, as we DISSOLVE TO:

<b>     THE PACIFIC OCEAN
</b>
     melting into a hazy morning sky.  In a box canyon off the
     coast highway, we see row after neat row of trailer homes, a
     makeshift village for beach bums.

<b>     INT. TRAILER - DAY
</b>
     CLAYTON BOONE opens his eyes.  He is 26, handsome in a
     rough-hewn, Chet Baker-like way, with broad shoulders and a
     flattop haircut.  He grabs a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes,
     lights a bent cigarette.

     Clay stands and walks bare-assed across the single tin room,
     his head almost touching the ceiling.

<b>     EXT. TRAILER PARK - DAY
</b>
     Clay goes a few rounds with a weatherstained speed bag
     that's set up behind his trailer.

<b>     INT. TRAILER - DAY
</b>
     Clay towels off, glances at the morning paper.  He moves
     aside a pile of paperbacks on a card table until he finds a
     calendar.  His finger targets today's first appointment.
     "10 A.M. - 788 Amalfi Drive."

<b>     EXT. TRAILER PARK - DAY
</b>
     Clay steps out of the trailer, clean-shaven and dressed in
     dungarees, a T-shirt with a fresh pack of cigarettes flipped
     into one sleeve.  He weight-lifts a secondhand mower onto
     the bed of his rusty pick-up.

     Clay climbs into the truck, slides the key into the
     ignition.  It takes a few tries but the engine finally turns
     over.

<b>     EXT. PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY - DAY
</b>
     Clay's truck sails down the road, "Hound Dog" blaring on the
     radio.  MAIN TITLES END.

<b>     EXT. COLONIAL-STYLE HOUSE - DAY
</b>
     Sprinklers twirl on a grassy slope outside a rambling
     clapboard house.  Below, a swimming pool forms a perfect
     rectangle of still water.  A title reads: SANTA MONICA
<b>     CANYON.  1957.
</b>
     The pick-up drives past.  Clay parks in the back, hops out.

<b>     ANGLE - HOUSE
</b>
     A SHADOWY FIGURE stands at a window, watching Clay unload
     his red power mower.

<b>     INT. HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY
</b>
     The shadow is a man with dove white hair, wearing a dress
     shirt and seersucker jacket.  This is JAMES WHALE, age 67.

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    I'd have more peace of mind if the
                    live-in nurse were still here.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    She was nothing but bother.  I not
                    like her, Mr. Jimmy not like her.
                    We do better if you live-in again,
                    Mr. David.

     In the dining room, visible through open double doors, DAVID
     LEWIS, 55, speaks softly with the housekeeper, HANNA.  She
     is a squat, muffin-faced Hungarian woman in her late 50s,
     dressed in black, her hair cinched in a tight bun.  She
     speaks with a thick accent.

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    You'll contact me if there's an
                    emergency?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Yes, I call you at this number.
                         (calls out)
                    Mr. Jimmy?  More coffee?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What?  Oh yes.  Why not?

     He moves into the dining room, sits opposite David.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Isn't Hanna a peach?

     Hanna ignores him, returns to the kitchen.

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    She tells me you haven't been
                    sleeping well.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    It's the ridiculous pills they
                    prescribe.  If I take them, I spend
                    the next day stupid as a stone.
                    If I don't, my mind seems to go off
                    in a hundred directions at once --

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    Then take the pills.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I wanted to be alert for your visit
                    today.  Especially since I saw so
                    little of you in the hospital.

     The remark hits its target.

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    I'm sorry, Jimmy.  But with this
                    movie and two difficult stars --

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    "The fault, dear David, is not in
                    ourselves but in our stars."

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                         (too anxious to laugh)
                    You remember how a production eats
                    up one's life.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh, David.  There's no pleasure in
                    making you feel guilty.
                         (stands)
                    You better go, my boy.  You'll be
                    late for that aeroplane.

     David extends his hand, but Whale draws him into a hug.  As
     he starts out, David points to a framed painting.

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    By the way, I like the Renoir.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Thank you.

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                         (calls out)
                    Goodbye, Hanna.

     Hanna runs out of the kitchen to escort David to the door.
     Whale drifts back to the window, watches as Clay revs up the
     lawnmower, creating a cloud of white smoke.  We CUT TO:

<b>     EXT. STREETS OF DUDLEY - DAY (1900)
</b>
     A bean-pole child with flaming red hair (WHALE at age 12)
     stares up at the coal smoke pouring from a seemingly endless
     row of chimneys.  We're in Dudley, a factory town in the
     English Midlands region known as the Black Country.

<b>                                     SARAH WHALE (O.S.)
</b>                    Stop lagging behind, Jimmy.  We'll
                    be late for church.

<b>                                     YOUNG WHALE
</b>                    Yes, Mum.

     Whale runs to catch up to his six brothers and sisters.  His
     father, WILLIAM WHALE, frowns at the boy's prissy trot.

<b>                                     WILLIAM WHALE
</b>                    Straighten up, son.

     Young Whale's movements thicken into a dim imitation of
     manly reserve.  The Whale family marches up a steeply
     mounting street to Dixon's Green Methodist Church.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY
</b>
     Whale's eyes tighten.  He focuses on Clay Boone as he peels
     off his T-shirt, revealing a tattoo on his upper right
     forearm.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Hanna?  Who's the new yardman?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Bone?  Boom?  Something Bee.  I
                    hire him while you were in the
                    hospital.  He came cheap.

     Whale nods, chooses a walking stick.  He emerges into the
     sunlight.

<b>     EXT. WHALE'S HOUSE - DAY
</b>
     Whale moves jauntily onto the front lawn, singing to
     himself:

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    The bells of hell go ting-a-ling
                    For you but not for me.
                    Oh death where is thy sting-a-ling?
                    Grave where thy victory?

     Whale steps up next to Clay.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Good morning.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                         (not looking up)
                    Mornin'.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    My name is Whale.  This is my
                    house.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Nice place.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    And your name is --?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Boone.  Clayton Boone.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I couldn't help but notice your
                    tattoo.  That phrase?  Death Before
                    Dishonor.  What does it mean?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Just that I was in the Marines.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    The Marines.  Good for you.  You
                    must have served in Korea.

     Clay shrugs nonchalantly.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Getting to be a warm day.  A
                    scorcher, as you Yanks call it.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Yeah.  I better get on with my
                    work.

     Whale clears his throat behind the back of his hand.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    When you're through, Mr. Boone,
                    feel free to make use of the pool.
                    We're quite informal here.  You
                    don't have to worry about a suit.

     Clay glances warily at Whale.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    No thanks.  I got another job to
                    get to this afternoon.

     Whale holds Clay's look.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Some other time, perhaps?  Keep up
                    the fine work.

     Whale heads off, smiling to himself.  Pleased to be naughty
     again.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - STUDIO - DAY
</b>
     The room is filled with unframed canvasses, many of them
     copies of paintings by the Old Masters.

     Whale rolls out the easel, lifts a half-painted canvas into
     position.  He stares at the blotches of color, trying to
     remember what he intended to paint.

     Whale pulls out a heavy volume on Rembrandt, opens to a
     black-and-white plate of "The Polish Rider."  We CUT TO:

<b>     INT. WHALE HOUSE - DUDLEY - NIGHT (1908)
</b>
     A rough pencil outline of the same painting.  Whale, age 16,
     sits on his bed, ignoring the roughhousing of the three
     younger BROTHERS who share the room.  The door opens and
     Whale's mother SARAH enters.

<b>                                     SARAH WHALE
</b>                    Jimmy.  The privy needs cleaning.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I have my class tonight.

     Both have Midlands accents, like head colds that flatten
     their speech.  Whale holds up the sketch to show his mother.

<b>                                     SARAH WHALE
</b>                    Don't get above yarself, Jimmy.
                    Leave the drawring to the artists.

     Whale squeezes the pad behind the bed, jumps up.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Quite so, mum.  To the privy.

     And he heads cheerfully out of the room.  His mother shakes
     her head.

<b>                                     SARAH WHALE
</b>                    "Quite so."
                         (calls out)
                    Jimmy Whale.  Who are ya to put on
                    airs?

     But Whale is already out the door.  We CUT TO:

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - DAY
</b>
     Whale studies his face in the mirror.  He gives his white
     hair a few final licks with his silver-backed brush.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - KITCHEN - DAY
</b>
     Whale comes in from the bedroom.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    There is iced tea, Hanna?  Cucumber
                    sandwiches?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Yes, Mr. Jimmy.
                         (smiles)
                    An interview.  After so many years.
                    Very exciting.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Don't be daft.  It's just a student
                    from the university.

     The doorbell rings.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY
</b>
     Whale settles into his club chair and opens a book,
     pretending to read until Hanna ushers in the visitor.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Mr. Kay, sir.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                         (feigning surprise)
                    Yes?

     Whale looks up at EDMUND KAY, 22, a slim boy who rests his
     weight on one slouched hip, his arms twined behind him.
     There is a look of mild disappointment on Whale's face as he
     realizes that Kay is a baby poof.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Ah, Mr. Kay.  I'd almost forgotten.
                    My guest for tea.

     Whale stands and holds out his hand.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Mr. Whale, this is such an honor.
                    You're one of my favorite all-time
                    directors.  I can't believe I'm
                    meeting you.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                         (gently, teasing)
                    No.  I expect you can't.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    And this is your house.  Wow.  The
                    house of Frankenstein.
                         (looks around)
                    I thought you'd live in a spooky
                    old mansion or villa.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    One likes to live simply.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    I know.  People's movies aren't
                    their lives.

     He suddenly growls out an imitation of Boris Karloff.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Love dead.  Hate living.

     Kay laughs, a high, girlish giggle.  Whale fights a cringe
     with a polite smile.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    That's my favorite line in my
                    favorite movie of yours.  "Bride of
                    Frankenstein."

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Is it now?  Hanna?  I think we'll
                    take our tea down by the swimming
                    pool.

     It's clear from Hanna's frown that she doesn't approve of
     the idea.  Whale ignores her, turns back to Kay.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Will that be good for you, Mr. Kay?

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Sure.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                         (opens the back door)
                    After you then.

     Whale inspects the boy from behind, noticing his wide hips
     and plumpish posterior.

<b>     EXT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BACKYARD - DAY
</b>
     Kay's hands flap animatedly as Whale leads him down to the
     pool.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    I love the great horror films.  And
                    yours are the best.  "The Old Dark
                    House."  "The Invisible Man."  They
                    look great and have style.  And
                    funny!

     Whale points to a small shingled house near the pool.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    This is the studio where I paint.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Nice.
                         (refusing to be
                          sidetracked)
                    And your lighting and camera
                    angles.  You're got to go back to
                    German silent movies to find
                    anything like it.

<b>     EXT. WHALE'S HOUSE - UPPER PATIO - DAY
</b>
     Clay Boone gulps some water from the garden hose.  He
     glances down at the pool, where Kay and Whale sit in
     cast-iron chairs.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Time for you to leave.

     Clay turns to Hanna, who holds a tray loaded with finger
     sandwiches and a pitcher of iced tea.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I'm on my way.

     She doesn't move until Clay starts off.

<b>     EXT. WHALE'S HOUSE - POOLSIDE - DAY
</b>
     Kay flips open his steno pad.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    So, Mr. Kay?  What do you want to
                    know?

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Everything.  Start at the
                    beginning.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I was born outside London, the only
                    son of a minister who was a master
                    at Harrow.  Grandfather was a
                    bishop.  Church of...Church of
                    Eng...

     Whale's tongue trips on the word, his voice suddenly drowned
     out by the blast of a factory whistle.  We CUT TO:

<b>     INT. FACTORY SHOP FLOOR - DUDLEY - DAY (1908)
</b>
     Fiery melt is poured into molds on the shop floor of a
     machine parts factory.  WHALE, 16, grips the hot casting
     with tongs.  His father WILLIAM, his face blackened with
     grime, hammers away at the flaws.  A heavy blow causes young
     Whale to drop the mold, prompting catcalls and sneers on the
     floor.  There is a look of genuine fear in Whale's eyes as
     he looks up at his singed, beast-like father.  We CUT TO:

<b>     EXT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BACKYARD - DAY
</b>
     Kay clears his throat softly.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Mr. Whale?

     Whale smiles politely to cover his momentary disorientation.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Yes?

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Your father was a schoolmaster?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Of course.  I attended Eton -- it
                    wouldn't do for a master's son to
                    attend where his father taught.  I
                    was to go up to Oxford but the war
                    broke out and I never made it.  The
                    Great War, you know.  You had a
                    Good War, but we had a great one.

     He glances to see if the boy smiles at the quip.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You can't imagine what life was
                    like after the Armistice.  The
                    twenties in London were one long
                    bank holiday, a break from
                    everything dour and respectable.  I
                    had a knack with pencil and paper,
                    so I was hired to design sets for
                    stage productions.

     Hanna comes down the path with the tray.  She places it on
     the table.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Thank you, Hanna.  Very nice.

     Hanna remains planted next to the table.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You can go now.

     She makes an audible sigh and starts back up the hill.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    There was one play in particular, a
                    beautiful, grim study of war called
                    "Journey's End".  Every experienced
                    director turned it down, so I
                    offered myself, bullying and
                    begging for the job.  "Journey's
                    End" made the careers of everyone
                    associated with it.  It was only a
                    matter of time until Hollywood
                    beckoned.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    How much longer before we get to
                    "Frankenstein"?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Am I correct in assuming, Mr. Kay,
                    that it's not me you're interested
                    in, only my horror pictures?

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Oh no, I want to hear everything.
                    You made twenty pictures in all --

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Twenty-one.  The romantic comedies
                    and dramas were much more to my
                    liking.  The horror pictures were
                    trifles.  Grand guignol for the
                    masses.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    But it's the horror movies you'll
                    be remembered for.

     An abrupt look of anger flashes across Whale's face.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I am not dead yet, Mr. Kay.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    No.  I never said you were.  Or
                    will be soon.

     Kay leans over the steno pad, determined to be more worthy.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    So.  "Journey's End" brought you to
                    Hollywood --

     Whale takes in the boy's blank, bored expression.  He sighs.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I have a proposal, Mr. Kay.  This
                    mode of questioning is getting old,
                    don't you think?

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    I don't mind.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Let's make it more interesting.  I
                    will answer any question you ask.
                    But, for each answer, you must
                    remove one article of clothing.

     Kay's mouth pops open.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    That's funny, Mr. Whale.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    It is, isn't it?  My life as a game
                    of strip poker.  Shall we play?

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    You're serious.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Quite.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Then the rumors are true?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What rumors might those be?

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    That you were forced to retire
                    because, uh -- a sex scandal.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    A homosexual scandal, you mean?
                    For me to answer a question of that
                    magnitude, you'll have to remove
                    both your shoes and your socks.

     Kay just sits there, squinting and grinning.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    You're a dirty old man.

     Whale tilts his head as if brushing off a compliment.  Kay
     kicks off his penny loafers, bends over to remove his socks.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You are kind to indulge your elders
                    in their vices.  As I indulge the
                    young in theirs.

     Two pale feet emerge.  Whale leans forward to examine them.
     He leans back again.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    No.  There was no scandal.

     And he reaches into his coat for a cigar.  Whale's hand
     trembles as he slices a hole at the base, then lights the
     cigar with a wooden match, sucking and rotating until the
     tip is roundly lit.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    My only other vice.  I suppose
                    you'd like a fuller answer to your
                    question.

     Kay nods.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    It will cost you your sweater.

     Kay hesitates a moment, then sets his pen aside to pull the
     sweater over his head, revealing a sleeveless T-shirt.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Too warm for a sweater, anyway.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You must understand how Hollywood
                    was twenty years ago.  Nobody cared
                    a tinker's cuss who slept with
                    whom, so long as you kept it out of
                    the papers.  Outside of Hollywood,
                    who knows who George Cukor is, much
                    less what he does with those boys
                    from the malt shops along Santa
                    Monica?

     Kay stares at him in disbelief.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    George Cukor?  Who made "A Star Is
                    Born"?  I never guessed.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Take off your vest and I'll tell
                    you a story.

     Kay plucks at his T-shirt, glancing toward the house.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Don't be shy.  There's time to stop
                    before you go too far.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    I guess.

     Kay peels off the shirt and tosses it on his shoes and
     sweater.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    George is famous for his Saturday
                    dinner parties.  Great artists,
                    writers, society folk, all rubbing
                    elbows with Hollywood royalty.  But
                    how many of those oh-so-proper
                    people know about the Sunday
                    brunches that follow?  Gatherings
                    of trade eating leftovers, followed
                    by some strenuous fun and frolic in
                    the pool.
                         (flicks an ash)
                    If a goat like that can continue
                    about his business, my more
                    domestic arrangements could've
                    raised very few eyebrows.

     The revelation seems to have left Kay a little shaken.  he
     flips to a blank page.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Can we talk about the horror movies
                    now?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Certainly, Mr. Kay.  Is there
                    anything in particular you want to
                    know?

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Will you tell me everything you
                    remember about making
                    "Frankenstein"?

     He glances down at his few remaining articles of clothing.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Can that count as one question?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Of course.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    I can't believe I'm doing this.

     Kay stands to unbuckle his belt, glancing around the yard
     again.  He unzips and steps out of his sharply creased
     flannel legs.  His thighs are thin and pale.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Just like going swimming, isn't it?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Maybe you'd like a swim when we're
                    through.  I never swim myself, so
                    the pool tends to go to waste.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Okay.  "Frankenstein."  Tell me
                    everything.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Righto.  Let me see.

     Whale swallows a wince, trying to block the pain pushing
     against his skull.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Universal wanted me for another
                    story, and wanted me so baldly -- I
                    mean badly, not baldly.  I was
                    given the pick of stories being
                    developed, and I picked that one.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Who came up with the Monster's
                    makeup and look?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    My idea.  Muchly.  My sketches.
                    Big heavy brow.  Head flat on top
                    so they could take out the old
                    brain and put in the new, like
                    tinned beef.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    He's one of the great images of the
                    twentieth century.  As important as
                    the Mona Lisa.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You think so?  That's very kind --

     Whale clutches at the air, suddenly notices that his hand is
     empty.  He looks down and sees the cigar on the flagstones.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Boris Karloff.  Where did you find
                    him?

     Whale bends down to retrieve his cigar -- and the change of
     gravity drives a spike through his skull.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Karloff, Mr. Whale.  How did you
                    cast him?

     Whale turns toward the froggy voice.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Please.  Excuse me.  I must go
                    lie --

     He forces himself up with one hand.  Kay finally looks up,
     notices Whale's colorless lips and desperate eyes.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Mr. Whale?  Are you all right?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I just need to -- lie down.
                    Studio.  Daybed in studio.

     Whale lurches from the table.  Kay jumps forward, catching
     him under an arm.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Oh my God.  What's wrong, Mr.
                    Whale?  Is it your heart?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Head.  Not heart.

     He leans against Kay, who leads him toward the studio.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Forgive me.

<b>     EXT. WHALE'S HOUSE - DAY
</b>
     Hanna runs down the path, clutching the front of her apron
     in two tight fists.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - STUDIO - DAY
</b>
     Hanna swings open the screen door -- and grimaces when she
     sees Kay in his BVDs.  He is kneeling next to Whale, who is
     stretched out on the daybed.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Water.  Glasses at the sink.

     She goes to Whale, scooping different bottles from the
     pocket of her apron.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Which ones?  I bring them all.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Luminal.

     She empties a pill into her palm.  Whale places it into his
     mouth and takes the glass of Water Kay passes over Hanna's
     shoulder.  Whale swallows the pill, then glances up at Kay,
     feigning surprise.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Mr. Kay.  You're not dressed.

     Kay frantically crosses his arms over his chest and middle,
     turns to Hanna.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    I was going to take a swim.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I'm sorry I spoiled it for you.
                    You should probably go home.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Right.

     Kay hurries outside to retrieve his clothes.  Hanna undoes
     Whale's bow tie.  She makes no attempt to be gentle.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You must think I'm terrible, Hanna.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    I do not think you anything
                    anymore.  Just back from the
                    hospital and already you are
                    chasing after boys.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh shut up.  All we did was talk.
                    My attack had nothing to do with
                    him.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Perhaps we should get you uphill
                    before the pills knock you cold.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    No.  Let me lie here.  Thank you.

     Hanna nods, moves to the door.  Whale closes his eyes,
     breathes deeply, trying to block the throbbing SOUND in his
     brain.  We CUT TO:

<b>     INT. FACTORY SHOP FLOOR - DUDLEY - DAY (1908)
</b>
     The noise is deafening -- the clank of chains, the screech
     of wheels and the endless banging of hammers.  William Whale
     continues to knock away at the hot casting.  The rhythmic
     sound blends into the insistent knocking of:

<b>     A FIST
</b>
     which smashes against sheet metal.

<b>     INT. CLAY'S TRAILER - DAY
</b>
     Clay Boone's eyes dart open.

<b>                                     DWIGHT (O.S.)
</b>                    Boone!  You awake?  Eight o'clock.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Fuck off!

<b>                                     DWIGHT (O.S.)
</b>                    You told me to get you up, asshole.

     A baseball-capped head is visible through the louvered glass
     in the trailer's door.  DWIGHT JOAD, 30, Clay's neighbor,
     squints to see inside.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I'm up.  Thanks.

<b>                                     DWIGHT
</b>                    Hasta la vista, Boone.  And give
                    the jail bait a squeeze for me.

     Clay glances over, seems surprised to see a naked back
     facing him on the bare mattress.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Hey, um...Rose --

     The girl stirs, turns to face him.  She is 18 at most.

<b>                                     DAISY
</b>                    Daisy.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Huh?

<b>                                     DAISY
</b>                    My name is Daisy.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Time to go, Daisy.

     She presses her naked body against Clay's.

<b>                                     DAISY
</b>                    You know.  I could help you fix up
                    this place real nice.

     Clay takes a deep breath, trying to clear the gumminess from
     his brain.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Don't you have to be somewhere?
                    Like high school maybe.

<b>                                     DAISY
</b>                    I gave it up for Lent.

     Daisy smiles at her own joke.  Clay frowns.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Right.
                         (jumps up from the bed)
                    Time to hit the road, kid.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - STUDIO - DAY
</b>
     Whale ponders the half-painted canvas, clearly distressed by
     his lack of progress.  The stillness is punctured by the
     sound of Clay's lawnmower being dragged up the brick steps.
     Whale smiles, puts down his brush.

<b>     EXT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BACKYARD - DAY
</b>
     Clay stops, turns around, feeling someone's eyes watching
     him.

<b>                                     WHALE (O.S.)
</b>                         (singing)
                    The bells of hell go ting-a-ling...

     The mower slips out of Clay's hands momentarily.  he looks
     around, spots Whale inside the studio.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Everything alright, Mr. Boone?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Just got away from me.  Sorry to
                    disturb you.

     The screen door squeaks open, clatters shut.  A leather
     slipper and rubber-tipped cane appear.  Whale strolls into
     view, smiling.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I was just about to ask Hanna to
                    bring down iced tea.  I'd like it
                    very much if you'd join me.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I stink to high heaven right now.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    The honest sweat of one's brow.  I
                    assure you I won't be offended.
                    Let me tell Hanna to bring tea for
                    two.

     Whale's cane trembles in his skeletal hand.  His frailty
     chips away at Clay's resolve.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Or would you prefer a beer?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    No.  Iced tea's fine.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Splendid.

     Clay hoses the crumbs of grass off his arms.  He dries his
     hands and arms with his hat, then wads it up and stuffs it
     into his shirt to wipe out his armpits.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - STUDIO - DAY
</b>
     Clay stands at the screen door.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Come in, Mr. Boone.

     Whale sits on a daybed, next to a pile of newspapers.  He
     gestures at a wooden armchair across from him.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    My workshop, my studio.  Hardly
                    somewhere in which a sweaty workman
                    should feel out of place.

     Clay glances at the unframed canvases on the wall and
     stacked in the corners.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    These are your paintings?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What?  Oh yes.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Excuse me, but -- are you famous?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You know what they say.  If you
                    have to ask --

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I'm just a hick who cuts lawns.
                    But some of these look familiar.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    They were familiar when I painted
                    them.  That one's copied from a
                    Dutch still life done almost three
                    hundred years ago.  And that's a
                    Rembrandt.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    They're just copies then.  Gotcha.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    But before I retired, you might say
                    I had a brief time in the sun.
                    Fame, as it were.  Tell me, do you
                    like motion pictures?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Sure, everybody does.  When I was a
                    kid I'd go with my sister twice a
                    week.  Why?  Were you an actor
                    or something?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    In my youth, yes, but never in
                    Hollywood.  No, I was merely a
                    director here.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Yeah?  What were some of your
                    movies?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    This and that.  The only ones you
                    maybe have heard of are the
                    "Frankenstein" pictures.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Really?

     Clay sits up, surprised, skeptical and impressed all at
     once.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    "Frankenstein" and "Bride of" and
                    "Son of" and all the rest?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I made only the first two.  The
                    others were done by hacks.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Still.  You must be rich.  Making a
                    couple of famous movies like those.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Merely comfortable.  Here's Hanna
                    with our refreshments.  Can you get
                    the door?

     Clay jumps up to open the screen door.  Hanna walks past,
     refusing to look at him.  She sets the tray on a table very
     hard, ringing the glasses and silverware.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    How are you feeling, Mr. Jimmy?
                    How is your mind today?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    My mind's lovely.  And yours?

     Hanna flares her nostrils at him.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    You remember what the doctor tells
                    us.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Yes, yes, yes.  I merely invited
                    Mr. Boone in for a glass of tea.
                    We'll have a brief chat and he'll
                    finish the yard.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    I am not forgetting your last brief
                    chat.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Just go.  We can manage without
                    you.

     Hanna stares up at Clay.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    He looks plenty big.  You won't
                    need my help if anything goes
                    flooey.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Go.

     She shakes her head and marches out the door.  Clay returns
     to his chair and sits down again.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    When they stay in your employ too
                    long, servants begin to think
                    they're married to you.
                         (smiles at Clay)
                    Please, Mr. Boone.  Help yourself.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    What did she mean by going flooey?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I returned recently from a stay in
                    hospital.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    What was wrong?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Nothing serious.  A touch of
                    stroke.

     Clay nods, chugs his tea.  When he lowers the glass, he
     finds the old man watching him.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You must excuse me for staring, Mr.
                    Boone.  But you have a marvelous
                    head.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Huh?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    To an artistic eye, you understand.
                    Have you ever modeled?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You mean, like posed for pictures?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Sat for an artist.  Been sketched.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                         (with a laugh)
                    What's to sketch?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You have the most architectural
                    skull.  And your nose.  Very
                    expressive.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Broke is more like it.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    But expressively broken.  How did
                    it happen?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Football in college.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You went to university?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Just a year.  I dropped out to join
                    the Marines.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Yes.  You were a Marine.

     Whale's gaze deepens.  He laughs lightly.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I apologize for going on like this.
                    It's the Sunday painter in me.  Of
                    course I can understand your
                    refusal.  It's a great deal to ask
                    of someone.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You mean -- you really want to draw
                    me?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Indeed.  I'd pay for the privilege
                    of drawing your head.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    But why?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Even an amateur artist needs a
                    subject to inspire him.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    And it's just my head you want?
                    Nothing else?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What are you suggesting?  You'll
                    charge extra if I include a hand or
                    a bit of shoulder.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You don't want to draw pictures of
                    me in my birthday suit, right?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I have no interest in your body,
                    Mr. Boone.  I can assure you of
                    that.

     Clay takes a moment to size up Whale -- whose innocent,
     slightly befuddled smile makes him appear about as
     threatening as a box of cornflakes.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    All right then.  Sure.  I could use
                    the extra dough.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Excellent.  We'll have a most
                    interesting time.

     Whale lifts his glass, takes a small sip of tea.

<b>     EXT. WHALE'S HOUSE - DAY
</b>
     Clay fetches a pair of hedge clippers from his truck.  He
     can't help stopping by the side-view mirror to look at his
     face.

<b>     INT. EXAMINATION ROOM - DAY
</b>
     Doctors and technicians flash lights into Whale's eyes...
     test his reflexes...inject him with radioactive isotope.
     Whale sits very still with his head behind a fluoroscope
     screen while two doctors murmur over the image.

<b>     INT. DOCTOR'S OFFICE - DAY
</b>
     A pair of X rays are slapped wet on a light board.  Two
     skulls, one facing forward, the other in profile.  DR.
     PAYNE, a bland young neurologist, points to a smudge in the
     side-view X ray.

<b>                                     DR. PAYNE
</b>                    This is the area of infarction.  By
                    which we mean the portion of brain
                    affected by the stroke.

     The venetian blinds of the examining room are closed.  Whale
     sits calmly, flanneled legs crossed at the knees, gazing at
     his own skull.

<b>                                     DR. PAYNE
</b>                    You're a lucky man, Mr. Whale.
                    Whatever damage was done by your
                    stroke, it left your motor
                    abilities relatively unimpaired.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Yes, yes, Dr. Payne.  But from the
                    neck up?  What's my story there?

<b>                                     DR. PAYNE
</b>                    That's what I'm trying to explain.

     Payne turns off the light board and goes to the venetian
     blinds.  The room is instantly full of sun.

<b>                                     DR. PAYNE
</b>                    The central nervous system selects
                    items from a constant storm of
                    sensations.  Whatever was killed in
                    your stroke appears to have
                    short-circuited this mechanism.
                    Parts of your brain now seem to be
                    firing at random.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You're saying there's an electrical
                    storm in my head?

<b>                                     DR. PAYNE
</b>                    That's as good a way as any to
                    describe it.  I've seen far worse
                    cases.  You might even learn to
                    enjoy these walks down memory lane.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    But the rest of it?  The killing
                    headaches.  The phantom smells.  My
                    inability to close my eyes without
                    thinking a hundred things at once.
                    It's all nothing more than bad
                    electricity?

<b>                                     DR. PAYNE
</b>                    In a manner of speaking.  I've
                    never encountered the olfactory
                    hallucinations, but I'm sure
                    they're related.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    So what do I do?

<b>                                     DR. PAYNE
</b>                    Take the Luminal to sleep, or
                    whenever you feel an attack coming
                    on.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You seem to be saying that this
                    isn't just a case of resting until
                    I'm better.  That my condition will
                    continue to deteriorate until the
                    end of my life.

     The doctor responds with a sympathetic gaze.  Whale nods
     solemnly.

<b>     INT. HALLWAY - DAY
</b>
     Whale makes his way toward the stairs.  He passes a
     stoop-shouldered ELDERLY WOMAN who leans on the arm of her
     middle-aged DAUGHTER.  Then an OLD MAN in a wheelchair, his
     eyes brimming with bewilderment and despair.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - FOYER - DAY
</b>
     Hanna opens the door.  Clay wears dungarees and a white
     dress shirt.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Don't worry, you already paid me.
                    I'm here because --

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    The Master is waiting for you.

     She gestures him in, shuts the door.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - KITCHEN - DAY
</b>
     Clay follows Hanna into the kitchen.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    He's down in his studio.  Here.
                    Take this with you.

     She thrusts a TV tray toward him.  Two glasses, two bottles
     of beer, a bottle of Coke.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    It's your job, lady, not mine.
                         (hands back the tray)
                    I'm here so he can draw my picture.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    I'm keeping away.  What you are
                    doing is no business of mine.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    What're you talking about?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    What kind of man are you?  Are you
                    a good man?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Yeah, I'm a good man.  Something
                    make you think I'm not?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    You will not hurt him?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Gimme a break.  I'm going to sit on
                    my ass while he draws pictures.  Is
                    that going to hurt him?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    No.  No.
                         (closes her eyes)
                    I am sorry.  Forget everything I
                    say.  Here.  I will take the tray.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You do that.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - STUDIO - DAY
</b>
     Clay opens the squeaking door and enters behind Hanna.
     Whale stands at a drafting table, sharpening a pencil.
     Hanna sets the tray down.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Very good, Hanna.  Now goodbye.

     She goes toward the door, wrinkling her forehead at Clay.
     The screen door bangs shut.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I'm sure you'd like something to
                    wet your whistle while I work.

     Whale opens a bottle of beer, pours it into a glass, hands
     it to Clay.  He gestures to a chair.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    We'll go slowly today.  Since this
                    is your first time as a model.

     Clay sits.  He pulls a "TV Guide" out of his back pocket.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Did you see this?  They're showing
                    one of your movies tomorrow night.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You don't say?  Which picture?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    "Bride of Frankenstein."

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Hmmm.  I much prefer "Show Boat" or
                    "The Invisible Man."  Shall we
                    begin?

     Clay takes a swig of beer and sets the glass on the floor.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Ready when you are.

     Whale stares at Clay.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    That shirt, Mr. Boone.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    It's new.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I'm sorry.  It's too white, too
                    distracting.  Would it be asking
                    too much for you to take it off?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I'm not wearing an undershirt.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Pish posh, Mr. Boone.  I'm not your
                    Aunt Tilly.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    But it's just my face you want to
                    draw.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh if it's going to make you
                    uncomfortable...
                         (sighs)
                    Perhaps we can find something else
                    for you to wear.

     He lifts a drop cloth off a footlocker, revealing a stack
     of "Physique" magazines.  Whale casually covers them with a
     newspaper.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    We could wrap this like a toga
                    around your shoulders.  Would that
                    help you overcome your schoolgirl
                    shyness?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    All right already.  I'll take it
                    off.  Kind of warm in here anyway.

     He unbuttons the shirt and pulls it off.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Yes.  Much better.
                         (steps forward)
                    Here.

     Clay adjusts his belt buckle as Whale hangs the shirt on a
     wall peg.  He moves back to the easel again.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I think we'll have you sit slightly
                    sideways, so you can rest one arm
                    on the back of the chair.  Yes.
                    Just so.

     The arm with the tattoo faces the easel.  Clay smirks.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Take a picture, it lasts longer.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    That's exactly what I intend to do.

     A clatter of pencils in the easel's tray, followed by a
     moment of silence.  Finally, a low, whistly scratch.  Clay
     concentrates on keeping still, focusing on an open window.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You seem to have no idea how
                    handsome you are, Mr. Boone.  It
                    has to do with how snugly your face
                    fits your skull.

     Clay wipes a thin line of sweat from his waist.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Would you be more comfortable
                    barefoot?  Feel free to remove your
                    boots and socks.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    No.  I'm fine.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    It's a bit like being at the
                    doctor, isn't it?  You have to
                    remain perfectly still while I
                    examine and scrutinize you.

     Whale suddenly sniffs, as if smelling something.  He sniffs
     several times more but continues to draw.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                         (to himself)
                    Dripping?
                         (to Clay)
                    Do you ever eat dripping in this
                    country?  The fat from roasts and
                    such, congealed in jars.  Used like
                    butter on bread.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Sounds like something you feed the
                    dog.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    It is.  Only the poorest families
                    ever ate it.  We kept ours in a
                    crockery jar.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Your family ate dripping?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                         (catching himself)
                    Of course not.  As I said, only
                    poor people --

     Whale stops.  He lets out a bitter laugh.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I'm sorry.  I've just realized how
                    terribly ironic it all is.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    What?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I've spent most of my life
                    outrunning my past.  Now it's
                    flooding all over me.

     Clay stares out blankly.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    There's something about the
                    openness of your face that makes me
                    want to speak the truth.  Yes, my
                    family ate dripping.  Beef dripping
                    and four to a bed, and a privy out
                    back in the alley.  Are you also
                    from the slums, Mr. Boone?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    We weren't rich.  But we weren't
                    poor either.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    No, you were middle class, like all
                    Americans.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I guess you'd say we lived on the
                    wrong side of the tracks.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    In Dudley there were more sides of
                    the tracks than any American can
                    imagine.  Every Englishman knows
                    his place.  And if you forget,
                    there's always someone to remind
                    you.  My family had no doubts about
                    who they were.  But I was an
                    aberration in that household a
                    freak of nature.  I had imagination,
                    cleverness, joy.  Where did I get
                    that?  Certainly not from them.

     Whale's voice has changed, becoming more pinched and nasal.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    They took me out of school when I
                    was fourteen and put me in a
                    factory.  They meant no harm.  They
                    were like a family of farmers
                    who've been given a giraffe, and
                    don't know what to do with the
                    creature except harness him to the
                    plow.

     Whale seems completely lost in the past by now.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Hatred was the only thing that kept
                    my soul alive in that soul-killing
                    place.  And among those men I hated
                    was my own poor, dumb father.  Who
                    put me in that hell to begin with.

     Whale peers out from behind the square of paper.  He pales
     when he sees his father William, his face covered with
     grime, glaring at him from across the room.  Whale retreats
     behind the pad, takes a breath.

<b>                                     CLAY (O.S.)
</b>                    Mr. Whale?

     Relief floods Whale's face.  He looks out, smiles at Clay.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You have to excuse me, Mr. Boone.
                    Since my stroke, I am often
                    overcome with nostalgia.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I don't mind.  I'm not crazy about
                    my old man either.

     Whale rubs a hand across his eyes and steps into the open.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Why don't we break for five
                    minutes?  You probably want to
                    stretch your legs.

     Whale pulls the cover sheet over the pad to hide what he's
     drawn so far.

<b>                                     DWIGHT (V.O.)
</b>                    So you just sat there while this
                    old limey banged his gums?

<b>     INT. HARRY'S BEACHCOMBER - NIGHT
</b>
     The place is dead.  There's only Clay and Dwight sitting at
     the bar with the owner, HARRY, a balding hep cat with a
     scraggly tuft of beard.  And, in a booth, KID SAYLOR, a
     cocky 20-year-old, necking with a pony-tailed TEENAGER.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I liked it.  You learn stuff
                    listening to old-timers.

<b>                                     DWIGHT
</b>                         (to Harry)
                    You ever hear of this Whale fellow?

<b>                                     HARRY
</b>                    Can't say that I have.  Can't say
                    I've heard of a lot of people
                    though.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    If you don't believe me, let's
                    watch this movie.  See if his
                    name's on it.  How about it, Harry?
                    Can I watch my damn movie?

<b>                                     HARRY
</b>                    I told you.  I don't turn on the TV
                    except for the fights.

     BETTY CARTWRIGHT appears behind the bar, lugging a bucket of
     ice from the storeroom.  She's an attractive woman in her
     early 30s, big-boned and almost as tall as Clay.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    A spooky movie.  Just what this
                    place needs tonight.

<b>                                     DWIGHT
</b>                    Couldn't make it any deader, doll.
                    Set me up.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    Sure.  Your friend want one?

     Clay reacts to the silent treatment with a tight smile.

<b>                                     DWIGHT
</b>                    Yeah, one for what's-his-name here.

     She sets down two bottles of Pabst without looking at Clay.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Thanks, doll.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                         (to Harry)
                    I say let loverboy watch his
                    movie.  And be grateful Boone's
                    not cutting Shirley Temple's lawn.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Why is everybody giving me crap
                    tonight?

<b>                                     DWIGHT
</b>                    Jesus, Boone.  You come in here
                    proud as a peacock because some old
                    coot wants to paint your picture.
                    We're just bringing you back to
                    earth.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    Sounds screwy to me.  I can't
                    imagine a real artist wanting to
                    spend time looking at that kisser.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    This kisser wasn't so bad you
                    couldn't lay under it a few times.

<b>                                     DWIGHT
</b>                    Ooooh.

     Betty glares at Clay, who realizes he's gone too far.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    I bet this is just some fruit
                    pretending to be famous.  So he can
                    get in the big guy's pants.

<b>                                     DWIGHT
</b>                    Ooooh.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    What makes you say that?

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    Just thinking out loud.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Yeah, well keep your filthy
                    thoughts to yourself.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    All right, then.  He's interested
                    in you for your conversation.  We
                    know what a great talker you are.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Fuck you.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    Not anymore you don't.  Doll.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                         (explodes)
                    We're watching the movie, Harry.
                    You got that!  We are watching my
                    fucking movie.

<b>                                     HARRY
</b>                    Calm down, Clay.  Just calm down.
                    We'll watch it.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Good.  Fine.

     Harry reaches up, turns on a battered Motorola.  On the tv,
     a voice announces: "Tonight, Boris Karloff in 'The Bride of
     Frankenstein.'"  The titles come on.  Ending with the phrase
     "Directed by", which floats over a white blob.  The blob
     jumps forward to form letters: "James Whale."

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Right there.  What did I tell you?
                    James Whale.

     The movie starts.  The Monster being roasted alive in the
     flaming wreckage of a mill.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    This looks corny.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Go wash glasses if you don't like
                    it.

     In a flooded crater under the mill, the Monster kills an old
     man.  He climbs up, flips the man's wife into the pit below.
     An owl blinks impassively.

<b>                                     DWIGHT
</b>                    Not bad.  Two down and it's just
                    started.

     Minnie, a hatchet-faced woman with fluttering ribbons, is
     now alone with the Monster.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     Whale and Hanna are in bathrobes and slippers, and there is
     a glass of milk and a plate of cookies on Whale's TV tray.
     On the tv, Minnie (played by UNA O'CONNOR) squeaks and
     whimpers and screams.  Whale laughs.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Wonderful old Una.  Gobbling like
                    an old turkey hen.

     But Hanna isn't amused.  She unclenches her arms to close
     the bathrobe over her throat.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Oh, that monster.  How could you be
                    working with him?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Don't be silly, Hanna.  He's a very
                    proper actor.  And the dullest
                    fellow imaginable.

     Minnie flees in a bowlegged jig up the hill.  Whale smiles
     again.

<b>     INT. HARRY'S BEACHCOMBER - NIGHT
</b>
     On the tv, Dr. Pretorius (played by Ernest Thesiger)
     delivers a toast with inimitably ripe enunciation: "To a
     new world of gods and monsters!"  Dwight and Harry and
     Betty all laugh.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    These old movies are such a hoot.
                    They thought they were being scary,
                    but they're just funny.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                         (defensively)
                    Maybe it's supposed to be funny.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    Funny is funny and scary is scary.
                    You don't mix them.

     Suddenly the tinny tv soundtrack is drowned out by the voice
     of Elvis Presley.  Kid Saylor bends over the jukebox,
     wagging his denim butt and tapping a high-top sneaker.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Hey!  Some of us are watching a
                    movie!

<b>                                     SAYLOR
</b>                    Go ahead.  Free country.

     Clay jumps from his stool.  Saylor sees him coming, steps
     aside.

<b>                                     SAYLOR
</b>                    You want me to turn it down?

     Clay slams the heel of his hand against Saylor's chest.  The
     boy staggers backward.  Clay grabs the corner of the jukebox
     and jerks it from the wall; the needle scratches across the
     song.  Saylor holds up both hands in a nervous surrender.

<b>                                     SAYLOR
</b>                    Hey, I didn't know.  It's your
                    favorite movie.  Sorry, okay?

     Clay returns to the bar and uprights the stool.  Saylor
     escorts his girl to the door.

<b>                                     HARRY
</b>                    You're like a dog with a bone over
                    this movie, Clay.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I just want to watch it, okay?

     On the tv, the blind man thanks God for sending him a
     friend.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     Hanna's frown pops open.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    He is not going to kill the old
                    man?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    No, Hanna.  My heart isn't that
                    black.

     In a crypt, the Monster meets Dr. Pretorius, who is having a
     midnight snack on top of a closed coffin.  "Friend?" the
     monster asks.  "Yes, I hope so," answers Pretorius, without
     batting an eyelash.  He offers the Monster a drink, then
     adds: "Have a cigar.  They're my only weakness."

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    The cigars were my own brand.  So
                    that I could have the leftovers.

     On the tv, the Monster groans:  "Love dead.  Hate living."
     Whale's focus sharpens, prompted by the unexpected
     discussion of death.

<b>     INT. HARRY'S BEACHCOMBER - NIGHT
</b>
     The Monster holds a skull in both hands and happily
     growls, "Wiiife."  Betty, shudders, for real this time.

<b>                                     HARRY
</b>                    Sick stuff.  Necrophilia.  I wonder
                    if they knew how sick they were.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    The Monster's lonely and he wants a
                    friend, a girlfriend, somebody.
                    What sick about that?

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     Dr. Frankenstein and Pretorius make their final
     preparations.  Frankenstein inquires where the fresh heart
     came from.  "There are always accidental deaths occurring,"
     Pretorius replies.  "Always."  Once again, Whale responds to
     the talk of death.

<b>     INT. HARRY'S BEACHCOMBER - NIGHT
</b>
     Finally, the Bride comes to life.  She looks up, down, left,
     right, uncertain who she is.  The Monster stares
     tenderly.  "Friend?"  He timidly touches her arm and she
     screams.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    All right!  You don't want <u>him</u>.

     The Monster is heartbroken.  Nobody loves him, not even his
     Bride.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     The Bride shrieks again.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    She is horrible.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    She is beautiful.

     The Monster's pain turns to anger.  He tears through the
     lab, orders Frankenstein to escape with his wife.  But he
     wants Pretorius and the Bride to stay.  "We belong dead."
     Whale reacts sharply to the line.

     The Monster blows up the laboratory and the movie ends.
     Hanna shivers as she stands.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Ugh.  I am sorry, Mr. Jimmy, but
                    your movie is not my teacup.
                    Still, I am glad there is a happy
                    ending.  The bad people are dead
                    and the good people live.

     She hits the button on the Magnavox with the flat of her
     palm.

<b>     INT. HARRY'S BEACHCOMBER - NIGHT
</b>
     Betty turns off the Motorola.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    Weird movie.  Weird, weird, weird.

     Harry stands up and stretches.  Clay remains seated.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    So what did you think?

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    Weird.

<b>                                     DWIGHT
</b>                    I loved it.  I want a switch like
                    that in my trailer, so I can blow
                    us to kingdom come when things
                    don't go my way.

     He wobbles when he climbs off his stool.

<b>                                     DWIGHT
</b>                    Damn but it's getting drunk in
                    here.  Late too.  The bride of
                    Dwight is going to bite my head
                    off.

     He tilts toward the door.

<b>                                     DWIGHT
</b>                    You coming, Boone?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I think I'll hang around.

<b>                                     HARRY
</b>                    Go home, Clay.  We're closing up.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I thought I'd give you a hand since
                    I kept you open.

     He waits to see how Betty reacts.  She shrugs.  Harry takes
     his book and cash drawer to the back door.

<b>                                     HARRY
</b>                    I'm next door if you need me.

     He gives Clay one last look and goes out to the breezeway
     and his apartment.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You know what?  I think you guys
                    are all jealous.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                         (laughs)
                    What's to be jealous of?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I've gotten to know someone who's
                    famous.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    Not so famous any of us have ever
                    heard of him.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    If he were that famous, he probably
                    wouldn't give me the time of day.
                    This way, he's like <u>my</u> famous
                    person.
                         (laughs at himself)
                    Yeah, my own personal famous
                    person.  Who treats me like I'm
                    somebody worth talking to.

     Clay leans down to plug in the jukebox.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You want to go for a swim?

     She snaps her mouth open and imitates the Bride's
     furious cat hiss.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    What's that mean?

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    It means it's too cold to go
                    swimming.  And I don't mean the
                    water.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I wasn't going to try anything.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    Yeah, and I'm never going to smoke
                    another cigarette.

     He patiently waits by the door while Betty turns out the
     lights.  She walks briskly through the glow of the jukebox,
     waving Clay outside with her hand.

<b>     EXT. HARRY'S BEACHCOMBER - NIGHT
</b>
     Betty pulls the door shut and bends over to lock it.  Clay
     catches a glimpse of skin in the side slit of her shirttail.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Let's go for a walk at least.  Walk
                    and talk.  I really feel like
                    talking tonight.

     Betty's eyes blink in mock surprise.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    This old guy -- he's the kind of
                    person I expected to meet when I
                    moved out here.  Someone who's done
                    things with his life.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    Do you realize you're more
                    interested in this old goober than
                    you ever were in me?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    It's different.  He's a man.  And
                    by the way you have no business
                    calling him a homo.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    It never crossed your mind?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    He's an artist.  Anyway, he's too
                    old to think about sex.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    All the old men I know think about
                    nothing but sex.

     She opens the door of her Chevy.  Clay grabs it with both
     hands to keep her from getting in.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    C'mon.  What's eating you tonight?

     Betty hesitates, then looks him sharply in the eye.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    You picked up that girl right in
                    front of me.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Hey, no strings, right?  That's
                    what you always said.  Just good
                    pals who have the hots for each
                    other.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    It still hurt.  A lot.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I didn't mean to...

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    No, I'm actually kind of glad it
                    happened.  It made me wonder what
                    the hell I was doing with my life.
                    Letting you pull me into bed
                    whenever the spirit moved you.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You liked it too.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    Sure.  I loved it.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    If you enjoy it, you should do it.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    You know, I just can't do that
                    anymore.  I still have time to get
                    things right.  Get married again --

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You mean us?

     Betty bursts out laughing.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    The look on your face!  You're not
                    marriage material.  You're not even
                    boyfriend material.  You're a kid.
                    A big, fun, slightly irresponsible
                    kid.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I'm not a kid.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    What are you then?  What will you
                    be ten years from now?  Still
                    cutting lawns?  Still banging horny
                    divorcees in your trailer?

     Clay glares at her, his jaw working forward in anger.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I like my life.  I'm a free man.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    Sure you're free, for now at least.
                    But how long before you're just
                    alone?  Pathetic and alone.

     Clay's anger jumps from his jaw into his shoulders and arms.
     He grabs the door handle.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    So you don't want to fuck.  That's
                    what you're telling me?

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    Is that all this conversation means
                    to you?  Am I going to put out or
                    not?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Damn straight.  I'm sick of playing
                    games.

     Betty quickly gets into the car.  before she can pull the
     door shut, Clay slams it on her, hard.  Her hands leap in
     front of her face, as if he'd hit her.  The look of fear in
     her eyes startles Clay out of his rage.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Betty, look.  This is coming out
                    all wrong --

     She frantically turns the key in the ignition and the Chevy
     pulls out.

<b>                                     BETTY
</b>                    From here on out, Boone, you're
                    just another tired old face on the
                    other side of the bar.

     The car screeches away.  Clay stumbles across the highway.

<b>     EXT. TRAILER PARK - NIGHT
</b>
     Clay comes to the dump at the end of the canyon.  He climbs
     into it, kicking at loose cans.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    It's all shit!  Shit on by women!
                    Shit on by the Marines.  Shit on by
                    the world!  Fuck!

     He shouts the word at the cliff, for the raw, sudden
     violence of shouting.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Fuuuck!

     A dog in the carport starts to bark.  The sound of Clay's
     pain echoes off the canyon as we CUT TO:

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     Whale is sitting up n bed when Hanna knocks.  She enters
     with a tray loaded with bottles and vials.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    You will take them all, Mr. Jimmy?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I'll be fine, Hanna.  Thank you.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Good night.

     Whale takes the pills, one by one, until he comes to the
     bottle of Luminal.  He opens the pheno bottle to shake out a
     capsule and a dozen spill into his palm.  He stares at them.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - DAY
</b>
     Hanna opens the door, gasps when she sees Whale lying
     motionless on the bed.  She spots the empty bottle of
     Luminal.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Oh no, Mr. Jimmy.

     Hanna kneels next to the body.  She makes a Sign on the
     Cross, launches into a frantic "Hail Mary."  We CUT TO:

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     Whale snorts at the imagined scene.  One by one, he returns
     the capsules to their bottle, until a single pill remains.
     He places it on the table, then turns out the lamp and lies
     on his back in the dark, waiting for sleep.

     The distant sound of laughter invades the darkness.  Whale
     sits up, straining to identify the voices.  The bedroom wall
     opposite him melts away, revealing:

<b>     INT. SPECIAL MAKEUP TRAILER - UNIVERSAL STUDIOS - DAY (1935)
</b>
     ELSA LANCHESTER and BORIS KARLOFF sit side by side in
     dentist chairs, cloths around their necks, heads tilted
     back.  JACK PIERCE, the makeup artist, is patting the hair
     drawn over a cage on Elsa's head.  He looks up, sees Whale,
     and breaks into a conspiratorial grin.  Elsa's eyes are
     closed; she hasn't heard whale enter.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    You done yet, love?  I am
                    absolutely dying for a fag.

     Whale tiptoes in for a better look.  Karloff has a
     mouthpiece to help him breathe while the assistant adds
     another coat of green sizing to the still incomplete
     makeup.

<b>                                     BORIS KARLOFF
</b>                         (gurgles)
                    Goo' 'orning, 'ames.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Good morning.  And a very good
                    morning to you.

     Elsa's eyes snap open.  There are no mirrors on the walls.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    Uh-oh.  The way you look at me,
                    James.  What have you done this
                    time?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Bring a mirror.  Let the Bride
                    feast upon her visage.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    Boris?  Do I look a fright?

     Karloff shrugs, irked that she's getting all the attention.
     Jack Pierce lifts a large mirror.

<b>                                     JACK
</b>                         (nasal New Yorkese)
                    Behold, the Bride of Frankenstein.

     Elsa stares at the beautiful corpse in the mirror.  She
     snaps her head left, right, up, down, startled by the sight
     of herself, electrocuted into frightened, spastic jerks.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    Oh, James.

     As Whale observes his star we see her spasms through his
     eyes -- as a series of dissonant, line-jumping close-ups.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    And you said there'd be some of me
                    left.  Nobody's going to know me in
                    this getup.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Nonsense, my dear.  You look
                    extraordinary.
                         (to an assistant)
                    Today's script.  Quick.  And a
                    pencil.

     Whale scans the page of shooting script, the margin marked
     in pencil: CU, MS, MLS.  Whale pencils in a bracket and
     scribbles: CU a,b,c,d---MOS.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Jack, I want to get on this right
                    away.  Sorry, Boris, we won't get
                    to you until this afternoon.

<b>                                     BORIS KARLOFF
</b>                    I 'ish you 'old 'e 'ooner.

     The assistant removes his mouthpiece.

<b>                                     BORIS KARLOFF
</b>                    I could have spent the morning
                    tending to my roses.

<b>     INT. SOUNDSTAGE - DAY
</b>
     The interior of Stage C is completely filled by the
     laboratory set.  Electricians adjust the lights on the
     wooden tower beside the Bride's table.  COLIN CLIVE (Dr.
     Frankenstein) and ERNEST THESIGER (Dr. Pretorius) sit off to
     the side, in full makeup and costume.  Clive mumbles
     earnestly over his script.  Thesiger pinches his face over
     the needle he dips in and out of an embroidery ring.

     Whale comes on the set with Elsa on his arm.  She walks
     regally beside him, the train of her long white robe thrown
     over one arm.  There's a wolf whistle from overhead, and
     applause, causing Elsa to curtsy to her admirers.  Thesiger
     takes her hand, leans back to study her.

<b>                                     ERNEST THESIGER
</b>                    My God.  Is the audience to presume
                    that Colin and I have done her
                    hair?  I thought we were mad
                    scientists, not hairdressers.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    Only a mad scientist could do this
                    to a woman.

<b>                                     ERNEST THESIGER
</b>                    Oh no, my dear.  You look
                    absolutely amazing.  There's no way
                    I can compete with you.  The scene
                    is yours.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    In the sequel, James, two lady
                    scientists should make a monster.
                    And our monster would be Gary
                    Cooper.

<b>                                     ERNEST THESIGER
</b>                    I would've thought Mr. Leslie
                    Howard would be more your line.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    More your line.

<b>                                     ERNEST THESIGER
</b>                    My line nowadays runs to Rin Tin
                    Tin.  Dogs are so much more
                    dependable than men.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Colin?  Please.  It's time.
                         (softly, to Thesiger)
                    How is he today?

<b>                                     ERNEST THESIGER
</b>                    Stiff as a board.
                         (calls out)
                    Yes, Colin.  Come see what they've
                    done to our Elsa.

     Clive walks over, glumly.

<b>                                     COLIN CLIVE
</b>                    I'm not at my best today, Jimmy.
                    A touch of flu, you know.

     Whale sees through the excuse, rests an arm on Clive's
     shoulder.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Relax, my boy.  You could do this
                    scene in your sleep.

     Clive grits his teeth and nods.  Whale positions them in
     front of the upended table, Clive and Thesiger holding
     Elsa's robe out by the hems.  The shadow of the sound boom
     passes back and forth while they rehearse.

<b>                                     ERNEST THESIGER
</b>                    I gather we not only did her hair
                    but dressed her.  What a couple of
                    queens we are, Colin.

     Elsa giggles.  Clive looks distraught -- which brings some
     life to his stiffness.  Whale sees this, decides to tune it
     higher.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Yes, a couple of flaming queens.
                    And Pretorius is a little in love
                    with Dr. Frankenstein, you know.

     Clive's distress reads clearly now.  He is twitchy and
     alive.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Yes.  I think it's coming together.
                    Shall we have a go?

     He sits in the canvas director's chair, nods to the
     assistant director.

<b>                                     ASSISTANT DIRECTOR
</b>                    Quiet on the set!

     The warning bell rings.

<b>                                     ASSISTANT DIRECTOR
</b>                    Lights!

     The lights sizzle and blaze.

<b>                                     ASSISTANT DIRECTOR
</b>                    Sound!

<b>                                     SOUND MAN
</b>                    Okay for sound.

<b>                                     ASSISTANT DIRECTOR
</b>                    Camera!

     A young man with a clapboard steps in front of the camera.

<b>                                     CAMERA ASSISTANT
</b>                    Scene two-fifteen.  Take one.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Action.

     The Bride snaps her head in various directions.  Thesiger
     slopes back, fingers splayed, intoxicated by his creation:

<b>                                     ERNEST THESIGER
</b>                    The Bride of Frankenstein!

     Whale sits with his legs crossed, jogging his raised foot as
     if conducting the scene with his show.  Fully engaged,
     intensely alive.  We CUT TO:

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     Whale glances at the clock, sees that it is 3:15.  He is
     wide awake.  He reaches over, picks up the Luminal.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Luminal.  Illumine all.

     Whale reluctantly places the pill on his tongue and
     swallows.  He rests his head on the pillow and stares at the
     ceiling, where the reflection of the window sheers casts an
     ever-shifting pattern of light and dark.  We move down to
     reveal:

<b>     INT. PRISON CELL - NIGHT (BLACK & WHITE)
</b>
     It's a cobblestone cell, a plaster set from "Bride of
     Frankenstein."  Whale sits in a massive chair, straining
     against thick iron chains, as a lightning storm rages
     outside.  In the distance, heavy footsteps, coming closer,
     until the cell door is filled with the silhouette of the
     Monster.  Whale hardly dares to breathe as the Monster rips
     off the door and enters the cell.

     The Monster steps into the light, allowing us to see his
     face for the first time.  It is Clay Boone, dressed in a
     Marine parade uniform.  He uses his hedge clippers to cut
     the chains from around Whale's chest.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Thank you.  Thank you so much.

     Clay leans down and takes Whale in his arms, cradling him
     like a child.  They move across the sound stage -- Clay
     carefully sidestepping the lights and cables on the floor --
     until they reach the next set:

<b>     EXT. COUNTRYSIDE - NIGHT
</b>
     Clay carries Whale past a painted backdrop of a stormy
     English countryside.

<b>     INT. FRANKENSTEIN'S LAB - NIGHT
</b>
     Whale lies on the Bride's table.  Clay pulls on a doctor's
     smock, picks up a scalpel from a table covered with various
     medical instruments.  he carves a thin circle around the top
     of Whale's forehead.  Then, with one deft movement, he pops
     off Whale's scalp and pulls out the brain.  It is
     soot-covered, charred, used up.

     Whale watches with detached fascination as Clay tosses it on
     the floor, then takes a throbbing, luminous mass from a
     tray.

     Clay inserts the new brain into Whale's skull, sutures the
     scalp back into place.  he fastens the conducting clamps
     around Whale's temples, then throws the heavy circuit
     breaker.  Lights throb with bursts of energy...loose sparks
     crackle...rotary sparks create snapping circles of fire...as
     the energy of the raging storm is harnessed into the
     machinery.

     Clay steps back to take in his handiwork.  A sudden look of
     panic fills Whale's face.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    It isn't working.  The experiment
                    is a failure.

     Clay glances down at Whale, whose breathing is slowing.
     Realizing that the new brain hasn't taken:

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Just go to sleep.

     A serenity suffuses Whale's features as he stares up at the
     pale flicker of lightning.  His breathing finally stops, his
     face a tranquil mask of death.  We CUT TO:

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - DAY
</b>
     Whale wakes with a start.  He checks the clock, sees that
     it's past nine.  He presses an intercom button on the
     bedside table.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I'm up, Hanna.

     Whale sits up, drinks in the sunlight.  He notices some
     grass clippings and leaves scattered on the bedspread.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What in God's name --

     Whale turns and sees Clay lying next to him.  He gasps.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                         (angrily)
                    I told you to sleep.

     Clay's hands close around Whale's neck.  We CUT TO:

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - DAY
</b>
     Whale opens his eyes groggily.  He scans the room in panic,
     clearly unable to get his bearings.

     Whale tries to stand but his legs give way beneath him.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BATHROOM - DAY (LATER)
</b>
     Whale and Hanna stare straight out as she reaches down and
     unbuttons the tiny buttons on his pajama fly.  Whale
     supports himself with one hand on Hanna's shoulder as he
     relieves himself with the other.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - DAY (LATER)
</b>
     Whale sits up in bed, staring dumbly at the morning paper.
     Hanna reaches in to take away the breakfast tray.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Does the yardman come today?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Of course.  This afternoon.

     A thin smile forms on Whale's face.

<b>     EXT. WHALE'S HOUSE - DAY
</b>
     Clay prunes the roses on the front lawn.  Hanna appears,
     frowning.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Something I can do for you?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    The Master wants to know if you are
                    free for lunch.  I tell him you
                    will be having other plans, but he
                    insists I ask.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Got a lawn this afternoon, but I'm
                    free until then.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Expect nothing fancy.

     Hanna goes inside.  Clay rolls the mower down the path.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - KITCHEN - DAY
</b>
     Clay knocks on the bottom of the Dutch door as he lifts the
     latch and walks in.  He is wearing a fresh madras shirt.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    The Master is dressing.  I am to
                    offer you a drink.  There is
                    whiskey and there is iced tea.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Tea is fine.

     He sits at the kitchen table.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    No.  You are a guest now.  You go
                    in the living room.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    That's okay, Hanna.  I'm more
                    comfortable in here.  It is Hanna,
                    isn't it?

     She eyes him suspiciously, shrugs, pours a glass of tea.
     Clay notices a Bible on the counter.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    How long you worked for Mr. Whale?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Long enough.  Fifteen years.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I bet you've seen a lot of famous
                    people come and go?  Movie stars?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    No.  We live simply, Mr. Jimmy and
                    I.  People come to play bridge.
                    And now and then, young men to
                    swim.  You have people, Boone?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You mean family?  All in Joplin,
                    Missouri.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Your wife?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I'm not married.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Why?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Oh, I don't know.  Because no girl
                    in her right mind will have me?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    A man who is not married has
                    nothing.  He is a man of trouble.
                    You need a woman.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You proposing what I think you're
                    proposing?  Don't you think I'm a
                    little young for you?

     Hanna twists her head around with such an indignant look
     that Clay bursts out laughing.  She realizes that she is
     being teased.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Men.  Always pulling legs.
                    Everything is comedy.
                         (mimics an English
                          accent)
                    "How very amusing.  How marvelously
                    droll."

     Hanna stares at Clay until his smile fades.  She resumes her
     chopping in silence.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You ever been married, Hanna?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Of course.  I am married still.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Yeah?  What's your husband do?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    He is dead now, twenty years.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Then you're as single as I am.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    No.  I have children, grandchildren
                    too.  I visit when I can.  But now
                    that Mr. Jimmy cannot be left very
                    long, I do not get away much.
                         (sighs)
                    Poor Mr. Jimmy.  There is much good
                    in him, but he will suffer the
                    fires of hell.  Very sad.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You're sure of that?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    This is what the priests tell me.
                    His sins of the flesh will keep him
                    from heaven.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Sins of the flesh?  Everybody has
                    those.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    No.  His is the worse.
                         (worse)
                    The unspeakable.  The deed no man
                    can name without shame?

     She loses patience with Clay's blank look.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    What is the good English?  All I
                    know is bugger.  He is a bugger.
                    Men who bugger each other.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    A homo?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Yes!  You know?

     Clay slowly sits up.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    That is why he must go to hell.  I
                    do not think it fair.  But God's
                    law is not for us to judge.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You're telling me Mr. Whale is a
                    homo.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    You did not know?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Well...no, not really --

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    You and he are not doing things?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    No!

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Good.  That is what I hope.  I did
                    not think you a bugger too.  I fear
                    only that you might hurt him if he
                    tries.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I'm not going to hurt anyone.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Yes.  I trust you.

     Off in the distance, a throat loudly trumpets itself clear.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    You must go in.  Quickly.  He will
                    not like to think I have had you in
                    the kitchen.

     Clay gets up slowly, reluctant to leave the room.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY
</b>
     Whale comes forward as Clay enters, offering a hand at the
     end of a spindly wrist.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    How are you, Mr. Boone?  So glad
                    you are free for lunch.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    All right, I guess.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I assume you worked up an appetite
                    with your labor.

     A hesitant smile from Clay.  Whale picks a stack of mail off
     the table, rifles through envelopes.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Forgive my rudeness.  At my age,
                    the post is the cream of the day.

     He returns the stack to the table but holds on to a square
     envelope.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Do you mind?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Go ahead.

     Clay looks off while Whale opens the envelope.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Hmmm?  Princess Margaret?

     He is examining a folded card.  He rubs a thumb over the
     printed lettering.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Her Majesty's Loyal Subjects in the
                    Motion Picture Industry...
                    Cordially invited...Reception at
                    the home of...Mr. George Cukor!

     His lips smack open in disgust.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    That pushy little -- horning in on
                    the Queen's sister, then offering
                    to share her with the whole damn
                    raj?  I live in this country to get
                    away from this rubbish!

     He tosses the invitation on the table.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Is this David's doing?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    This David's a friend?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Yes.  An old, useless friend.  You
                    must excuse me, Mr. Boone.  This is
                    a world I finished with long ago.
                    I pay them no mind and expect them
                    to return the compliment.
                         (a deep breath)
                    Lunch should be ready.  Shall we?

     He holds out an open hand so that Clay can precede him into
     the dining room.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - DINING ROOM - DAY
</b>
     Hanna sets down two steaming plates of omelettes.  Whale
     hands a glass of red wine to Clay.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Cheers.

     They both take a sip of wine.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Smells lovely, Hanna.

     Hanna nods, steals a glance at Clay as she leaves.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Saw your movie the other night.
                    Watched it with some friends.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Did you now?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I liked it.  We all did.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Did anyone laugh?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                         (covering)
                    No.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Pity.  People are so earnest
                    nowadays.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Why?  Was it supposed to be funny?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Of course.  I had to make it
                    interesting for myself, you see.  A
                    comedy about death.  The trick is
                    not to ruin it for anyone who isn't
                    in on the joke.
                         (a sip of wine)
                    But the Monster never receives any
                    of my gibes.  He is noble.  Noble
                    and misunderstood.

     Whale gazes pointedly at Clay, who eats with his elbows on
     the table, quickly bolting the hot omelette.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    In Korea, Mr. Boone?

     Clay looks up.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Did you kill anyone?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I don't like to talk about that.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    It's nothing to be ashamed of, in
                    the service of one's country.
                    That's something to be proud of.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Proud?  Any jerk with a gun can
                    kill someone.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Quite true.  Hand-to-hand combat is
                    the true test.  Did you ever slay
                    anyone hand-to-hand?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                         (defensive)
                    No.  I could have, though.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Yes, I believe you could.
                         (a sip of wine)
                    How free is your schedule this
                    afternoon?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Full up.  I got the hedges to do
                    here, then another lawn out by La
                    Cienega.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What is we say phooey to the
                    hedges?  Could you spare an hour
                    after lunch?  To sit for me?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Can't today.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I'll pay our going rate.  Plus what
                    you'd get if you did the hedges.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Sorry.  I don't feel like sitting
                    still today.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    All righty.  I understand.

     Whale tilts a scrutinizing eye at Clay.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - PANTRY - DAY (LATER)
</b>
     Hanna carries the dirty dishes back to the kitchen.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - DINING ROOM - DAY
</b>
     Clay starts to bite the tip off a cigar.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Use this.

     Whale passes him a gold penknife.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Just a trim.  And mine while you're
                    at it.  Fingers are a bit stiff
                    today.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You ever been married, Mr. Whale?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    No.  At least not in the legal
                    sense.

     Clay hands a clipped cigar back to Whale.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    So you had a wife?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Or a husband.  Depending on which
                    of us you asked.  My friend David.
                    He lived here for many years.

     The other cigar crunches faintly between Clay's fingers.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Does that surprise you?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    No, I -- you're a homosexual.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh dear.  If one must have a
                    clinical name.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I'm not, you know.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I never thought you were.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You don't think of me that way, do
                    you?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What way might that be?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You know.  Look at me like -- like
                    I look at women.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Don't be ridiculous.  I know a real
                    man like you would break my neck if
                    I so much as laid a hand on him.
                    Besides, you're not my type.

     Clay suddenly laughs.  Whale's smile deepens.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    So we understand each other?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    What you do is no business of mine.
                    Live and let live, I say.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I hope this has nothing to do with
                    your refusing to sit for me today?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    No.  I --

     Whale continues to smile, slyly.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What are you afraid of, Mr. Boone?
                    Certainly not a frail old man like
                    me.

     Clay has no answer.  He gives in with a sigh.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - STUDIO - DAY
</b>
     Clay sits sideways on the chair again.  Whale stands at the
     easel.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Can I see what you did so far?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    It will only make you
                    self-conscious.  You'll have to
                    remove your shirt.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Sorry.  Not today.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    But we have to match the other
                    sketch.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I just feel more comfortable
                    keeping it on.  You just said you
                    didn't want me self-conscious.

     Whale steps forward.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Perhaps if we open the shirt and
                    pull --

     Whale's hands to in.  Clay's flesh tightens; he shrinks
     back.  The hands stop, palms raised.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh dear.  I <u>have</u> made you
                    nervous.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I'm fine.  I'd just rather keep it
                    on.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Suppose we unbutton the top and
                    pull it down around your shoulders?
                    Two buttons.  Is that so much to
                    ask?  Just two little buttons.

     Whale's thumb and fingers unpluck buttons in midair.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    No!  Look.  What you told me at
                    lunch is still very weird for me.
                    So either you sketch me like I am
                    or I'll say forget it and go do
                    your hedges.

     Whale takes a step back.  His eyes are locked on Clay,
     fascinated by his temper.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I don't mean to be a prick, but
                    that's how I feel.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Of course.  I don't want to scare
                    you off.  Not before I'm finished
                    with you.

     Whale glides behind the easel.  The pencils rattle in the
     tray.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Tell me more about yourself, Mr.
                    Boone.  You have a steady
                    companion?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Not at the moment.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Why not?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You know how it is.  You have to
                    kiss ass just to get a piece of it.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Very well put.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    The world is just one kiss-ass game
                    after another.  A man has to make
                    up his own life, alone.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Ah.  A philosopher.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Thoreau with a lawnmower.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                         (smiles)
                    I like that.  But take care, Mr.
                    Boone.  Freedom is a drug, much
                    like any other.  Too much can be a
                    very bad thing.

     Clay glances out the window.  Feigning a merely casual
     interest:

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Is that why you and your friend
                    split up?  Because you wanted to be
                    free?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    In a way, yes.  I suppose so.  I
                    know it's why I stopped making
                    pictures.

     Whale backs away from the easel and stares at the paper with
     a sour frown.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You might not think it to look at
                    me now, but there was a time when I
                    was at the very pinnacle of my
                    profession.  The horror movies were
                    behind me.  I'd done "Show Boat."
                    Major success.  Great box office.
                    Now I was to do something
                    important.  "The Road Back."  An
                    indictment of the Great War and
                    what it did to Germany.  It was to
                    be my masterpiece.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    What happened?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    The fucking studio butchered it.
                    It was 1937, Hitler's armies were
                    already massing -- and still the
                    New York bankers stood in line to
                    curry his favor.  Anything to avoid
                    losing the German market.  They cut
                    away the guts and brought in
                    another director to add slapstick.
                    The picture laid an egg, a great
                    expensive bomb.  For which I was
                    blamed.

     A shadow passes over Whale's eyes.  He presses two fingers
     against his temple.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    After that, I went out of fashion.
                    I was no longer able to command
                    the best projects, so I walked
                    away.  Why should I spend my time
                    working in such a dreadful business?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Do you miss it?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                         (dismissive)
                    It's so far in the past now.  Over
                    fifteen years --

     Whale stops himself.  He smiles gently at Clay.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Making movies was the most
                    wonderful thing in the world.
                    Working with friends.
                    Entertaining people.  Yes, I
                    suppose I miss it.  More so now
                    that --

     Whale reaches into his pocket, takes out the bottle of
     Luminal.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I think we all want to feel we've
                    left our mark on the world.  Yes.
                    I wish I had done more work.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You've done a helluva lot more
                    than most people.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Better work.

     Whale moves across the room to the screen door.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    But I chose freedom.  David was
                    still in the thick of it, his life
                    full of anxiety and studio
                    intrigue.  I didn't fancy spending
                    my golden years as merely "the
                    friend."  The dirty little secret
                    of a nervous producer.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    How long were you...?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Twenty years.  Too long.  We were
                    like a play whose run outlasted the
                    cast's ability to keep it fresh.
                    So I finally decided to close down
                    the show.

     Whale places a pill on his tongue and swallows.  He fixes
     Clay with a pinched smile.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    When all fetters are loosened, a
                    certain hedonism creeps in, don't
                    you think?  There was a period when
                    this house was overrun with young
                    men.  Some even posed for me.
                    Right where you're sitting now.

     Clay sits uncomfortably in his chair.  His face flushes.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Of course, they weren't nearly as
                    bashful.  No, this room was once
                    filled with bare buttocks.  And
                    pricks.  Hard, arrogant pricks --

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Cut it out!

     Clay explodes out of his chair, knocking over a small side
     table.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Fuck it.  I can't do this anymore.

     He looms over Whale, whose breathing starts to quicken.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Isn't it enough you told me you're
                    a fairy?  Do you have to rub my
                    nose in it?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I assure you, Mr. Boone, I meant
                    no --

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    From now on, Mr. Whale, I cut your
                    grass and that's it.  Understand?

     Before Whale can respond Clay storms out, nearly ripping the
     screen door off its hinges.  Whale sits on the daybed, takes
     a few quick breaths.  Suddenly the air is filled with the
     sounds of people cavorting in the pool.

     Whale looks up, sees a young man standing outside the screen
     door.  It is now dark outside.

<b>                                     YOUNG MAN
</b>                    Come on, Jimmy.  Watch me dive.

     Whale offers a melancholy smile.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I think I'll just rest for a
                    moment.

     The man shrugs, disappears into the shadows.  We move
     across the room and through the door...

<b>     EXT. WHALE'S HOUSE - NIGHT
</b>
     Whale sits in a director's chair, a martini in one hand, a
     cigar in the other, a harmless old uncle watching young men
     swagger and splash in the pool.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I think we're ready to go.

     He glances over, sees Clay in plaid bathing trunks, sitting
     apart from the others.  He is puffing on a Camel.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You're up, Mr. Boone.

     Clay ignores him.  Whale puts down his martini and cigar,
     picks up a Polaroid camera.  He moves over to clay.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    The extras are in their places.
                    Now we need the star.  Wouldn't
                    you like to get in the pool?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You first.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh no.  I never swim.

     Whale removes Clay's cigarette, crushes it with his shoe.
     Behind him, the pool is now a pit full of naked shadows.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You'll have to remove that shirt.

     Whale touches Clay's bare chest.  Clay grabs hold of his
     wrist, causing the old man to yelp in pain.  In the pool,
     the extras shriek in alarm.

     Clay's hands close tightly around Whale's throat.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - DAY
</b>
     Whale's hands fly to his throat.  He opens his eyes and
     gasps greedily for air, the young men's screams lingering
     in the room.  There is a look of genuine terror on his
     face.

<b>     EXT. BRENTWOOD HOUSE - YARD - DUSK
</b>
     The sun goes down.  Clay wearily pushes his lawnmower,
     struggling to concentrate on the darkened lawn.

<b>     EXT. BRENTWOOD HOUSE - BACK DOOR - NIGHT
</b>
     The smug PROPERTY OWNER peers out at Clay from behind a
     screen door.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Do you mind turning on a light?
                    It's getting pretty soupy out here.

<b>                                     OWNER
</b>                    Should have been here when you said
                    you would.  You whack off a tow,
                    don't think about taking me to
                    court.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You're lucky I even squeezed you in
                    today.

<b>                                     OWNER
</b>                    Don't take that tone with me, bub.
                    There's Japs in this town that work
                    cheaper and do flowers too.

     Clay takes a deep breath.  He can't afford to get angry.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Will you just turn on the porch
                    light?  Sir?

     The owner flicks on the light.

<b>     INT. HARRY'S BEACHCOMBER - NIGHT
</b>
     Clay presses through the Saturday night crowd.  Clay cranes
     his neck to scan the crowd.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Where's Betty?

<b>                                     HARRY
</b>                    She took the night off.  Heavy
                    date.  Some guy she's had her eye
                    on for a while.

     Harry smiles pointedly at Clay, hands him the beer.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Thanks a lot, pal.

     Clay turns his back on the bar.  He sees Dwight moving
     through the crowd.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Dwight!

     Dwight nods, a little coolly.

<b>                                     DWIGHT
</b>                    Hey, Boone.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Have a drink?

     Dwight's WIFE, a pert, steely-eyed brunette, places a firm
     hand on his shoulder.  Dwight shrugs, heads toward the door.

     Clay turns.  A pretty, too-tan BLONDE WOMAN in her early 30s
     is standing at the end of the bar, eyeing Clay.  He lifts
     his glass and she responds with an open smile.

<b>     EXT. CLAY'S TRAILER - NIGHT
</b>
     Clay and the woman go at it, their shadows visible through
     the glass louvers.

<b>     INT. CLAY'S TRAILER - BATHROOM - DAY
</b>
     Clay tugs on a cord and the harsh overhead fluorescent
     buzzes to life.  He splashes his face with water, then
     catches his reflection in the mirror.

<b>     EXT. SANTA MONICA LIBRARY - DAY
</b>
     Clay parks outside the local branch of the public library.

<b>     INT. READING ROOM - DAY
</b>
     Clay leafs through an oversized folio, bound copies of <u>The</u>
     <u>New York Times</u>.  He glances at an article from
     1936.  "Interview With a Passing Whale."  There is a picture
     of Whale, captioned "Famous British Director."  A LIBRARIAN
     approaches with more leatherbound books.

<b>                                     LIBRARIAN
</b>                    Here are the trade newspapers you
                    wanted.

     Clay takes the books, opens one.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY
</b>
     Whale eats lunch off a TV tray.  His attention remains
     focused on "Queen for a Day" as Hanna clomps into the room
     behind him.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Who was that at the door?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    A visitor.

     Whale turns.  His face registers surprise when he sees Clay.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Thank you, Hanna.  That will be
                    all.

     Hanna retreats toward the kitchen.  Clay steps tentatively
     into the room.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Mr. Boone.  You're not due to cut
                    the lawn until Wednesday.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I'd like to sit for you again.  But
                    only if you ease up on the locker
                    room talk.  Okay?

     Whale holds up two fingers, affects an American accent.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Scout's honor.

     Clay smiles.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - STUDIO - DAY
</b>
     Whale and Boone are back in their familiar positions.  An
     empty glass of beer sits on the floor next to Clay.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I'm curious, Mr. Boone.  What
                    convinced you to come back?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I don't know.  I guess I like your
                    stories.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Everybody has stories to tell.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Not me.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What about your stint in Korea?
                    I'm sure it was full of dramatic
                    episodes.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I told you.  I don't like to talk
                    about that.

     Whale nods, sensing that he's touched a sore spot.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    And the fear you showed at our last
                    session?  How did you overcome
                    that?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Not fear.  More like disgust.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Same difference, Mr. Boone.
                    Disgust, fear of the unknown -- all
                    part of the great gulf that stands
                    between us.  Am I right in assuming
                    that you've had little experience
                    with men of my persuasion?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    There's no people like you in my
                    crowd.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    No teammates in football?  No
                    comrades in Korea?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You must think the whole world is
                    queer.  Well it's not.  War sure
                    isn't.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh, there may not be atheists in
                    the foxholes, but there are
                    occasionally lovers.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You're talking through your hat
                    now.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Not at all.  I was in the foxholes
                    myself.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You were a soldier?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I was an officer.

     Clay breaks his pose to turn and look at Whale.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    This was World War I?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    No, my dear.  The Crimean War.
                    What do you think?  The Great War.
                    You had a Good War, while we had --

     Whale clears his throat, bored by his standard line.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    -- a war without end.  There were
                    trenches when I arrived, and
                    trenches when I left, two years
                    later.  Just like in the movies.
                    Only the movies never get the
                    stench of them.  The world reduced
                    to mud and sandbags and a narrow
                    strip of rainy sky.
                         (a dry snort)
                    But we were discussing something
                    else.  Oh yes.  Love in the
                    trenches.

     Now he's talking only to himself.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Barnett.  Was that his name?
                    Leonard Barnett.  He came to the
                    front straight from Harrow.  And he
                    looked up to me.  Unlike the
                    others, he didn't care that I was a
                    workingman impersonating his
                    betters.  How strange, to be
                    admired so blindly.  I suppose he
                    loved me.  But chastely, like a
                    schoolboy.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Something happened to him?

     Whale looks up at Clay, stares at him.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I remember one morning in
                    particular.  A morning when the sun
                    came out.

<b>     EXT. TRENCHES - DAY (1917)
</b>
     LEONARD BARNETT, 19, boyish and handsome, peers into a
     periscope.  Whale stands beside him, pointing out landmarks
     on the bleak landscape.

<b>                                     WHALE (V.O.)
</b>                    Odd, how even there one could have
                    days when the weather was enough to
                    make one happy.  He and I were
                    standing on the fire step and I
                    showed him the sights of no-man's
                    land, through the periscope.  It
                    was beautiful.  The barbed wire was
                    reddish gold, the water in the
                    shell holes green with algae, the
                    sky a clear quattrocento blue.  And
                    I stood shoulder to shoulder with a
                    tall apple-cheeked boy who loved
                    and trusted me.

     Whale reaches over and lays his arm across Barnett's
     shoulder.  Barnett smiles timidly at him.  We CUT TO:

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - STUDIO - DAY
</b>
     Whale leans forward, completely disoriented.  His eyes fix
     on Clay, the white eyebrows screwed down, until he is able
     to recognize the face.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Don't do this to me again, Mr.
                    Boone.  I absolutely refuse.

     Whale stands, his legs shaky.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You will not set me on another walk
                    down memory lane.  Not this lane.
                    Not today.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I didn't --

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Why do I tell you this?  I never
                    told David.  I never even
                    remembered it until you got me
                    going.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You're the one who started it.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You're very clever, Mr. Boone.  You
                    just sit there and let me talk.
                    What a sorry old man, you're
                    thinking.  What a crazy old poof.
                         (comes closer)
                    Why are you here?  What do you want
                    from me?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You asked me to model.  Remember?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Of course I remember.  Do you think
                    I'm so senile --

     Whale stands over Clay.  His pale face turns left, right,
     looking at Clay with one cold eye, then the other.  Clay
     returns the gaze, worried for Whale.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Mr. Whale?  Are you okay?

     Whale turns away.  He yanks out a handkerchief.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Stupid.  Very stupid.  What have I
                    been thinking?

     He sits on the daybed and bends over, covering both eyes
     with the handkerchief.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Just go.  Please.  Why don't you
                    go?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I don't get it.  First you creep me
                    out with homo shit.  Then you hit
                    me with war stories.  And now
                    you're upset because I listen?
                    What do you want?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I want -- I want...

     His pained eyes focus on Clay, and soften.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I want a glass of water.

     Clay gets up and goes to the sink.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    A touch of headache.

     Clay hands him the water.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Thank you.

     Whale sets the glass down and sits with his head lowered,
     his body folded like a bundle of sticks.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    My apologies.  I had no business
                    snapping at you.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    No harm done.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    It was foolishness to attempt this
                    portrait.  You cannot force what
                    will not flow.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You don't want me to sit for you
                    anymore?

     Whale shakes his head sadly.  He gazes up at Clay, sees the
     disappointment on his face.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    How would you like to come to a
                    party with me?  A reception for
                    Princess Margaret.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>
                    I thought you weren't going.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    If you don't mind driving, I'd like
                    to take you as my guest.  There
                    should be lots of pretty starlets
                    to keep you amused.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I'm game.  Sure.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Very good, Clayton.  May I call you
                    Clayton?  Or do you prefer Boone?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Clayton is fine.

     Whale smiles gently.

<b>     EXT. OCEAN PROMENADE - DUSK
</b>
     The sun is setting over the Pacific.  Clay stands in a phone
     booth on the strand.

<b>     INT. PHONE BOOTH - DUSK
</b>
     Clay smiles anxiously as the call connects.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Mom?  Yeah, it's me.

     Clay pauses as his mother shoots questions at him.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    No, I'm not in jail...I don't want
                    any money, no...
                         (louder, to be heard)
                    Look, is Sis there?  I want to tell
                    her about this movie person I met
                    out here.  She'll get a kick out of
                    it.

     We hear the phrase: "She's out, Clay."  Clay closes his eyes
     as his mother rambles on.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    No, I still...I'd give you my phone
                    number if I had a phone --

     Clay tries to stay calm as his mother berates him for not
     staying in touch.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    How's the old man?

     Before Clay can protest we hear: "Hold on."  Clay glances
     out at couples strolling up the promenade.  An operator
     interrupts, says: "One dollar for the next three minutes."
     Clay deposits two quarters before his mother returns.
     "He's busy, Clay."

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Right.

     The operator comes on again, asking for fifty more cents.
     Clay stares at the quarters in his hand.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Time's up.  I better go.

     Clay listens as his mother prattles on, until the connection
     is broken and the phone goes dead.  Clay steps out of the
     booth, takes a deep breath of ocean air.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - DAY
</b>
     Whale and Hanna go through the closet together.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Mr. Boone.  He is an interesting
                    friend.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I'd hardly call our yardman a
                    friend.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    No.  But someone you can talk to.

     Whale stops, turns to Hanna.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Do you miss having someone to talk
                    to, Hanna?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    I have my family.  Also our Lord
                    Jesus Christ.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Of course.  How is the old boy
                    these days?

     The naughty remark is met with a solemn stare.  Whale
     reaches up, chooses a lightweight blue suit.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    It needs a hat.  There was a
                    wide-brimmed cream fedora...

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    It must be up in your old room.  I
                    will look.

     The phone rings.  Hanna hurries to answer it.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - MAIN HALL - DAY
</b>
     Hanna speaks softly in Hungarian.  Whale points upstairs to
     let her know he will look for the hat himself.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - MASTER BEDROOM - DAY
</b>
     Whale opens the closet door and takes down a stack of
     hatboxes from the overhead shelf.  He opens the first box,
     takes out a rubbery wad of heavy fabric with two round
     windows like eyes.  It's a gas mask.  We CUT TO:

<b>     INT. TRENCHES - NIGHT (1917)
</b>
     The night sky explodes with light and smoke.  Whale moves
     calmly through the chaos, trying to maintain a modicum of
     order among the troops.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Gas masks on.  Gas masks on.

     At the end of the line, young Barnett is struggling with his
     straps.  Mustard gas is starting to stream into the trench.

<b>                                     BARNETT
</b>                    Don't mind me, Lieutenant.  Save
                    yourself.

     Whale slips the mask over Barnett's face, fastens it.  He
     slides his own mask into position moments before the trench
     is obliterated by the yellowish smoke.  We CUT TO:

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - MASTER BEDROOM - DAY
</b>
     Hanna stands in the door with a forlorn frown.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Oh, Mr. Jimmy.  You make a mess of
                    it.  Here.

     Hanna lifts the lid of an unopened box to show him the
     missing fedora.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                         (stacking boxes)
                    That is my daughter.  She say she
                    and her husband are coming to town
                    this afternoon.  I am sorry, Mr.
                    Jimmy.  I will make it short.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I'll be out this afternoon,
                    remember?  Your family can visit as
                    long as they like.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    No.  I do not cook for them.  My
                    daughter's no-good husband will not
                    take one bite of our food.

     Hanna holds out the box for the gas mask.  Whale gives it a
     long, final look, then drops it in the box.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You can toss this one in the trash.

     Hanna clamps the lid on the box.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - FOYER - DAY
</b>
     Hanna has opened the door.  At the end of the hall,
     silhouetted against the bright afternoon sky, is Clay.  His
     shoulders fill the doorway.  The top of his head is
     perfectly flat.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Good afternoon, Clayton.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Do I look okay?

     Clay steps into the light.  His khaki pants are clean and
     pressed.  A blue knit shirt fits his muscles snugly.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You look splendid, my boy.  Quite
                    splendid.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - GARAGE - DAY
</b>
     Whale crosses to the passenger side of the Chrysler.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I suppose you'd like the top down.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    If that's okay?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Nothing would please me more.

     Clay squeezes behind the wheel, shifts the seat back,
     explores switches.  The vinyl top pops up and folds
     backward.

     Whale gets in.  Clay starts the engine and backs out.

<b>     EXT. WHALE'S HOUSE - DAY
</b>
     Hanna stands at the front door, hands tangled in her apron.
     Whale tugs his hat brim at her as the car swings around the
     driveway.

     Whale smiles at the wide open sky overhead.  Clay steps on
     the gas and the Chrysler takes off.

<b>     EXT. CUKOR HOUSE - DAY
</b>
     The party is clearly audible from the road, where Clay has
     squeezed the Chrysler into a long row of shiny cars nuzzling
     the high brick wall.  Whale puts his dark glasses on.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Stars, you know.  The suns of other
                    galaxies.

     They walk up the steep road to the gatehouse.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Good old George.  He loves to put
                    on the dog.  Only his dogs tend to
                    have a bit of mutt.

     A WOMAN at the gate inspects the invitation, waves them
     through.

<b>     EXT. CUKOR HOUSE - LAWN - DAY
</b>
     A sunny patio with hedges and statues.  Wickets and stakes
     have been set up for a game of croquet, but only a handful
     of very tanned children strut around with mallets.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What did I tell you?  Listen.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I don't hear anything.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Exactly.  Cukor was too cheap to
                    hire music.  There's nothing but
                    chin-wag.  The cold dreary custard
                    of English chin-wag.

     Whale scans the crowd.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Slim pickings.  Well, it's early
                    yet.  Perhaps this is a good time
                    to pay our respects.

     Clay follows Whale toward a trellis alcove covered in ivy.
     A handful of people grin at the mismatched couple who stand
     in the shade: a homely older man in glasses and a pretty
     woman in a white dress with polka dots.  GEORGE CUKOR and
<b>     PRINCESS MARGARET.
</b>
<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Let's get this over with quickly.

     Whale forgets to remove his hat when he comes forward.
     Before he can give Cukor their names Princess Margaret's
     polite smile bursts open in a joyful display of teeth.

<b>                                     PRINCESS MARGARET
</b>                    I had no idea you'd be here.

     She seizes Whale's hand in her little white gloves.

<b>                                     PRINCESS MARGARET
</b>                    How are you?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                         (taken aback)
                    Fine.  Quite fine.  And Your Royal
                    Highness?

<b>                                     PRINCESS MARGARET
</b>                    Splendid.  Now that I know you're
                    around.

     Standing beside him, Clay is clearly impressed that Whale
     knows a princess.

<b>                                     PRINCESS MARGARET
</b>                    Can we get together while I'm in
                    town?  I so badly want to sit for
                    you again.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Sit?

<b>                                     PRINCESS MARGARET
</b>                    I've changed my hair, you see.
                    Since our last session.  Those old
                    snaps look rather dowdy now.

     Whale realizes she's mistaken him for someone else.  He tugs
     his sunglasses down his nose so she can see his eyes.

<b>                                     PRINCESS MARGARET
</b>                    Oh dear.  Have I made a blunder?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Ma'am, the pleasure is all mine.  James
                    Whale.

<b>                                     PRINCESS MARGARET
</b>                         (laughs)
                    I am such a goose.  I mistook you
                    for Cecil Beaton.  It's the hat.
                    You're wearing one of Cecil's hats,
                    you know.

     Whale attempts to chuckle while he fights a feeling of
     humiliation.  He turns to Cukor for help.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Hello, George.  James Whale.  David
                    Lewis's friend.  I once made
                    pictures myself, Ma'am.

<b>                                     GEORGE CUKOR
</b>                    Yes.  Of course.  One can't throw a
                    rock in this town without hitting
                    one of us old movie directors.

     Whale feels the sting.  He turns to Clay.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Ma'am, may I present Mr. Clayton
                    Boone?

     Clay steps forward to shake hands.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    My gardener, who insisted I bring
                    him today.  He so wanted to meet
                    royalty.

     Cukor's face goes blank with indignation.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Pleased to meet you.

<b>                                     PRINCESS MARGARET
</b>                    Quite.  I adore gardens.

     Whale narrows his eyes at Cukor and sharpens his smile.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    He's never met a princess.  Only
                    queens.

     Cukor puffs out his chest, quivers a bulbous lower lip at
     Whale.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    George, Ma'am, this has been an
                    honor.  An occasion to remember for
                    the rest of my days.

     He leads Clay away and an American couple promptly crowd in
     to take their place.  Striding through the garden, Whale is
     obviously pleased with himself.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    What was that about?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Nothing of importance.  Just two
                    old men slapping each other with
                    lilies.  Shall we have a drink?

     Whale leads Clay to a tented bar.  Across the way, David
     Lewis has come through the gate with a WOMAN on his arm.
     People look discreetly, not at David but at the woman,
     lightly veiled in a scarf and sunglasses.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Who's that?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    David.  The friend I thought was in
                    New York.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    No.  The girl.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Girl?  Oh.  Elizabeth Taylor.

     Clay watches in amazement as ELIZABETH TAYLOR waves to
     someone and pipes out a happy hello.  She hurriedly unties
     her scarf, thrusts it at David and runs off on tiptoes to
     embrace a woman.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Is that really her?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    David produced her last picture.

     David glances around while he slips the scarf into a coat
     pocket.  He sees Whale looking at him.  He puts on a tight
     smile and strolls across the patio.

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    What are you doing here?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Just what I was about to ask you.
                    I thought you were in New York.

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    I was, until last night.  Publicity
                    asked me to fly Miss Taylor in for
                    today's reception.

     The waiter arrives with their drinks.  Only when Clay takes
     his glass of beer does David see that Whale is not alone.

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    David Lewis.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Clay Boone.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Our yardman.  Who was kind enough
                    to serve as my escort to George's
                    little do.

     David freezes.  Whale lifts his martini glass at Clay and
     takes a sip.

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    Should you be drinking in your
                    condition?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh, David, stop being a nanny.

     Clay clears his throat, eager to escape this domestic
     squabble.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I think I'll go look at Elizabeth
                    Taylor.

     He hurries off.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You should have seen Georgie's face
                    when he met Clayton.

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    You didn't, Jimmy.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I did.  But Princess Margaret was a
                    doll.  We're all equals in her
                    eyes.  As commoners, I presume.

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    You only embarrass yourself.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh dear.  I'll never work in this
                    town again?

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    You know what I mean.  Your
                    reputation.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    But I have no reputation.  I'm as
                    free as the air.

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    Well the rest of us aren't.  Can't
                    you remember that?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    No.  I never could.  You must
                    regret having had the invitation
                    sent.

     David is looking over Whale's shoulder.

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    I didn't ask George to invite you.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Then who did?

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    Jimmy, there are people here I need
                    to speak to.  You'll be fine on
                    your own?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Yes.  Perfectly.

<b>                                     DAVID
</b>                    All right, then.  I'll come by tomorrow
                    for breakfast.

     Whale nods, watches David stroll over to the pool and greet
     a gaggle of executives.  Whale drifts toward some deck
     chairs at the far end of the croquet lawn.  He sits, takes a
     sip of his drink.  Suddenly a high-pitched giggle pierces
     the air.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Mr. Whale!

     Whale looks out to see Edmund Kay, his interviewer from
     several weeks ago, marching across the lawn.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Mr....Kay?

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Bet you thought you'd never see me
                    again.  I didn't know if you'd be
                    well enough to come to this party.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You didn't?

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    I'm the one who got you on Mr.
                    Cukor's guest list.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You, Mr. Kay?  How do you know
                    George Cukor?

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    I interviewed him after I met you.
                    I'm his social secretary now.
                    Well, assistant to his secretary.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I commend you.  If you're going to
                    pursue poofs, go after those who
                    can do favors for you.  You waste
                    everybody's time when you court
                    dinosaurs.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Don't think that, Mr. Whale.  I
                    love your movies.  That's why I
                    wanted you to come to this.  So I
                    could see you with your monsters.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    My monsters?

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Don't go away.

     Whale tries to do just that, but finds himself caught in the
     chair.  He is stumbling to his feet when Kay returns with
     Elsa Lanchester, 55, at his side.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    Jimmy.  How are you?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Elsa?

     She takes Whale's hand, with a look of deep concern and
     sympathy.  Kay races off again.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    I saw Una O'Conner a few weeks ago.
                    She said you'd been under the
                    weather.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh, nothing out of the ordinary.
                    Growing old.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    We're all getting a bit long in the
                    tooth.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    But you appear quite fresh, my
                    dear.

     She swats aside the compliment and gestures at the chair.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    Please.  You shouldn't stand on my
                    account.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Perfectly all right.  But if you'd
                    like to sit --

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    I'm fine, Jimmy.  I can only stay a
                    few minutes.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Of course.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    What's our pesky friend up to now?

     Kay returns, accompanied by a stopped, gray-haired man with
     a long rectangular face and wary, heavy-lidded eyes.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    Is that Boris?  Our little chum
                    appears to be arranging a reunion.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh dear.

     Karloff, age 70, comes reluctantly, followed by his niece
     ALICE, a bashful young woman who carried a blanket-wrapped
     bundle.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    Boris, darling.  I didn't know you
                    were here.  These public revels are
                    hardly up your alley.

<b>                                     BORIS KARLOFF
</b>                    I came for the sake of my visiting
                    niece.  Alice.  And Miranda, my
                    great-niece.

     His huge hand lifts the blanket in Alice's arms, revealing a
     bald infant with enormous blue eyes.  Karloff gurgles and
     coos at the child.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    And what do you make of our royal
                    visitant?

<b>                                     BORIS KARLOFF
</b>                    Perfectly charming.  A real lady.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    Of course she's a lady.  What did
                    you expect?  A hussy in tennis
                    shoes?

     Whale looks up and discovers Clay standing a few feet behind
     Karloff.  He is ogling two bosomy actresses who are
     listening intently to the monocled British consul.

     Whale's eyes try to focus Karloff and Clay together, his
     once and future monsters.  Kay shouts to a passing
     photographer carrying a bulky Speed Graphic.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Hey, you!  With the camera!  We got
                    a historical moment here.  Come get
                    a picture of it.

     The man scans the scene for a famous face.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    This is Mr. James Whale, who made
                    "Frankenstein" and "Bride of
                    Frankenstein."  and this is the
                    Monster and his Bride.

     Clay looks up when he hears Kay identify Karloff.

<b>                                     PHOTOGRAPHER
</b>                    Oh, Karloff.  Right.

     Karloff and Elsa drift into position next to Whale.  The
     flash goes off, a snap and a crunch of light.  Whale cringes
     in pain.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                         (through clenched teeth)
                    Don't you just love being famous?

     Another flash.  From Whale's perspective, the bulb resembles
     nothing so much as the translucent tube of electrical
     current from Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory.  Whale
     concentrates on his smile as another snap of light stabs his
     brain.  He clutches Elsa Lanchester's hand.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    Are you all right, Jimmy?

     A sharp nod from Whale.  The photographer motions to
     Karloff's niece.

<b>                                     PHOTOGRAPHER
</b>                    Let me get one with Frankenstein
                    holding the kid.

     Alice hands over the baby.  Karloff gently cradles the
     child.  Whale stands on his left, Elsa on his right.  They
     all smile at the baby, who gurgles and points up.  Whale
     follows the baby's gaze to the sky, where a large kite rocks
     and strains in a furious electrical storm.

     The camera flashes once, then again.

<b>                                     PHOTOGRAPHER
</b>                    Got it!

     Whale glances up -- the kite is gone.  Thunder rumbles as
     the group starts to disperse.  Whale nods to the faces
     exchanging good-byes.

<b>                                     BORIS KARLOFF
</b>                    So good to see you again, James.

     He strolls off, clucking and cooing at his baby.

<b>                                     KAY
</b>                    Catch you before you go, Mr. Whale.
                    I'll make sure everybody gets sent
                    a print.

     He goes off with the photographer.  Elsa kisses Whale on the
     cheek.

<b>                                     ELSA LANCHESTER
</b>                    We'll be in touch, Jimmy.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Good-bye.  So nice to see you...

     Finally Whale is alone.  He staggers to the deck chair and
     lowers himself sideways into the lawn chair.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You okay?

     Whale gazes up at Clay.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Tired.  A bit tired.

     Clay nods.  Whale smiles at him.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Are you enjoying yourself?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Actually, no.  I feel a little out
                    of place.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Neither of us really belongs here.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Must have been funny for you.
                    Seeing your monsters again.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Monsters?  The only monsters...
                         (closes his eyes)
                    ...are here.

     Across the lawn, conversation has stopped.  Birdlike shrieks
     come from all directions.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Oh fuck.  And we left the top down.
                    You want to run for it?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Run for what?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Can't you see?  It's raining!

     The rain is only a flickering of air, but people are jumping
     and shrieking, throwing coats over their heads as they dash
     toward the house.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Here.

     He takes Whale under the arm, helps him up and escorts him
     to a small tent.  On the patio, everyone shoves and squeezes
     to get through the one open door.

     Whale stares out, hypnotized by the deluge.  From his POV,
     we see a young man step into the rain.  Whale squints, is
     finally able to identify the man as Leonard Barnett.

     Whale's eyes follow Barnett as he emerges onto a new
     landscape, a scarred and barren battlefield.  As the storm
     continues to rage:

<b>                                     CLAY (O.S.)
</b>                    Mr. Whale?

     Whale shifts his gaze to Clay.  He takes a moment to orient
     himself.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Let's get out of this funk hole

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You don't want to wait it out?
                    Rain should let up soon.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    We're not sugar.  We won't melt.

     Whale adjusts the brim of his hat and steps into the
     downpour.  Clay has no choice except to follow.  They walk
     briskly, the minute splashes on Whale's hat forming a
     ghostly aura of spray.

<b>     INT. CAR - DAY
</b>
     Whale opens the door and climbs in next to Clay.  The roof
     slowly closes over them.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I better get you home before you
                    catch your death from pneumonia.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Catch my death.

     Clay glances over, sees Whale sitting very wet and rigid,
     staring straight ahead.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You all right, Mr. Whale?

     Whale blinks, slowly turns.  There is a cracked look in his
     eyes.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Jimmy.  Please.  Call me Jimmy.

     Clay smiles, starts to back the car out.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - FOYER - DUSK
</b>
     The hallway is pitch-dark as Whale and Clay enter.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Hanna!  Bring us some towels.
                    We're drenched to the bone!

     No response.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Blast her.  If we soil her holy
                    floor, it's her own damn fault.

     Whale goes squashing down the hall.  Clay remains just
     inside the open door, prying off his shoes and peeling off
     his socks.  He follows Whale into:

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - KITCHEN - DUSK
</b>
     Whale stands over the table with his jaw open.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I don't believe this.

     He slides a note to Clay.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    It's not like her.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                         (reading)
                    Just a night out.  Sounds like she
                    can't say no to her daughter.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Certainly you have better things to
                    do than babysit an old man?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Good.  Let's get dry.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     Whale stands just inside the closet, buttoning a crisp white
     shirt.  He reaches for a red bow tie, closes the closet
     door.  In the mirror, Leonard Barnett stands behind him, in
     uniform.  Whale's eyes twinkle in surprise.  He drapes the
     tie around his collar.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What do you think?

     Barnett smiles his approval.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - UPSTAIRS HALLWAY - NIGHT
</b>
     Clay opens the bathroom door, calls out.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Mr. Whale?

     No answer.  He goes to the top of the stairs and calls out.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Where's those clothes you promised?

     Again, nothing.  Rain ticks against the windows.  Clay goes
     down the stairs.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     Whale fiddles with the knot of his tie.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    He trusts me, you know.

     Barnett sits on the edge of the bed now.  He smiles, a bit
     sadly.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - DOWNSTAIRS HALLWAY - NIGHT
</b>
     There's glow coming from the bedroom, and the sound of
     Whale's voice.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Mr. Whale?  Jimmy?

     Clay steps slowly toward the door, pushes it open.  He peers
     in.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     Whale pulls on a blazer.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Mr. Whale?

     Whale jumps.  He slaps a hand over his chest, twists around,
     sees Clay.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh, of course.  Clayton.  You
                    finished your shower already?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Ten minutes ago.  Didn't you hear
                    me calling?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I'm afraid not.  Terribly sorry.
                         (stands)
                    I believe I promised you some
                    clothes.

     Whale crosses to the closet.  Barnett is nowhere to be seen.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You're much wider than I am.  You
                    won't want to attempt to get into
                    my pants.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    No.  Definitely not.

     Clay chuckles.  Whale smiles.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Very good, Clayton.

     He takes a robe from a hook on the closet door.  Clay tries
     it on but it won't close over the towel.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I know.

     Whale opens a drawer, takes out a crewneck sweater.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Absolutely swims on me, but should
                    take care of your upper half.

     Clay pulls the sweater over his head.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    That only leaves the rest.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You don't have any baggy shorts?
                    Pajama bottoms?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Sorry.  My pajamas are tailored.
                    Would it be too distressing to
                    continue with the towel?  No more
                    immodest than a kilt, you know.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Do I have any other choice?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Very sporting of you, Clayton.

     Clay notices a framed drawing on the desk.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Is that --?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                         (nods)
                    The only memento I ever kept.  My
                    original sketch for the Monster.

     He hands the sketch to Clay, who stares down at the famous
     flat head, hooded eyes, bolted neck of the Monster.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Shall we?

     Clay puts down the sketch, starts into the hall.  Whale
     turns back, sees Barnett standing by the window.  Whale
     flips off the light and closes the door.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - KITCHEN - NIGHT
</b>
     Clay sits at the kitchen table.  Whale opens the
     refrigerator and brings out two plates wrapped in wax paper,
     and a bottle of beer for Clay.  He pours himself a shot of
     Scotch from a decanter and sits down.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    After dinner, if Hanna isn't back?
                    Can we try a few more sketches?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I thought you'd given up on my
                    picture.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I'd like to try again.  If you're
                    game.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Why not?  Give us something to do
                    while we wait.

     Clay munches on his sandwich.  Whale pours himself another
     Scotch, takes a sip.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Tell me something, Clayton.  Do
                    you believe in mercy killing?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Never gave it much thought.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Come now.  I'm sure you came across
                    such situations in Korea.  A
                    wounded comrade, or perhaps one of
                    the enemy?  Someone for whom death
                    would be a blessing.

     Clay stops chewing.  He stares down at his plate.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I never went.

     He takes a deep breath, looks up at Whale.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I never made it to Korea.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    But you said --

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    -- that I was a Marine.  Which is
                    true.  You filled in the rest.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I see.

     Clay downs his beer, refills the glass.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    My old man was a Marine.  He
                    enlisted the day he turned
                    seventeen.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    The Great War?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                         (nods)
                    By the time he was ready to ship
                    out, the fighting was over.  He
                    missed out.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    A very lucky thing indeed.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    That's not the way he saw it.  To
                    him, it was like his life never got
                    started.  Nothing else really
                    mattered.  Definitely not his
                    family.

     Whale gazes sympathetically at Clay.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    The morning after Pearl Harbor, he
                    drove down to St. Louis to
                    reenlist.  He was so damn excited.
                    World War II was going to be his
                    second chance.
                         (sighs)
                    They told him he was too old...fat
                    ...nearsighted.  Said he'd be more
                    use to his country if he stayed
                    home and looked after his family.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Is that why you joined the Marines?
                    For your father's sake?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I figured he'd think, you know --
                    it was the next best thing.  Hey, I
                    loved it too.  A chance to be a
                    part of something important.
                    Something bigger than yourself.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What happened?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I didn't have the guts for it.

     A look of surprise crosses Whale's face.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I mean, literally.  My body
                    screwed me up.  Burst appendix.
                    They gave me a medical discharge.
                    All I thought about was, how am I
                    going to tell the old man.

     He breaks into a crooked smile.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You know what he did when I called
                    him?  He laughed.  He laughed so
                    hard he practically burst a blood
                    vessel.  Said it was a good lesson
                    for me.  Not to try to fill his
                    shoes.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I'm very sorry.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Them's the breaks, right?  No war
                    stories for this pup.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    That's where you're wrong, Clayton.
                    You've just told one.  A very good
                    story indeed.

     Whale lifts his glass in a toast.  Clay empties his glass of
     beer.  He motions toward the decanter.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Do you mind?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Not at all.

     He hands the decanter to Clay.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     Clay sits in a straight-backed chair, smoking a cigarette
     and sipping his Scotch.  Whale sketches from a wing chair
     across the room.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Storm's getting worse.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    "A perfect night for mystery and
                    horror.  The air itself is filled
                    with monsters."

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    That's from your movie, right?
                    "The only monsters are here."

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I don't remember that one.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    James Whale.  This afternoon at the
                    party.

     Whale looks up.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I said it must be weird seeing your
                    monsters again, and you said, "The
                    only monsters are here."  I was
                    wondering which here you meant.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I don't recall.  Memories of the
                    war, perhaps.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    But that was so long ago.  It can't
                    still bother you.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh, but it does.  Especially in
                    light of the journey I'm about to
                    make.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You're planning a trip?

     Whale's gaze remains dreamy and preoccupied as SOUNDS of
     battle fill the room.  A relentless rat-a-tat of gunfire.
     The whistling of bombs.  The tortured wailing of dying men.
     Whale stands, moves over to the window.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Barnett.  Barnett on the wire.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Your friend?

     Whale gazes out at the storm.  From his POV, we see a
     scarred and barren landscape, illuminated by occasional
     flashes of lightning.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    He caught his one night coming back
                    from the reconnoiter.  I wouldn't
                    take him out, but McGill did.  Just
                    to give the lad a taste.  They were
                    nearly home when a Maxim gun opened
                    fire.

<b>     EXT. TRENCHES - NIGHT (1917)
</b>
     We race along the open trench with Whale, the darkened sky
     intermittently punctured by bursts of gunfire.  He reaches
     the periscope, pulls an enlisted man off it.  From his POV,
     we see Barnett and McGill dodging bullets as they attempt to
     make their way back.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                         (through clenched teeth)
                    Come on.  Come on.

     McGill leaps over the barbed wire of a forward trench.
     Barnett follows.  Just as his feet leave the ground his
     chest is riddled by a fresh round of gunfire.  Whale's eyes
     snap closed, trying to obliterate what they've just seen.

<b>                                     WHALE (V.O.)
</b>                    Barnett's body fell in wire as
                    thick as briers.  It was hanging
                    there the next morning, a hundred
                    yards from the line, too far out
                    for anyone to fetch it.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     Whale stares out impassively.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    We saw him at morning stand-to and
                    evening stand-to.  "Good morning,
                    Barnett," we'd say each day.
                    "How's ole Barnett looking this
                    morning?"  "Seems a little peaky.
                    Looks a little plumper."  His
                    wounds faced the other way and his
                    hat shielded his eyes, so one could
                    imagine he was napping on
                    bedsprings.  He hung there until we
                    were relieved.  We introduced him
                    to the new unit before we marched
                    out, speaking highly of his
                    companionship.

     Clay's eyes are filled with pity.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh, but we were a witty lot.
                    Laughing at our dead.  Telling
                    ourselves it was our death too.
                    But with each man who died, I
                    thought, "Better you than me, poor
                    sod."
                         (bitterly)
                    A whole generation was wiped out by
                    that war.  Millions and millions of
                    young men.

     Whale begins to hum, a tune we have heard before:

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh death where is thy sting-a-ling?
                    Grave where thy victory?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You survived it.  It can't hurt you
                    now.  It's no good to dig it up.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh no, my friend.  It's digging
                    itself up.  There is nothing in the
                    here and now to take my mind off
                    it.  All my diversions have
                    abandoned me.  Parties.  Reading.
                    Painting.  Work.  Love.  All gone
                    to me now.

     Whale remains perfectly still, staring out the window.  Clay
     deliberates a moment, then puts down his drink next to the 
     decanter of Scotch.  He stands and yanks the neck of the 
     sweater over his face, then tosses it on the sofa.  Whale 
     blinks at the reflection in the glass, not yet 
     understanding.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You wanted to draw me like a Greek
                    statue.  All right, then.

     Clay pulls at the knot, lets go of the towel.  He defiantly
     parks his hands on his hips.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    There.  Not so bad.

     Whale continues to stare at the reflection, his back to
     Clay, his eyes wide and expressionless.  He turns slowly,
     fully expecting the vision to evaporate.  When he sees that
     Clay is truly naked he mutters softly under his breath.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    So it is going to happen after all.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    What'd you say?

     Whale doesn't respond.  Finally he opens his mouth to take a
     breath.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    No.  It won't do.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    What won't do?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You are much too human.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    What did you expect?  Bronze?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Don't move.

     Whale moves abruptly across the room.  He walks past Clay.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - DINING ROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     Whale passes quickly through the dining room and out to the
     kitchen.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - GARAGE - NIGHT
</b>
     Whale reaches for the hatbox, which sits on top of a garbage
     can.  Suddenly a large hand appears on the box.  Whale gasps
     when a flash of lightning reveals the face of the Monster.

     The Monster growls out an inarticulate greeting.  He picks
     up the box and hands it to Whale.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     Whale removes the lid, sets the hatbox on the sofa.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I would like you to wear this?

     Whale steps back.  Clay takes the box and covers his lap
     with it.  He lifts out the gas mask.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Why?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    For the artistic effect.  The
                    combination of your human body and
                    that inhuman mask.  It's quite
                    striking.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I don't know.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Please, Clayton.  Just for a
                    minute.  Long enough for me to see
                    the effect.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    It's from the first World War,
                    isn't it?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                         (nods)
                    There are straps in back.

     Clay fits the mask on the top of his head and draws it down.
     The living room turns brownish yellow in the thick glass
     goggles.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Let me help you.

     Whale is suddenly behind him.  Clay's vision is enclosed in
     two round windows, so he can't see Whale buckling the second
     strap.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Now what?

     Mouth muffled by the inhalator, Clay hears his voice from
     inside his head.  Whale comes around to stand in front of
     him.  He grins as he steps back to examine Clay.  Clay
     nervously taps his knees with his hands.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    All right.  Let's take it off now.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What was that?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    It's too tight.

     Clay raises his voice to make himself heard.  He reaches
     back to undo the buckles.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Allow me.

     Whale steps in past the goggles.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    We don't want to tear the straps.

     Clay drops his hands so Whale can undo the buckles.  But
     nothing happens.  Clay turns left and right.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh yes.  I am still here.

     Two hands grip Clay's shoulders.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What steely muscles, Clayton.

     Whale's hands squeeze.  Clay grabs the frame of his seat, to
     stop his arms from automatically swinging a fist.  Whale's
     hand slides over Clay's shoulder to his arm, caressing the
     tattoo.  Clay jerks his shoulder to shake Whale off.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Just take off the fucking mask!

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Relax, Clayton.  I can't hear you.
                    I can't hear a word.

     Whale presses his lips to Clay's tattoo.  Clay's muscles
     tense from head to toe.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What a solid brute you are.

     Whale's tongue moves down Clay's arm.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    No?  Maybe this, then?

     The hand slides over Clay's stomach toward his lap.  The
     tattooed arm swings backward, slamming an elbow against
     Whale's skull.  Clay jumps from the chair, knocking into an
     end table.  The glass and crystal decanter fall to the
     floor.  The lamp spills over and the room goes dark.

     Clay's ankle is caught by the sofa leg and he hits the
     floor, jamming the inhalator against his mouth.  He quickly
     gets up, on his knees and elbows, pulling at the mask.
     Flashes of lightning strobe the room as Whale collapses over
     Clay's back and holds on.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh yes.  I have you now.

     A strap breaks.  Clay rips the mask off.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Get the fuck off!

     Whale's hand squeezes between Clay's legs.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What will you do to get yourself
                    back?

     Clay jabs with his elbow, flipping Whale on his back.  His
     body straddles Whale's and pins him, face to face.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I'm not that way.  Get it through
                    your fucking head.  I don't want to
                    mess with you.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh, but you feel good, Clayton.

     His hands clasp Clay's hips.  Clay's fist opens as it comes
     down; he slaps Whale across the face.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    That didn't even sting.  You're not
                    such a real man after all.  Are
                    you?

     Clay whacks Whale's face again.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Wait until I tell my friends I had
                    you naked in my arms.  Won't they
                    be surprised?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I haven't done a damn thing with
                    you!

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh, but you have.  You undressed
                    for me.  I kissed you.  I even
                    touched your prick.  How will you
                    be able to live with yourself?

     Clay snatches Whale's wrist before it can touch his crotch.
     With his other hand he picks up the heavy crystal decanter.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    What the hell do you want from me?!

     Whale tilts his face up for another blow.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    <u>I want you to kill me</u>.

     Clay freezes.  He stares down at the old man with white hair
     and wild eyes lying beneath him.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Break my neck.  Or strangle me.  It
                    would be oh so easy to wrap your
                    hands around my neck and choke the
                    life out of me.  Please, Clayton.
                    We've come this far.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You're crazy.

     Whale's eyes glimmer in the sporadic bursts of lightning.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Exactly, I'm losing my mind.
                    Every day, another piece goes.
                    Soon there will be nothing left.
                    Look at the sketch I made of you.

     Clay turns to the sketch pad, which lies on the floor next
     to Whale.  The page is filled with nothing but doodles and
     scrawls.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Look, if you want to die do it
                    yourself!

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    No, I don't want to die alone.  But
                    to be killed by you -- that would
                    make death bearable.  They say you
                    never see the one with your name on
                    it.  But I want to see death coming
                    at me.  I want it to be sharp and
                    hard, with a human face.  Your
                    face.  Think, Clayton.  You'd be my
                    second Monster.  Almost as famous
                    as the first.  It would be the
                    great adventure you've yearned for.
                    A war story for both of us to
                    share.

     Clay's breathing comes in quick, panicked bursts.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You'd be fully exonerated, I've
                    taken care of that.  I wrote a
                    note, I'll even leave you the
                    house, the car...

     Clay's body starts to tremble.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Do it now, Clayton.  Make me
                    invisible.

     Clay lets out a howl -- his shoulders heave and shake.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I am not your monster.

     He climbs off Whale, crawls away, his body collapsing in
     wracking, anguished sobs.  Whale opens his eyes, gazes at
     Clay.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What have I done?
                         (sits up)
                    Oh, selfish, selfish fool.  I
                    <u>have</u> lost my mind.

     He forces himself to his feet.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    What was I thinking?

     Whale picks up the towel and moves over to Clay.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    You're a softhearted bloke.  A
                    bloody pussycat.

     Whale places the towel around Clay's shoulders.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    My deepest apologies.  Can you ever
                    forgive me?

     Clay doesn't look up.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I suppose not.
                         (a bone-crushing sigh)
                    Good God, I am tired.  I really
                    must go to bed.

     Whale starts slowly down the hall.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     Whale sits on the edge of the bed, tugs the bowtie from his
     collar.  Clay taps on the door, opens it.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You okay?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Oh Clayton.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Did I hurt you?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Nothing I didn't deserve.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Need some help?

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Pray you, undo this button.

     He lifts his chin and points to his collar.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I can never manage it when I'm
                    tired.

     Clay leans in to open the button.  His face is only six
     inches from Whale's.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Do you believe people come into our
                    lives for a reason?

     Clay doesn't answer.  Whale turns, breaking their shared
     gaze.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    I can undress myself, thank you.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                         (steps back)
                    All right.

     Whale hauls his legs up and stretches out on the bed.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    When you die...be sure your brain
                    is the last organ to fizzle --

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    You'll feel better tomorrow.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Tomorrow and tomorrow and
                    tomorrow...

     Whale smiles fondly at him.

<b>                                     WHALE
</b>                    Goodnight, Clayton.

     Clay pulls the door shut and it clicks.  He stands there a
     moment.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - KITCHEN - NIGHT
</b>
     Clay shakes open a bedsheet and wraps himself in it.

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     Clay finds a pack of cigarettes on the floor and lights one,
     then sets the furniture back up.  He picks up the gas mask
     from beside the sofa, shoves it into its box.

     Clay sits in the wing-back chair, props his feet on the
     hassock, adjusting the sheet around his shoulders.  We CUT
<b>     TO:
</b>
<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BEDROOM - NIGHT
</b>
     Whale bolts up in bed.  An electrical storm flashes and
     cracks in the window.

     Whale gets out of bed, stares outside.  From his POV, the
     lawn is a barren slope covered with stumps.

     Whale turns on the desk lamp, sits.  He pulls out a piece
     of paper.

<b>     EXT. BATTLEFIELD - NIGHT
</b>
     We're back to the scene that opened the movie, a flat-topped
     creature stumbling through the mud.  A flash of lightning
     reveals Clay's face.  He turns, signals for Whale to follow
     him.  Whale joins Clay on a slight rise of ground, the rim
     of a crater.  Clay points down into it.

<b>     EXT. CRATER - NIGHT
</b>
     The crater is full of bodies gathered around a pool of
     water.  Whale stumbles down, reaches the bottom and bends
     over the nearest corpse in khaki.  It is Leonard Barnett.
     There are no wounds on his body, no rips or gaping holes.
     His eyes are closed in dreamless sleep.

     Whale looks up and sees that Clay is gone.  The only other
     living creature is an owl, which blinks wearily at him.

     Whale lies down, finding a spot next to Barnett.  He takes a
     last breath and closes his eyes.  We CUT TO:

<b>     INT. WHALE'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY
</b>
     A roar of bells blasts Clay awake.  The telephone is
     ringing.  A hard pair of shoes thunder out to answer it.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Hello?  Oh, Mr. David!

     Clay blinks at the sight of Hanna in black dress and white
     apron, chattering on the phone by the far wall.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    No, no, he did not tell me.  But no
                    problem.  I will make breakfast.

     She scoldingly cuts her eyes at Clay.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Ten?  Very good, then.  Good-bye.

     She hangs up and faces Clay with a stern frown.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    It's not what you think.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    I have brought you your clothes.
                    All I ask is that you get dressed
                    and go.  We are having a guest for
                    breakfast.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I need to talk to you about Mr.
                    Whale.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    There is nothing you can say that
                    will surprise me.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Maybe.  But I still need to talk.
                    Do I have time for a cup of coffee
                    before I go?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    I blame my daughter for keeping me
                    out so late.  I only hope you did
                    not get him excited.  It could give
                    him a new stroke.

     She stomps into the kitchen.  Clay gets up, slips on his
     undershorts.  He's zipping up his chinos when she comes out
     again with a breakfast tray.  She hands him a cup of coffee.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Thanks.
                         (quickly)
                    Why do you do it?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    What do I do?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Take care of Mr. Whale like he was
                    your flesh and blood.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    It is my job.  I did it when he was
                    happy and it was easy.  It is only
                    fair I do it now when he is ill.
                         (picks up the tray)
                    Enough talk.  I must wake up the
                    master.

     She marches around the corner towards Whale's bedroom.  Clay
     hears her knocking on a door.

<b>                                     HANNA (O.S.)
</b>                    Mr. Jimmy?  Morning, Mr. Jimmy.

     Clay pulls on his shirt.  Hanna comes back around the
     corner.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    What have you done with him?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I put him to bed.  He's not there?

     She goes to the foot of the stairs and shouts:

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Mr. Jimmy!  Mr. Jimmy!

     Hanna starts up the stairs.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Look for him!

     Clay reaches for his socks when he notices an envelope on
     the floor next to the chair.  He picks it up.  On the front
     is scrawled the word 'CLAYTON'.  Clay opens the envelope.
     Inside is Whale's original sketch of the Monster's head.  He
     turns it over.  There is a message written on the back.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    No.

     Clay drops the sketch, looks out.  He sees something.

<b>     EXT. WHALE'S HOUSE - BACKYARD - DAY
</b>
     Clay crosses the patio, hurtles down the slope.

<b>     EXT. WHALE'S HOUSE - POOL - DAY
</b>
     Clay leaps headfirst into the water.  Whale rests lightly on
     his back, with an upward sway of straight white hair.  Clay
     hauls the body toward the side.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Almost there.  Almost there.

     He gets an arm around Whale's chest and heaves the body over
     the curb.  he climbs out, drags the body forward to rest in
     the grass.  He grabs the wrist.  Nothing.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Son of a bitch.  You crazy son of a
                    bitch.

     Clay straddles Whale's thighs and applies pressure on his
     rib cage.  But it's no use.  Clay sits up and takes a deep
     breath.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Ohhh!

     Hanna comes down the path, her run slowing to a walk.  She
     stares at Clay.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I didn't do it.  This wasn't me.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Oh, Mr. Jimmy.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    He wanted me to kill him, but I
                    didn't.  He did it himself.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    He says here good-bye.  I find it
                    in his room.  He is sorry, he says.
                    He has had a wonderful life.

     She waves a folded piece of paper.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    You poor, foolish man.  You
                    couldn't wait for God to take you
                    in his time?

     Clay slowly stands up.  Hanna looks around in panic.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    You must leave.  You were not here
                    this morning.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    But I didn't do this!

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    The police will not know that.
                    They will want to investigate.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    We have his note.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Do you want to be questioned about
                    you and Mr. Jimmy?  Please,
                    Clayton.  It will be better if I
                    find the body alone.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    But how're you going to explain
                    this?
                         (points at the body)
                    How did you get him out of the
                    pool?

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    You are right.  Yes.  We must put
                    him back.

     They both hesitate, looking down at Whale.  Then Clay drags
     the body parallel with the pool.  Hanna stoops over to
     adjust the collar of Whale's shirt.

<b>                                     HANNA
</b>                    Poor Mr. Jimmy.  We do not mean
                    disrespect.  You will keep better
                    in water.

     She nods to Clay.  He rolls the body over and it splashes on
     its belly.  It bounces a moment in the waves of the splash,
     then begins to sink.  As it drops, the air in the chest
     slowly flips the body around.

     Looking up at them with open eyes, Whale sinks backward into
     the thickening light.  His arms trail upward and the hands
     lightly flutter as if waving good-bye.  The melancholy sound
     of a solo violin pierces the silence as we CUT TO:

<b>     EXT./INT. BLIND MAN'S HUT - NIGHT
</b>
     A black-and-white scene from "Bride of Frankenstein."  The
     old BLIND MAN plays a mournful lullaby on his violin while
     the MONSTER listens outside, moved by the music.  He smashes
     open the door of the hut in an effort to get closer to the
     soul-soothing sound.  The blind man stops playing, looks up.

<b>                                     BLIND MAN
</b>                    Who is it?  You're welcome, my
                    friend, whoever you are.

     The Monster attempts to communicate, manages only a
     plaintive moan.  The blind man stands.

<b>                                     BLIND MAN
</b>                    I cannot see you.  I cannot see
                    anything.  You must please excuse
                    me.  But I am blind.

     The Monster holds out his burned hands.

<b>                                     BLIND MAN
</b>                    Come in, my poor friend.  No one
                    will hurt you here.  If you're in
                    trouble, perhaps I can help you.

     The old man touches the Monster, who recoils with a
     defensive growl.

<b>                                     BLIND MAN
</b>                    Can you not speak?  It's strange.
                    Perhaps you're afflicted too.  I
                    cannot see and you cannot speak.

<b>     INT. SUBURBAN HOUSE - NIGHT (1972)
</b>
     MICHAEL BOONE, 10, lies on the living room carpet, staring
     raptly at the movie playing on the large Zenith console.
     The house is small but tidy and comfortable.

<b>                                     BLIND MAN (O.S.)
</b>                    It's been a long time since any
                    human being came into this hut.  I
                    shall look after you.  And you will
                    comfort me.

     On the tv screen, the old man starts to cry, then collapses
     onto the Monster's chest.  A thick tear rolls down the
     Monster's cheek.

     Clay Boone sits on the sofa, a baby on his lap.  He's 40
     now, his hair starting to thin but still closely cropped at
     the top and sides.

     On the tv, daylight fills the hut.  The blind man and the
     Monster share a meal.

<b>                                     BLIND MAN
</b>                    We are friends, you and I.
                    Friends.

<b>                                     MONSTER
</b>                    Friends.

<b>                                     BLIND MAN
</b>                    Before you came, I was all alone.
                    It is bad to be alone.

<b>                                     MONSTER
</b>                    Alone, bad.  Friend, good.

     He takes the old man's hand.

<b>                                     MONSTER
</b>                    Friend, good.

     The blind man nods.  On the sofa, Clay watches his son watch
     the movie.

<b>     INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT (LATER)
</b>
     A color promo for "Chiller Theater" fills the screen.  Clay
     turns off the set.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Time for bed, sport.

     Michael groans, slowly stands.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    What'd you think of the movie?

<b>                                     MICHAEL
</b>                    Pretty cool.  Better than most
                    monster movies.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    I knew the guy who made it.

     Michael glances skeptically at his father.

<b>                                     MICHAEL
</b>                    Come on, Dad.  Is this another one
                    of your stories?

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Here.

     Clay unfolds Whale's sketch of the Monster, hands it to his
     son.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    It's his original sketch of the
                    Monster.

     Michael turns over the sketch.  On the back, scrawled in
     block letters: "TO CLAYTON BOONE -- FRIEND?"

<b>                                     MICHAEL
</b>                    This is for real?

     Clay nods.  At the same time, his wife DANA appears in the
     doorway.  A pretty, cheerful woman in her mid-30s.

<b>                                     DANA
</b>                    The trash, Clay.  Before it rains.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Okay.

     Clay kisses the top of his son's head.

<b>                                     CLAY
</b>                    Off to bed.

<b>     EXT. CLAY'S HOUSE - NIGHT
</b>
     Clay carries a large metal bin down the tidy lawn.  The sky
     momentarily brightens with a silent flash of lightning.

     Clay gazes up at the electrical storm.  He glances back at
     his house, sees Dana cradling the baby in an upstairs
     window.

     The skies open with a shattering crash of thunder.  Clay
     tilts up his face, drinks in the cool rain.  Then he extends
     his arms and staggers along the sidewalk, imitating the
     Monster's famous lurch.

     We PULL BACK, revealing a sleepy neighborhood of small
     houses and neat lawns, until Clay is only a small dot in the
     landscape.

<b>     FADE OUT.
</b>



   </pre>


</pre><br>
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	<td><h1>Gods and Monsters</h1><br><br>
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    	<b>Genres</b> : &nbsp;&nbsp;<a href="/genre/Drama" title="Drama Scripts">Drama</a><br><br><br>
		
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What did Clayton do when James detailed his past sexual exploits?
What did Clayton do when James detailed his past sexual exploits ?
He stormed out and then later made him agree to never speak of his homosexuality to him again. 
He stormed out and then later made him agree to never speak of his homosexuality to him again .
He stormed out.
He stormed out .