분야
hwp By
Ed Solomon
Revisions:
Chris McQuarrie
Tom DeSanto
Bryan Singer
February 24, 1999
BLACK
Sounds of a train rolling to a halt, a shrill whistle.
EXT. CAMP - DAY
UP ON the door of a weathered cattle car as a German
soldier steps into frame wearing that familiar gray of
the all-too familiar era.
He throws the door to reveal a mass of huddled and
frightened people inside.
The words are not necessary. The language is not ours
and the images say enough.
Men, women and children are herded off the train like
cattle toward a large open yard. There they huddle until
the Germans begin to shout and shove through the mob.
EXT. FENCE CORRIDOR - DAY
We are looking up at rows and rows of fences topped with
barbed wire all designed to create a separator for the
thousands of Jew who pour through each day.
Then we see the eyes themselves that look up at them.
A LITTLE BOY. A boy who will not die this day. A boy
who will live to see the end of the war and the world of
the future.
He stares at the metal wire with an unusual fascination.
The boy looks up at HIS WORRIED PARENTS - a sturdy-
looking couple who try to smile and comfort him.
The corridor comes to a junction where it splits in
several different directions.
Soldiers here push the mob using rifles as pikes,
screaming and terrorizing the lot of them. Suddenly it
is clear what they are doing. They are dividing the mob
into smaller groups.
Soon, the groups themselves become evident.
Men from women. Children from adults.
The family tries to stay together, clinging to one
another dearly, until finally, they are put upon by a
number of gray uniforms and pulled apart. The boy is
dragged screaming his feet no longer touching the ground.
Two soldiers carry him as they follow the back of a large
column of children being led through a gate of barbed
wire so dense, it resembles wool.
The gate closes and the boy looks back to see his parents
- along with many others - being restrained by a number
of soldiers. The screaming is deafening.
And the boys can be heard above it all. The soldiers
seem to be having a hard time carrying such a frail
child. The farther they get from the fence, the heavier
he seems to get, until they are literally pulling him as
though he were anchored to something.
His outstretched fingers claw at the thin air and he
screams until the blood in his face is blue.
The soldiers are literally pulled back a step and they
begin to slip in the mud. They look at one another and
then over their shoulders as they hear a sound.
A groaning, creaking sound. And then the unmistakable
twang of wire stretched to snapping.
ANGLE ON:
The fence. The gate that separates the parents. It bows
toward them like iron filings to a magnet, and several of
the strands of barbed wire have given way.
The boy continues to scream as all the other faces simply
freeze and wonder.
One of the soldiers pulls a wooden baton from his belt
and brains the boy violently.
He slumps and the soldiers carrying him spring forward as
through a rope that was holding them back has been cut.
They nearly fall, looking at one another with some
concern, some confusion....
Then they follow the line of children that has gotten
ahead of them.
ANGLE ON:
The boys parents watch him as he -- as they, are taken
away.
The rest of their story is as you would expect.
EXT. SKY - DAY
Bright, bright blue framing a blinding white sun.
PAN DOWN AGAIN TO REVEAL:
The cracked, drought-stricken soil of nowhere.
TITLES:
KENYA - 1978
A group of children at play. Tribal children who,
without the help of the titles, could be from any age.
They run through a tiny village of tents, playing. Every
child holds a long reed-like stick and they chase each
other playing their version of tag.
As each child is tapped, they chase the others. Each
trying to avoid being "it", though never going far enough
away to miss the fun.
One girl in particular. A PRETTY GIRL OF 12, with
unusual white hair, is tagged and immediately shunned.
She chases kids this way and that, but to no avail. She
is not strong enough, nor agile enough, to win.
She tumbles and lands on her stick, snapping it. She
stands and, when the children see that her stick is
broken, they begin to giggle.
The giggles become laughter and the laughter becomes a
taunt, and before we even realize, the inherent cruelty
of children let loose becomes evident.
They have now formed a circle, at first avoiding her
touch with distance, but now growing tighter with menace.
In the unspoken manner of children at prey, the group
begins to chant in their native tongue - a song we have
not heard but sung in a way none-too inviting. They
begin to poke at her with the reeds, driving her back.
The girl now moves to the center of the circle, no longer
wishing to tag anyone.
ONE DEVIOUS CHILD seems to get an idea. He takes his
stick and smacks it across her shoulder. She turns to
face the child and another swings his stick across her
back with a solid THWACK. Before long, mob rule gives
way and all the kids