THE HUDSUCKER PROXY
"THE HUDSUCKER PROXY"
Written by
Ethan Coen, Joel Coen, and Sam Raimi
September 1992 Draft
BLACK
No image. A bleak WIND MOANS. HOLD.
With a STINGING CHORD we --
CUT TO:
CITY SKYLINE - NIGHT (CIRCA 1958)
Lights twinkle. Snow falls. The WIND MOANS.
After a beat, the voice of an elderly black man:
NARRATOR (V.O.)
The's right... New York.
We are TRACKING HIGH THROUGH the night sky. From the streets
far below we hear the sounds of TRAFFIC muffled by the falling
snow, and the DISTANT sound of many VOICES SINGING.
We are DRIFTING AMONG the buildings; the tops of skyscrapers
slip by left and right.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
It's 1958 -- anyway, for a few mo'
minutes it is. Come midnight it's
gonna be 1959. A whole 'nother
feelin'. The New Year. The future...
The SINGING, a little MORE AUDIBLE, but still not close, is
"Auld Lang Syne."
NARRATOR (V.O.)
...Yeah ole daddy Earth fixin' to
start one mo' trip 'round the sun,
an' evvybody hopin' this ride 'round
be a little mo' giddy, a little mo'
gay...
We are MOVING IN TOWARDS a particular skyscraper. At its top
is a large illuminated clock.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
Yep...
We hear a SERIES OF POPPING sounds.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
...All over town champagne corks is
a-poppin'.
A big band WALTZ MIXES UP on the track.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
...Over in the Waldorf the big shots
is dancin' to the strains of Guy
Lombardo... Down in Times Square the
little folks is a-watchin' and a-
waitin' fo' that big ball to drop...
The LOMBARDO MUSIC gives way to the CHANTING of a distant
CROWD: "Sixty! Fifty-nine! Fifty-eight!"
NARRATOR (V.O.)
...They all tryin' to catch holt a
one moment of time...
The CHANTING has MIXED back DOWN AGAIN TO leave only the
WIND. Still TRACKING IN TOWARD the top of the skyscraper, we
begin to hear the TICK of its enormous CLOCK. The clock reads
a minute to twelve. Above it, in neon, a company's name:
"HUDSUCKER INDUSTRIES." Below it, in neon, the company's
motto: "THE FUTURE IS NOW."
NARRATOR (V.O.)
...to be able to say -- 'Right now!
This is it! I got it!' 'Course by
then it'll be past.
(more cheerfully)
But they all happy, evvybody havin'
a good time.
We are MOVING IN ON a darkened penthouse window next to the
clock. The window starts to open.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
...Well, almost evvybody. They's a
few lost souls floatin' 'round out
there...
A young man is crawling out of the window onto the ledge.
With the opening of the window, "AULD LANG SYNE" filters out
with greater volume.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
...This one's Norville Barnes.
The man gingerly straightens up on the ledge. He is perhaps
in his late twenties. He wears a leather apron. Printed on
the apron: "HUDSUCKER MAIL ROOM/The Future is Now."
He looks with nervous determination into the void.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
...Let's move in for a closer look.
The CAMERA obliges. We TRACK IN SLOWLY, ENDING VERY CLOSE.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
...That office he jes stepped out of
is the office of the president of
Hudsucker Industries. It's his
office...
Norville sways in anguish as the TICKING of the CLOCK grows
louder and the WIND blows in his face.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
...How'd he get so high? An' why is
he feelin' so low? Is he really gonna
do it -- is Norville really gonna
jelly up the sidewalk?
Norville is tensing his body, peering out over the ledge,
preparing to make a swan dive into oblivion -- but the
CAMERA'S continued MOVEMENT is LOSING him FROM FRAME.
We are MOVING IN ON the enormous CLOCK, whose MECHANICAL
THRUM becomes very loud indeed.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
...Well the future, that's something
you can't never tell about...
The second hand of the clock is nearing the twelve -- bare
seconds to midnight. Distant CHANTING from Times Square MIXES
UP: "Nine! Eight! Seven!"
NARRATOR (V.O.)
...But the past... That's another
story...
OVER BLACK
The HUM of the CLOCK SINKS UNDER the HISS of an AIRBRAKE and
GRINDING GEARS as we...
CUT TO:
DESTINATION DISPLAY
On the front of a bus just rocking to a halt. The display
says "MUNCIE-NEW YORK."
LINE OF BAGS
is being set out on the pavement. A man with the cuffs of a
redcap uniform swings one into the f.g.:
It has a sticker on it: CLASS OF '58, and below an
illustration of crossed right and left hands, their thumbs
hooked and fingers spread like wings: MUNCIE COLLEGE OF
BUSINESS ADMINISTRATION.
After a beat the hand of its claimant ENTERS to pick it up.
DISSOLVE TO:
STREET
FOLLOWING the bag as its owner carries it down the street.
He pauses, sets it down.
YOUNG MAN
Fresh-faced, eager -- NORVILLE BARNES. He is gazing off at:
WESSELS EMPLOYMENT AGENCY
The sign is over a ground floor office; an exterior clock
shows 9:00. A curtain is just being pulled open in its picture
window to reveal a great job board. It is like the departures
board in a great train station, with each of its individual
entries flipping over occasionally to reveal a new
opportunity. On offer are jobs like: PASTRY CHEF, STEAMFITTER,
LAY-OUT MAN, GRAVEDIGGER, etc.
REVERSE
On the small crowd gathered to, like Norville, watch the
board -- men in search of jobs, of various classes and
vocations, but alike in their intent gaze, their hands dug
into their pockets, their hats pushed back on their heads,
bobbing occasionally to get a better view of the chattering
board. Men occasionally head for the office as they see a
prospect they like.
Norville stands pat, watching.
HIS POV
An entry flips over to reveal EXECUTIVE VICE PRESIDENT.
NORVILLE
He brightens.
BOARD
We PAN ALONG the executive entry to EXPERIENCE REQUIRED.
NORVILLE
He frowns.
Around him, the crowd is thinning out as men trot in to apply
for their respective jobs.
We see other entries: JUNIOR EXECUTIVE. PAN TO EXPERIENCE
ONLY. EXECUTIVE MANAGER... MUST HAVE EXPERIENCE.
BUSINESSMAN... EXPERIENCED.
The CROSS-CUTTING ENDS in a wash of SUPER-IMPOSITIONS PANNING
OVER Norviille, now alone on the sidewalk:
EXPERIENCED ONLY... EXPERIENCED... EXPERIENCED...
EXPERIENCED...
CUT TO:
CLOSE SHOT - EXECUTIVE
A middle-aged, mousy-looking man in a conservative suit and
wire-rimmed spectacles is addressing his remarks to someone
O.S. Behind the Executive we see only the skyline of New
York City.
EXECUTIVE
-- So in the third quarter we saw no
signs of weakening. We're up 18
percent over last year's third quarter
gross and, needless to say, that's a
new record...
TRACKING
DOWN the LENGTH OF the board room table. Executives line
either side. We are APPROACHING the man at the far end of
the table, to whom the report is being directed.
He is late middle-aged, dressed expensively but
conservatively, his attention smilingly fixed on the Executive
who drones on.
EXECUTIVE
...The competition continues to flag
and we continue to take up the slack.
Market share in most divisions is
increasing and we've opened seven
new regional offices...
The TRACK has ENDED IN a CLOSEUP of the man at the end of
the table, who still smiles benignantly at the droning
Executive. The smile is serene, almost otherwordly.
This is WARING HUDSUCKER.
REPORTING EXECUTIVE
He drones on.
EXECUTIVE
...Our international division has
also shown vigorous upward movement
in the past six months and we're
looking at some exciting things in
R&D...
The CAMERA SLOWLY PANS OFF the droning Executive as the big
man's attention apparently wanders; we FRAME UP ON the picture
window skyline of New York.
EXECUTIVE (V.O.)
Sub-franchising. Don't talk to me
about sub-franchising; we're making
so much money in sub-franchising it
isn't even funny.
FOLDED-BACK WANT ADS
A hand with pencil goes down a list of positions, ticking
each one: STREETSWEEPER -- EXPERIENCED; LINOTYPE MAN --
EXPERIENCED; CANTOR (REFORM) -- EXPERIENCED; SPARRING PARTNER --
EXPERIENCED.
WIDER
Norville, sitting at a coffeeshop counter, sets the pencil
down. His chin is sunk disconsolately into his palm.
His hat is pushed back dejectedly on his head. He idly stirs
his coffee with his spoon.
He takes one last gulp of the coffee, then sets the cup down
on the want ads, stands, and digs into his pocket for change,
turning it inside-out.
CLOSE ON COUNTER
As Norville puts all his change on the counter. His hand
hesitates; he takes a little of it back. He LEAVES FRAME.
A waitress's hand ENTERS from the far side of the counter.
She clears away the saucer, then the cup -- which has been
resting on the want ads. It leaves a perfect brown circle
around one entry:
THE FUTURE IS NOW.
Start building yours at Hudsucker Industries.
Low pay. Long Hours.
NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY.
Apply Personnel, 285 Madison Avenue.
As we hear the COFFEESHOP DOOR OPENING O.S., a draft wafts
the sheet of newspaper off the counter and OUT OF FRAME.
NEW YORK CITY SKYLINE
Again LOOKING THROUGH the WINDOW as, O.S., the reporting
Executive drones on.
EXECUTIVE (O.S.)
...Our owned-and-operateds are
performing far above expectations
both here and abroad, and the Federal
Tax Act of 1958 is giving us a swell
writeoff on our plant and heavies...
WARING HUDSUCKER
looks dreamily out the window. His attention returns to the
droning Executive and the benignant smile returns to his
lips.
EXECUTIVE
...The news in the money market isn't
good -- it's excellent...
CUT TO:
NORVILLE'S BACK
He walks dejectedly down the street, hands shoved into his
pockets.
A sheet of newspaper eddies INTO FRAME. The wind tosses it
this way and that.
Slap! -- It plasters against another pedestrian, who bats it
away.
The newspaper eddies around some more, then plasters against
Norville.
He peels it off and is about to toss it away but stops,
noticing something.
NEWSPAPER SCRAP
It is a section of the want ads. One entry is perfectly
circled by a coffee stain.
BACK TO NORVILLE
He looks up from the paper. There is purpose in his gaze.
Wind whips his hair.
CUT TO:
CLOSE SHOT - WARING HUDSUCKER
As the Executive drones on, O.S., Hudsucker is carefully
winding his wristwatch.
EXECUTIVE (O.S.)
...Our nominees and assigns continue
to multiply and expand extending our
influence regionally, nationally and
globally. So, third quarter and year-
to-date, we've set a new record for
sales...
Hudsucker looks up from his watch, smiles, runs his palms
back over his fringe of hair.
EXECUTIVE (O.S.)
...new record in gross...
Hudsucker pulls his sleeve cuffs to expose just the right
amount under the suit.
EXECUTIVE (O.S.)
...new record in pre-tax earnings...
Hudsucker takes one puff from his cigar and carefully sets
it in his ashtray.
EXECUTIVE (O.S.)
...new record in after-tax profit...
He deliberately unstraps his wristwatch and looks at its
face.
The sweep second hand is starting the last revolution that
will end at precisely noon.
EXECUTIVE (O.S.)
...and our stock has split twice
this year...
Hudsucker lays the watch carefully on the table.
EXECUTIVE (O.S.)
...In short...
Savoring a pause, the Executive looks around the board table.
EXECUTIVE
...we're loaded.
This draws an appreciative chuckle from the board. It is cut
off by:
HUDSUCKER
Ahem...
The board turns expectantly to Hudsucker, who sits in the
f.g. Beyond him is the length of the board table and the
large picture window. He rises to his feet, slowly and
deliberately, and rubs his palms together.
He swings his chair out.
He steps up onto the chair.
The board stares.
He steps up from the chair onto the board table.
The heads of the board members swing up in unison.
Hudsucker is FRAMED FROM MID-TORSO DOWN. He shakes the tension
loose from each leg, then waggles both arms dangling at his
sides, like an athlete preparing for a sprint.
EXECUTIVE
...Mr. Hudsucker?
CLOSE ON WANT ADS
THE CIRCLED AD
THE FUTURE IS NOW.
Start building yours at Hudsucker Industries.
Low pay. Long Hours.
NO EXPERIENCED NECESSARY.
Apply Personnel, 285 Madison Avenue.
The hand holding the paper DROPS AWAY and we TILT UP, as
Norville walks AWAY FROM us into the b.g., towards the office
building across the street. Its street number tops its
imposing entryway in large gilt letters: 285.
We continue TILTING UP the length of the skyscraper, to reveal
a huge clock capping its facade. Above the clock is the
identification "HUDSUCKER INDUSTRIES." Below the clock is
the motto "THE FUTURE IS NOW."
The huge clock's sweep second hand is just approaching the
position that will make the time 12:00 sharp.
ANOTHER ANGLE
As the second hand hits the twelve, the CLOCK TOLLS, the
board room WINDOW SHATTERS and Waring Hudsucker comes flying
out.
HUDSUCKER
Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh...
SECRETARIAL AREA
Somewhere in the Hudsucker Building. A secretary sits typing
next to an open window, finished pages sitting stacked beside
her. As we hear ANOTHER TOLL of the CLOCK.
HUDSUCKER
...aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh...
As Hudsucker shoots past the window, his draft sends the
stack of papers wafting this way and that. As the secretary
turns to look out the window, FREEZE FRAME (wafting papers
have their motion arrested) and SUPER A TITLE.
TRACKING
WITH Hudsucker, the building slipping by behind him. As he
yells he calmly runs his palms back over his fringe of hair.
The CLOCK TOLLS.
FREEZE FRAME and SUPER A TITLE.
HOT DOG VENDOR
on the street, handing a steaming frank to a customer who is
handing him some change. As we hear the APPROACHING HUDSUCKER,
both men look up. As the CLOCK TOLLS:
FREEZE FRAME and SUPER A TITLE.
PASSERBY ON SIDEWALK
The man, wearing a fedora, is in the f.g. of an EXTREME LOW
ANGLE whose b.g. is the bottom three or four stories of the
Hudsucker Building.
The passerby reacts to the approaching yell, looking up just
as Hudsucker ENTERS FRAME.
FREEZE FRAME to suspend Hudsucker a good twenty feet above
the sidewalk, arms and legs splayed, comically arrested. The
passerby is frozen in an attitude of surprise and disbelief.
SUPER the title of the film: THE HUDSUCKER PROXY.
UNFREEZE to send Hudsucker plummeting THROUGH the FRAME to
his rendezvous with the sidewalk, BELOW FRAME.
DUTCH ANGLE
The Hudsucker Building lists up into the distance. A woman
in a fancy fruited hat with a black veil rises INTO FRAME AT
an OPPOSING SLANT. Looking down at the sidewalk, she sends
two dismayed hands to her cheek and screeeeeeeeeams.
DISSOLVE THROUGH TO:
EXT. TOP FLOOR
With the LAST TOLL of the CLOCK punctuating the CUT, we are
FLOATING IN TOWARDS the shattered board room window.
The woman's SCREAM on the street below is FAINT, ECHOING,
MIXING INTO the sound of an APPROACHING SIREN.
THROUGH the window we see the BOARD MEMBERS still sitting
around the table, paralyzed in attitudes of horror and
disbelief. All stare at the shattered window in the f.g.
At the far end of the table, Hudsucker's chair is empty and
oddly askew. His cigar still smokes in its ashtray.
There are dust footprints down the middle of the long oak
table.
One Executive sits with a pluming cigarette held halfway to
his mouth; another holds a carafe suspended on its way to
his water glass; another holds his spectacles inches from
his nose.
We hear only the HUM of the HUDSUCKER CLOCK.
SID MUSSBURGER ENTERS FRAME at the window. He is a tall middle-
aged executive with lean and rugged good looks and a
commanding presence.
He knocks a last piece of glass out of the sill with his
knuckle, looks out, grunts, and draws his head back in.
The CAMERA FOLLOWS him INTO the room. The other board members'
heads swivel to watch him, all staring, searching desperately
for some hint as to the fate of their fallen leader.
Apparently, some absurd hope still lingers.
Mussburger perches on the board table by his own chair.
He reaches over to pluck the smoking cigar from the suicide's
ashtray.
MUSSBURGER
Pity to waste a whole Monte Cristo.
The other board members unfreeze, their worst fears confirmed.
AN EXECUTIVE
He could've opened the window.
ELDERLY EXECUTIVE
Waring Hudsucker never did anything
the easy way.
ADDISON
My God, why?! Why did he do it?!
Things were going so well!
MUSSBURGER
What am I a headshrinker? Maybe the
man was unhappy.
ADDISON
He didn't look unhappy!
EXECUTIVE
Yeah, well, he didn't look rich.
ELDERY EXECUTIVE
Waring Hudsucker was never an easy
man to figure out.
(reminiscing)
He built this company with his bare
hands. Every step he took was a step
up. Except of course this last one.
MUSSBURGER
Sure, sure, he was a swell guy, but
when the president, chairman of the
board and holder of eighty-seven
percent of the company's stock drops
forty-four floors --
PRECISE EXECUTIVE
Forty-five --
ELDERY EXECUTIVE
Counting the mezzanine --
MUSSBURGER
-- Then the company has a problem.
Stillson, what exactly is the
disposition of Waring's stock?
STILLSON
Well, as you know, Hud left no will
and had no family. The company bylaws
are quite clear in that event. His
entire portfolio will be converted
to common stock and will be sold
over the counter as of the first of
the fiscal year following his demise.
MUSSBURGER
Meaning?
STILLSON
Meaning simply that Waring's stock,
and control of the company, will be
available to the public on January
first.
MUSSBURGER
You mean to tell me that any slob in
a smelly T-shirt will be able to buy
Hudsucker stock?
Stillson shrugs.
STILLSON
The company bylaws are quite clear.
ADDISON
My God! You're animals! How can you
discuss his stock when the man has
just leapt forty-five floors --
PRECISE EXECUTIVE
Forty-four --
ELDERLY EXECUTIVE
-- Not counting the mezzanine.
MUSSBURGER
Quit showboating, Addison, the man
is gone. The question now is whether
we're going to let John Q. Public
waltz in and buy 87 percent of our
company.
PIPE-SMOKING EXECUTIVE
What're you suggesting, Sidney?
Certainly we can't afford to buy a
controlling interest.
MUSSBURGER
Not while the stock is this strong.
How long before Hud's paper hits the
market?
STILLSON
January first.
AN EXECUTIVE
Thirty days.
ANOTHER EXECUTIVE
Four weeks.
ADDISON
A month at the most.
MUSSBURGER
One month to make the blue-chip
investment of the century look like
a round-trip ticket on the Titanic.
AN EXECUTIVE
We play up the fact that Hud is dead.
ALL
(in unison)
Long live the Hud!!
ANOTHER EXECUTIVE
We depress the stock --
YET ANOTHER EXECUTIVE
-- to the point where we can buy
fifty-percent.
PRECISE EXECUTIVE
Fifty-one.
ELDERLY EXECUTIVE
Not counting the mezzanine.
CAUTIOUS EXECUTIVE
It could work.
OPTIMISTIC EXECUTIVE
It should work.
PRACTICAL EXECUTIVE
It would work.
MUSSBURGER
(at ticker tape machine)
It's working already. Waring Hudsucker
is abstract art on Madison Avenue.
All we need now is a new president
who will inspire real panic in our
stockholders.
ENTHUSIASTIC EXECUTIVE
Yeah, a puppet!
ANOTHER EXECUTIVE
A proxy!
YET ANOTHER EXECUTIVE
A pawn!
Mussburger strides across the room from the still CHATTERING
TICKER TAPE MACHINE and lowers himself into Waring Hudsucker's
chair. He takes a last puff from his cigar and slowly exhales
a cloud of smoke.
MUSSBURGER
Sure, sure. Some jerk we can really
push around.
CUT TO:
SWINGING STEEL DOORS
that read, "MAILROOM." They burst open as Norville, who wears
a mail clerk's leather apron, imprinted: HUDSUCKER
MAILROOM/The Future is Now. The hellish mailroom is criss-
crossed by pipes that emit HISSING jets of STEAM.
As he wheels a piled-high mail cart down the aisle, Norville
is accompanied by an orientation AGENT who bellows at him
over the clamor and roar of many men laboring in the bowels
of a great corporation.
AGENT
You punch in at 8:30 every morning
except you punch in at 7:30 following
a business holiday unless it's a
Monday and then you punch in at eight
o'clock! You punch in at 7:45
whenever we work extended day and
you punch out at the regular time
unless you've worked through lunch!
NORVILLE
What's exte --
AGENT
Punch in late and they dock ya!
People on either side bellow at Norville and stuff envelopes
and packages under his elbows, into his pockets, under his
chin, between his clenched teeth, etc.
FIRST SCREAMER
This goes to seven! Mr. Mutuszak!
Urgent!
AGENT
Incoming articles, get a voucher!
Outgoing articles, provide a voucher!
Move any article without a voucher
and they dock ya!
SECOND SCREAMER
Take this up to the secretarial pool
on three! Right away! Don't break
it!
AGENT
Letter size a green voucher! Folder
size a yellow voucher! Parcel size a
maroon voucher!
THIRD SCREAMER
This one's for Morgatross! Chop chop!
AGENT
Wrong color voucher and they dock
ya! Six-seven-eight-seven-zero-four-
niner-alpha-slash-six! That is your
employee number! It will not be
repeated! Without your employee number
you cannot cash your paycheck!
FOURTH SCREAMER
This goes up to twenty-seven! If
there's no one there bring it down
to eighteen! Have 'em sign the waiver!
DON'T COME BACK DOWN HERE WITHOUT A
SIGNED WAIVER!!
AGENT
Inter-office mail is code 37! INTRA-
office mail is 37-dash-3! Outside
mail is 3-dash 37! Code it wrong and
they dock ya!
FIFTH SCREAMER
I was supposed to have this on twenty-
eight ten minutes ago! Cover for me!
AGENT
This has been your orientation! Is
there anything you do not understand?
Is there anything you understand
only partially? If you have not been
fully oriented -- if there is
something you do not understand in
all of its particulars you must file
a complaint with personnel! File a
faulty complaint... and they dock
ya!
CUT TO:
NORVILLE
standing in front of a shelf of cubbyholes. As we FOLLOW his
hand drawing an 8 X 10 envelope across the line of
alphabetized mail slots. The envelope is addressed to Max
Kloppitt, Jr.
NORVILLE
(muttering to himself)
...Bring it down to fif(?)...
fifteen... sign the voucher, uh,
waiver... cover for Mr. Anatole...
he's a swell guy... Morgatross...
He was on, uh...
He is COASTING ACROSS the "K" mail slots, finally COMES TO
Max Kloppitt, Sr. His hand moves to the next slot, Max
Kloppitt, Jr. This slot is half the size of all the others.
The envelope will not fit in.
He frowns.
He is about to fold the envelope, but notices something
stamped in red on its face. DO NOT FOLD.
Norville frowns. As he stares at the envelope, we see
envelopes swishing across the f.g., whipping one by one in
rapid succession, left to right.
CLOSEUP - ANCIENT SORTER
An old man sitting at the adjacent shelf, sorting mail.
Without ever even looking up, with a constant high-speed
back and forth flicking of his right hand, he is whisking
pieces of mail one by one out of the pile of mail in his
left hand.
ANCIENT SORTER'S SHELF
As his letters fly furiously but neatly into their mail slots.
NORVILLE
He raises his voice over the mailroom din:
NORVILLE
Say, what do you do when the envelope
is too big for the slot?
The ANCIENT SORTER considers this as he continues whisking
his mail.
ANCIENT SORTER
Well... if ya fold 'em, they fire
ya...
Whisk. Whisk. Whisk.
ANCIENT SORTER
...I usually throw 'em out.
Norville takes out a pencil and writes on the face of the
envelope:
INSERT - LETTER
Dear Mr. Kloppit, Please give this letter to your son. Thank
you, Norville Barnes.
After a moment he adds:
Your friend in the mailroom.
BACK TO SCENE
NORVILLE
(talking as he writes)
Just got hired today!
ANCIENT SORTER
Terrific.
NORVILLE
Ya know, entry level!
ANCIENT SORTER
Tell me about it.
NORVILLE
I got big ideas, though!
ANCIENT SORTER
I'm sure you do.
NORVILLE
For instance, take a look at this
sweet baby...
Norville is taking an envelope from his pocket and handing
it to the Ancient Sorter.
NORVILLE
...you look like you can keep a
secret...
The Ancient Sorter is pulling a ragged piece of paper from
the envelope. On the paper is a crudely-drawn circle.
NORVILLE
...Something I developed myself.
Yessir, this is my ticket upstairs.
The Ancient Sorter looks questioningly from the circle to
Norville.
NORVILLE
(explains)
...You know, for kids!
The Ancient Sorter nods with feigned understanding as Norville
takes the paper back.
ANCIENT SORTER
Terrific.
NORVILLE
So ya see, I won't be in the mailroom
long.
ANCIENT SORTER
(deadpan)
Nooo, I don't guess you will be.
He resumes his sorting.
NORVILLE
How long've you been down here?
ANCIENT SORTER
Forty-eight years...
Whisk. Whisk.
ANCIENT SORTER
...Next year they move me up to
parcels...
Whisk. Whisk. Whisk.
ANCIENT SORTER
...If I'm lucky.
A BELL CLANGS.
The PUBLIC ADDRESS SYSTEM SPUTTERS to life.
PUBLIC ADDRESS SYSTEM (V.O.)
Attention Hudsucker employees. We
regretfully announce that at 12:01
this afternoon, Hudsucker time, Waring
Hudsucker, Founder, President, and
Chairman of the Board of Hudsucker
Industries, merged with the infinite.
To mark this occasion of corporate
loss, we ask that all employees
observe a moment of silent
contemplation.
All HUBBUB ABRUPTLY STOPS and the sounds of HEAVY MACHINERY,
HISSING STEAM PIPES, and GENERATORS WIND DOWN TO leave total
SILENCE. After a moment:
PUBLIC ADDRESS SYSTEM (V.O.)
...Thank you for your kind attention.
This moment has been duly-noted on
your time cards and will be deducted
from your pay. That is all.
The MACHINERY GROANS back INTO ACTION and the people return
to their jobs just as:
A STEAM WHISTLE SCREECHES.
ALARM BELLS go OFF.
From the PUBLIC ADDRESS SYSTEM:
PUBLIC ADDRESS SYSTEM (V.O.)
'Blue letter! Blue letter!'
The mail room is thrown into pandemonium.
VARIOUS VOICES
Blue letter...! It's a blue letter...!
They're bringing down a blue letter!
One MAN spins to face the CAMERA, his hands pressed over his
ears. STEAM JETS and HISSES behind him.
MAN
Blue letter!!
Animated for the first time:
ANCIENT SORTER
Jumpin' Jehosephat, a blue letter!
Mail carts and other paraphernalia are abruptly swept out of
the crowded aisle to form a clear path running down to an
elevator in the b.g.
With a SIREN SOUND, a light above the elevator goes on.
The elevator door sweeps open. It reveals a wall into which
a four-foot high hinged door is set.
This door swings open and an old dwarf emerges: Old man
HUTCHINSON, the boss of the mailroom. He emerges from the
blinding light of the interior of the elevator.
He is holding aloft a letter.
He takes loping drawf strides down the aisle.
CLOSEUP - LETTER
TRACKING ON letter as Hutchinson bears it along. In the b.g.,
the faces that the letter passes are agog.
CROSSCUT the approaching blue letter WITH: Norville and the
Ancient Sorter.
BACK TO SCENE
The Ancient Sorter is leaning over to whisper into Norville's
ear.
ANCIENT SORTER
It's a blue letter... top, top
level... confidential communication
between the brass... usually bad
news... they hate blue letters
upstairs... Hate 'em!
Norville gulps.
HUTCHINSON
You!
Norville looks over his shoulder, but the Ancient Sorter has
disappeared.
HUTCHINSON
...Yeah, you! Barnes!
As he points, the people around Norville shrink away.
HUTCHINSON
...You don't look busy! Think you
can handle a blue letter?
(laughs sadistically)
...This letter was sent down this
morning by the big guy himself! 'At's
right, Waring Hudsucker! It's
addressed to Sid Mussburger!
Hudsucker's right-hand man! It's a
blue letter! That means you put it
right in Mussburger's hand. No
secretaries! No receptionists! No
colleagues! No excuses!
DRAMATIC TRACK IN ON Norville. As Hutchinson talks, he thrusts
the blue letter into Norville's face. Norville looks at it
with terrific apprehension. As Hutchinson's speech ends, we
are TIGHT ON Norville's sweating face.
COMPLEMENTARY TIGHT DUTCH ANGLE ON HUTCHINSON
We can see the veins in his eyes, the veins in his nose, the
hairs in his ears.
HUTCHINSON
Mussburger!!
CUT TO:
ELEVATOR DOORS
ROCKETING OPEN. We MOVE IN ON the young elevator operator
who leers INTO CAMERA. He wears a brass-buttoned uniform,
white gloves and a pillbox hat. The name BUZZ is stitched
onto his breast pocket.
As Norville enters the elevators:
BUZZ
Hiya, buddy! The name is Buzz, I got
the fuzz...
He lifts his pillbox hat to reveal a white crewcut, then
lets the elastic chin strap snap the cap back down onto his
head.
BUZZ
...I make the elevator do what she
duzz!
He holds out his hand but as Norville reaches to shake it he
snaps it away and pats down his crewcut:
BUZZ
...Hang it up to dry.
He cackles and powers the ELEVATOR into GEAR. Norville's
knees buckle under a huge upward surge; Buzz is accustomed
to it.
BUZZ
...What's your pleasure, buddy?
NORVILLE
(regaining his balance)
Forty-fourth floor, and it's very --
BUZZ
Forty-four, the top brass floor say,
buddy! What takes fifty years to get
up to the top floor and thirty seconds
to get down?
NORVILLE
I --
BUZZ
Waring Hudsucker! Na-ha-ha-ha-ha!
Say, buddy!
With a powerful DOWN-SHIFTING SOUND, Buzz brakes the elevator
to a sharp halt. Norville continues upward with the inertia,
painfully smacking his head against a corner of the elevator.
Buzz opens the door and a couple of people enter.
BUZZ
Mr. Kline, up to nine. Mrs. Dell,
personnel. Mr. Levin, thirty-seven.
MR. LEVIN
Thirty-six.
BUZZ
Walk down. Ladies and gentlemen,
step to the rear; here comes
gargantuan Mr. Grier.
An obese MAN enters, smoking a cigar:
FAT MAN
Buzz.
Buzz has already thrown the doors shut and sent the elevator
into its power-rise. Norville, bracing himself now, sinks
only a little under the G-force.
BUZZ
Say, buddy! Who's the most liquid
businessman on the street?
NORVILLE
Well, I --
BUZZ
Waring Hudsucker! Na-ha-ha-ha-ha!
Say, buddy! When is the sidewalk
fully dressed? When it's 'wearing'
Hudsucker! Na-ha-ha-ha!
He turns to look at Norville.
BUZZ
...Ya get it, buddy, it's a pun,
it's a knee-slapper, it's a play on
Jesus, Joseph and Mary, is that a
blue letter?!
All heads in the elevator turn, aghast, to look, and those
near Norville shrink away.
BUZZ
...Cripes a'mighty, whyn't ya tell a
guy?! Hold on, folks, we're express
to the top floor!
The ELEVATOR SCREAMS into overdrive and we:
CUT TO:
ELEVATOR DOORS
Sweeping open. Norville staggers out.
BUZZ
(hissing)
Good luck, buddy!
The door sweeps shut. Norville looks nervously around.
Behind him the elevator doors suddenly open again.
BUZZ
-- You'll need it!
The elevator doors slam shut and we hear its ENGINES SCREAM
as it power-dives away.
Norville turns toward the executive offices.
Plush, thick-carpeted silence.
Norville starts walking.
A SCRAPING SOUND stands out in the high-powered executive
quiet. Norville looks to one side.
A workman in painter's overalls squats in front of a pair of
heavy oak doors. With a razor blade he is scraping off the
name "WARING HUDSUCKER."
NORVILLE
...Mr. Mussburger's office?
The scraper looks sullenly over his shoulder at Norville.
With a jerk of his thumb he indicates the direction.
Norville enters the adjacent office.
OUTER OFFICE
Two secretaries are in Mussburger's outer reception office.
The first is a filing secretary who stands frozen in the
f.g., her hand poised over an open drawer to deposit a folder,
as she stares at Norville with an amused and supercilious
sneer which stays pasted on throughout.
The second secretary -- the RECEPTIONIST -- is seated behind
a desk in the b.g. that flanks the door to Mussburger's
private office. The Receptionist sits with her hands clasped
on the desk, staring at Norville with the hunch-shouldered
down-from-under look of a patient vulture.
RECEPTIONIST
Do you have an appointment?
NORVILLE
Uhh, no, I --
The filing secretary sneers.
RECEPTIONIST
Shall we look in the book, hmmmmmmmmm?
She opens an enormous leather-bound book with yellowed crinkly
pages.
NORVILLE
No, ma'am, ya see, I wouldn't be in
the --
RECEPTIONIST
We don't seem to be in the boooook.
Norville is groping in his apron pocket.
NORVILLE
No, ma'am, ya see I don't have an --
RECEPTIONIST
If we had an appointment we'd be in
the booook.
NORVILLE
I know but ya see I have this --
here it is, this letter --
A low, unearthly WAIL fills the room, the sound of a million
souls moaning in purgatory.
The Receptionist looks up.
FAST TRACK IN ON SNEERING FILE SECRETARY
who is no longer sneering. Her mouth is stretched wide as
she wails and her finger points...
FAST TRACK IN ON BLUE LETTER
that Norville holds innocently at his side.
BACK TO TRACK IN ON WAILING SECRETARY
As her wail becomes deafening and we TRACK INTO her mouth
and the SCREEN GOES BLACK and:
CLICK
The blackness and the wailing are both cut short by the sound
of a DOOR OPENING. We are:
INT. MUSSBURGER'S OFFICE
its door swinging open to admit Norville.
In the b.g., in the outer office, we can see the filing
secretary leaning back motionless in a chair with a damp rag
draped across her forehead. The Receptionist is fanning her
with a towel.
The door closes behind Norville.
We hear a rhythmic CLICK-CLICK-CLICK and the HUM of
VENTILATION.
NORVILLE'S POV
Across miles of carpet is a huge executive desk, behind which
is a large executive chair facing the window. From above the
back of the chair cigar smoke wreathes up. A telephone cord
snakes around to the man sitting in the chair, hidden from
us. On the desktop is a perpetual motion machine of large
swinging ball bearings. Click-click-click.
A TICKERTAPE MACHINE occasionally BURPS information in the
far corner of the office.
A huge MECHANICAL ARM -- the sweep second hand of the
Hudsucker clock on the facade of the building -- RUMBLES by
immediately outside the window, describing an arc that throws
a moving shadow across the office.
His BACK TO us, into the phone:
MUSSBURGER
-- Sure sure, Parkinson's stupid but
he's ambitious, too hard to control...
He swivels around to face Norville, who stands deferentially
at the door. Still listening at the phone, Mussburger waves
Norville forward.
MUSSBURGER
...No! Not McClanahan; sure he bungled
the Teleyard merger, but that means
he's got something to prove...
He covers the mouth piece.
MUSSBURGER
...Who let you in?
NORVILLE
I --
Into the phone:
MUSSBURGER
Atwater? Tremendous. Except I fired
him last week --
The INTERCOM BUZZES fiercely.
VOICE (V.O.)
Mr. Bumstead is waiting downstairs.
Mussburger hits the intercom.
MUSSBURGER
Tell him I'll be right there...
(looks at Norville)
Well, what is it?
NORVILLE
I --
But Mussburger is listening to the TINNY VOICE issuing from
the PHONE.
MUSSBURGER
You, maybe you're the company's
biggest moron. We can't use Morris,
he's been with us too long, he's a
nice guy, too many friends. Matter
of fact, why don't you fire him. No --
scratch that; I'll fire him.
(looks up at Norville)
...Make it fast, make it fast.
NORVILLE
You --
The INTERCOM SQUAWKS.
VOICE (V.O.)
Mr. Bumstead is getting very --
MUSSBURGER
I'll be right there. Give him a
magazine.
(to Norville)
...What're you, a mute?
The second PHONE on Mussburger's desk RINGS.
MUSSBURGER
...Yeah, how's the stock doing?
...Bad, huh? Well it's not bad enough.
(into the first phone)
...Look, chump, either you find me a
grade A ding-dong or you can tender
your key to the executive washroom.
(into the second phone)
And that goes double for you.
(into the first phone)
Ear-clay?
(into both phones)
Ood-gay!
(slams down both
phones, looks at
Norville)
This better be good. I'm in a bad
mood.
Norville clears his throat.
NORVILLE
Well, sir. I've got something for
you from the mailroom, but first if
I could just take a minute or so
from your very busy time...
He reaches into his mailroom apron and hands a scrap of paper
across the desk to Mussburger, who stares, frozen, at
Norville, making no move to take the paper.
NORVILLE
...to show you a, uh...
Norville, undaunted, holds up the paper since Mussburger
will not take it. Mussburger doesn't even look at it; his
eyes are locked on Norville's. Mussburger smolders.
NORVILLE
...a little something I've been
working on for the last two or three
years...
Mussburger's burning eyes finally shift momentarily to look
at the crudely drawn circle; he looks back incredulously at
Norville.
NORVILLE
...You know, for kids! Which is
perfect for Hudsucker -- not that I
claim to be any great genius; like
they say, inspiration is 99 percent
perspiration, and in my case I'd say
it's at least twice that, but I gotta
tell ya, Mr. Mussburger, sir, this
sweet baby --
MUSSBURGER
Wait a minute!
Sudden quiet.
With one last click the perpetual motion ball bearings
abruptly stop.
As Mussburger's eyes burn in on him, Norville stands mute
and paralyzed.
His eyes locked on Norville's, Mussburger circles the desk.
He stands toe-to-toe with Norville.
He thrusts his face into Norville's, whose head moves
reflexively back. Mussburger's nose is almost touching
Norville's, his eyes are burning, searching, studying,
evaluating.
Finally he draws his head back.
MUSSBURGER
Hmmm...
With one hand he thrusts his cigar into Norville's gaping
mouth. With his other hand he raises Norville's chin so that
his teeth clench it.
MUSSBURGER
Umm-hmm...
He steps back, eyes still on Norville.
He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, indicating his chair
behind the desk.
MUSSBURGER
Siddown.
Norville, his lips puckered around the unaccustomed ciger,
looks bemusedly from the chair to Mussburger.
MUSSBURGER
...Go ahead. Try it on.
Norville obeys, reluctantly, stiffly.
MUSSBURGER
...Put your feet up.
Norville is again reluctant.
MUSSBURGER
...Go ahead.
Norville obeys. Mussburger studies.
MUSSBURGER
Hmmmm... Let's get to know one
another, shall we?
Norville's eyes squint against the cigar smoke wreathing
from between his teeth. Mussburger seems to relax.
MUSSBURGER
...Let's chat!
(beams)
...Man to man!
Norville beams.
MUSSBURGER
...You weren't blessed with much...
He waves vaguely towards his head and searches for a
euphemism.
MUSSBURGER
...education, were you?
NORVILLE
Well, I'm a college graduate --
MUSSBURGER
All right, but you didn't excel in
your studies...?
NORVILLE
Well, I made the dean's list.
MUSSBURGER
(worried)
Hmmm.
Norville sputters out some more cigar smoke.
NORVILLE
At the Muncie College of Business
Administration.
MUSSBURGER
(relieved)
Sure, sure. And did your classmates
there call you 'jerk' or...
(searches again)
...'schmoe'?
Norville shakes his head.
MUSSBURGER
...'Shnook'? 'Dope'? 'Dipstick'?
'Lamebrain'?
NORVILLE
No, sir.
MUSSBURGER
Not even behind your back?
NORVILLE
Sir! They voted me most likely to
succeed!
MUSSBURGER
(curtly)
You're fired.
NORVILLE
But, sir! --
MUSSBURGER
Get your feet off that desk.
As he struggles to comply:
NORVILLE
But --
MUSSBURGER
Get out of my sight.
Norville, squinting against the cigar smoke, pulls the cigar
out of his mouth as he doubles forward, feet still up, groping
for a place to set down the cigar. He sets it blindly on a
loose stack of papers.
MUSSBURGER
My God! The Bumstead contracts!!
NORVILLE
Oh my God, sir!
The top page radiates a circle of incipient flame from the
cigar's live end.
MUSSBURGER
You nitwit! I worked for three years
on this deal!
NORVILLE
Oh my God, sir!
Norville runs across the office to a large water cooler.
MUSSBURGER
I'll take care of it. Just get out!
Mussburger plucks the cigar off the contract and tosses it
into a wastebasket. He pats the fingertips of one hand against
his tongue and then efficiently pats out the crinkling orange
circle on the top sheet of the contract.
At the other end of the office, Norville is wrapping his
arms around the glass water tank, which he pulls off its
base. He runs back across the vast expanse of office toward
the desk, hugging the water tank whose WATER GLOOB-GLOOBS
out its open bottom and splashes down onto his pumping knees.
As he reaches the desk, the near-empty tank is now light
enough for him to hoist with one arm, which he does, and
cups his other hand under it to catch its last glub of water.
He tosses the TANK to the floor where --
CRASH -- it SHATTERS, and stands looking about for a place
to dump his handful of water.
MUSSBURGER
Why you nitwit. You almost destroyed
the most sensitive deal of my career!
NORVILLE
Oh my God, sir!
He is reacting to the wastebasket on his side of the desk,
which Mussburger cannot see.
It is sprouting flame, at which Norville ineffectually flecks
his remaining drops of water.
MUSSBURGER
Now out of here! Out!
Norville is already running to the window, which he runs
both palms over, desperately seeking a way to open it.
MUSSBURGER
Not that way! Through the door!
NORVILLE
But, sir!
The windows do not open. Norville furiously stomps on the
flames in the wastebasket and -- his foot sticks.
Further stomping only makes the flaming wastebasket roar up
and down with his foot.
MUSSBURGER
Right away, buster! Out of my office!
Norville has dropped to the floor, trying to wrench the
flaming wastebasket off his leg.
MUSSBURGER
Up on your feet! We don't crawl at
Hudsucker Industries!
NORVILLE
Sir, my leg is on fire!
Norville finally succeeds in getting the flaming wastebasket
off his foot. Now the problem is what to do with it.
MUSSBURGER
Get out of this office, you dithering
nincompoop!
Norville picks up the flaming trash receptacle.
NORVILLE
Oh my God, sir!
He winds up and throws it through the closed window.
The GLASS SHATTERS and the flaming basket plummets to
oblivion.
With the picture window broken a FEROCIOUS DRAFT ROARS through
the penthouse office.
CLOSE SHOT - BUMSTEAD CONTRACTS
On the desk. The pages are sucked away by the draft.
MUSSBURGER
My God! The Bumstead contracts!
NORVILLE
Oh my God, sir!
Mussburger lunges for the contracts as they are sucked out
the window.
He runs, jumps onto the sill, grabs -- his fist clenches
around one wafting page -- he is about to fall --
MUSSBURGER
Eeeeeeaaaahhhhh!
CUT TO:
INT. EXECUTIVE WAITING ROOM
BUMSTEAD, a short, fat, heavily perspiring executive, is
screaming at an O.S. secretary. He holds a pot of coffee in
one hand and a copy of Boy's Life in the other.
BUMSTEAD
No magazine. No coffee. Mussburger!
I wanna see Mussburger! Or did he
jump out a window too?!
In the window behind him we see loose sheets of paper
fluttering down.
CUT TO:
NORVILLE
Desperately hanging onto Mussburger by his legs.
NORVILLE
Don't worry, Mr. Mussburger! I gotcha.
I gotcha by your pants!
Mussburger's screaming abruptly stops.
CLOSEUP - MUSSBURGER'S HORROR-STRICKEN FACE REMEMBERING (THE
SCREEN GOES WATERY):
MUSSBURGER
is in a basement tailor shop. LUIGI, an old Italian tailor,
is just running his tape up Mussburger's inseam.
LUIGI
Meester Moosaburger, I give-a you
pants a nice-a dooble stitch. Make
'em strong, and they look-a real
sharp.
MUSSBURGER
(barking)
No! Single stitch is fine.
LUIGI
(begging)
But please-a, Meester Moosaburger,
the dooble stitch she last-a forever --
MUSSBURGER
Why on earth would I need a double
stitch? To pad your bill? Single
stitch is fine!
CUT BACK TO:
CLOSEUP OF PANICKED MUSSBURGER
MUSSBURGER
Damn!
We hear a LOUD TEARING sound O.S. Mussburger drops a few
inches.
QUICK WIPE TO:
LUIGI AT HIS SEWING MACHINE
LUIGI
(musing to himself)
What the heck. Meester Moosaburger
such a nice-a guy, I give him dooble
steech-a anyway. Assa some-a strong-
a steech-a, you bet!
BACK TO MUSSBURGER'S PANTS
The tearing fabric abruptly catches and stops; the rest of
the pants hold intact.
MUSSBURGER
sighs with relief.
He looks up.
NORVILLE
Norville's arms are wrapped around Mussburger's ankles; the
heels of Mussburger's shoes are digging into his face.
MUSSBURGER
Looking. Thinking.
NORVILLE
Struggling to hold on.
MUSSBURGER
Calm. Contemplating.
MUSSBURGER
Hmmm...
He absently removes a cigar from his breast pocket and sticks
it in his mouth. He holds his lighter under the cigar, not
noticing that the flame is pointing the wrong way.
He looks at Norville.
NORVILLE
His face drawn with effort, still struggling to hang on.
A PULL BACK FROM the EXTREME CLOSE SHOT REVEALS, however,
that Norville's arms are now wrapped around -- emptiness.
Mussburger's legs are gone.
Norville throws his head back and laughs, it seems, insanely --
but CONTINUED PULL BACK REVEALS that Norville is merely
pantomiming the adventure for the benefit of the board
members, including Mussburger. They stand around Mussburger's
office, laughing gaily. All safe now, no harm done. This
inaugurates:
LAUGHING MONTAGE
Montage silent but for MUSIC.
A) Norville is entertaining the board with his depiction of
the near-disaster. Mussburger is slapping him merrily on the
back.
B) CLOSE SHOT - Board member laughing.
C) Another board member. Laughing.
D) Mussburger. Laughing.
E) Norville laughing.
F) FREEZE FRAME ON Norville's laughing face.
ANGLE
PULL BACK to reveal that the frozen picture is the newspaper
photo on the front page of the Manhattan Argus.
Its headline reads: UNTRIED YOUTH TO HELM HUDSUCKER.
The subhead reads: Stockholders Wary. The sub-subhead reads:
Meteoric Rise From Mailroom.
The article is under the byline of Amy Archer.
CONTINUED PULL BACK REVEALS that we are looking at the
newspaper OVER someone's SHOULDER. The person swivels around
and away -- his face now TO us, we see that it is Norville
looking at the newspaper. He throws his head back and laughs
merrily.
As he laughs -- thwock -- a steaming towel is thrown onto
his face and he continues to swivel. CONTINUED PULL BACK
REVEALS that he is in a barber chair.
His head drops back and OUT OF FRAME as the swiveling chair
is cranked down, but immediately -- still spinning --
-- his head reappears as the chair is cranked up again.
Still laughing, Norville is now freshly shaven and has a
slicked-back haircut, heavy with pomade.
FREEZE ON Norville's laughing face.
ANGLE
PULL BACK to reveal it is another front page photo next to
the headline: Hud Board To Street: GIVE MAN FROM MUNCIE A
CHANCE. Subhead: Has Fresh Ideas.
CONTINUED PULL BACK REVEALS that the paper is lying on a
chair. Norville's mailroom apron is tossed onto the chair to
cover it.
PAN TO where the apron was tossed from. Norville stands on a
tailor's stage, laughing, as the tailor, also laughing, takes
his measurements. Norville in shirtsleeves, boxer shorts,
hose stockings and garters.
The tailor rises, laughing merrily, throwing up his arms and
spreading them wide with hands stretching the measuring tape.
Norville laughs merrily and also throws his arms up wide.
BOARD MEMBER
laughs merrily, his arms thrown wide, tickertape stretching
between his hands. He joyously tosses away the tickertape.
FLOOR
where the tickertape lands on a pile of previously discharged
tape.
PAN UP to reveal that the tickertape continues to burp its
disastrous tale of good news for the board.
PAN UP FURTHER to reveal that the machine is in Mussburger's
office. At the far end of the room, behind his desk,
Mussburger laughs as he looks at a newspaper.
TRACK IN TOWARDS him.
On his desk the perpetual ballbearings swing; outside his
window the sweep second hand of the Hudsucker clock rumbles
by, sweeping a shadow across the floor. Evil prevails.
As Mussburger opens the newspaper, the CONTINUED TRACK IN
shows its front page headline: HUD STOCK DIPS. Subhead: Just
Good Is He?
TRACK IN ON the front page photo: Norville laughing, his
chin propped in his hand.
PHOTOGRAPH
COMES TO LIFE and Norville unfreezes, laughing.
We are now TRACKING BACK FROM him. He sits behind a huge oak
desk, newly coifed and tailored.
The brass plaque on the desk confirms that he is in the OFFICE
OF THE PRESIDENT.
TRACK BACK CONTINUES THROUGH the large elegant office, leaving
Norville looking quite small IN LONG SHOT.
His LAUGHTER ECHOES in the bright bare office.
Norville's laughter is just winding down, leaving him
exhausted, as if he has been laughing nonstop for several
days. He finally sighs and wipes a tear from his eye.
FADE OUT:
FADE IN:
NEW YORK SKYLINE - DAY
In the skyline we can see the Hudsucker building topped by
the Hudsucker clock.
A cigar ENTERS FRAME in the f.g., then the face of the man
smoking it. Staring contemplatively at the Hudsucker building,
he takes a puff from the cigar and then plucks it from his
mouth and waves it, as if painting a headline.
EDITOR
'The Einstein of Enterprise.' 'The
Edison of Industry.' 'The Billion-
Dollar Cranium'... 'Idea Man'!
(exploding)
And not one of you mugs has given me
a story on him!!
REVERSE
shows the Editors glassed-in office filled with REPORTERS
for the staff meeting. Although they listen quietly, they
are more bored than attentive.
THROUGH the glass walls we can see the furious activity of
an army of reporters, editors, and copy boys waging the never-
ending battle to put out a quality daily newspaper.
The Editor slams a newspaper down onto his desk in disgust.
EDITOR
Facts, figures, charts! They never
sold a newspaper! I read this
morning's edition of the Argus and
let me tell you something: I'd wrap
a fish in it! I'd use it as kindling!
Hell, I'd even train my poodle with
it if he wasn't a French poodle and
more partial to the pages of Paree
Soir! But I sure wouldn't shell out
a hard-earned nickel to read the
dadblamed thing!
REPORTER
Come on, chief, give us a break.
EDITOR
Suuuure, Tibbs, take a break! Go to
Florida! Lie in the sun! Wait for a
coconut to drop, file a story on it --
it'll be more of a grabber than your
piece on the commie grain surplus!
The human angle! That's what sells
papers! We need a front page with
heart and the whole idea of the 'Idea
Man' idea can put it there!
REPORTER #2
Chief, if we had more access --
EDITOR
Yeah, and if a frog had wings he
wouldn't bump his ass a-hoppin'! I
don't want excuses, I want results!
Whack! --
Without even looking in its direction, the Editor has slammed
down the lid of the cigar box on his desk, towards which one
Reporter's hand had been idly reaching.
The Reporter jerks his fingers away as the Editor spares the
briefest moment to glare at him.
EDITOR
I wanna know what makes the Idea Man
tick! Where is he from? Where is he
going? I wanna know everything about
this guy! Has he got a girl? Has he
got parents?
REPORTER #3
Everybody has parents.
EDITOR
All right, how many? How 'bout it,
Parkinson, you've been awful quiet
over there.
PARKINSON
Uhhh...
REPORTER NEXT TO HIM
Still waters run deep, chief.
EDITOR
The only thing that runs deep with
Parkinson is the holes in his ears.
Yes, the Idea Man! What're his hopes
and dreams, his desires and
aspirations? Does he think all the
time or does he set aside a certain
portion of the day? How tall is he
and what's his shoe size? Where does
he sleep and what does he eat for
breakfast? Does he put jam on his
toast or doesn't he put jam on his
toast, and if not why not and since
when?
He thrust his face into that of the Reporter.
EDITOR
...Well?!!
No answer.
EDITOR
...Ahh, you're useless. Yes, Idea
Man! Creator! Innovator! Cerebrator!
Tycoon!--
WOMAN (O.S.)
Fake.
EDITOR
Huhh!!
WOMAN
Star reporter AMY ARCHER -- attractive, smartly-dressed.
AMY
I tell ya the guy's a phony.
EDITOR
Phony, huh?
AMY
As a three-dollar bill.
EDITOR
Sez who?
AMY
Sez me! Amy Archer. Why is he an
Idea Man -- because Hudsucker says
he is? What're his ideas? Why won't
they let anyone interview him?...
One Reporter is leaning into another to keep his voice low:
REPORTER
Five bucks says she mentions her
Pulitzer.
OTHER REPORTER
Again? You're on.
AMY
(as she picks up the
morning paper)
...And just take a look at the mug
on this guy -- the jutting eyebrows,
the simian forehead, the idiotic
grin. Why he has a face only a mother
could love --
Whack! The Editor has slammed down the cigar box lid again
but: Amy, smiling, raises a cigar INTO FRAME having beaten
him.
She tosses it to the Reporter who failed to get one.
AMY
...On payday! The only story here is
how this guy made a monkey out of
you, Al.
EDITOR
Yeah, well, monkey or not I'm still
editor of this rag. Amy, I thought
you were doing that piece on the
F.B.I. -- J. Edgar Hoover: When Will
He Marry?
AMY
I filed it yesterday.
EDITOR
Well, do a follow-up: Hoover: Hero
or Mama's Boy? The rest of you bums
get up off your brains and get me
that Idea Man story!
REPORTERS
All right, chief... We'll do our
best, chief... I'll give it a shot,
chief...
AMY
(at the door)
Al, he's the bunk.
Slam!
One of the wagering Reporters grins at the other, who is
taking out a five dollar bill.
The door bursts open and Amy sticks her head in.
AMY
I'll stake my Pulitzer on it!
CUT TO:
ELEVATOR DOORS
Sweeping open to reveal the leering face of Buzz, the elevator
gnat.
BUZZ
Say, buddy! Where'd ya get the new
duds?
Norville is entering the elevator in his new executive outfit.
BUZZ
...and say, buddy! How'd old
bucketbutt like his blue letter?
Na-ha-ha-ha-ha! Did he bust a gut?
Did he die? Did he -- Well, hello,
Mr. Mussburger, sir...
Buzz is instant decorum as Mussburger enters the elevator.
BUZZ
...How're you this fine morning,
sir?
Norville has been worriedly patting at his pockets since the
mention of the blue letter.
NORVILLE
That reminds me, Mr. Mu... uh, Sid.
I never did give you that--
MUSSBURGER
(to Buzz)
Lobby. We haven't got all day.
BUZZ
Right away, Mr. Mussburger sir.
As he talks, Mussburger pats at his suit pocket, takes out a
cigar, inspects it.
MUSSBURGER
Well I'm starved. I understand it'll
be quite an affair this afternoon,
and the executive roast tom turkey
at the Bohemian Grove redefines the
word superb.
He puts the cigar in his mouth and Buzz's hand is right there
with a lighter.
BUZZ
My pleasure, sir.
NORVILLE
Roast tom turkey. Gee, I'm hungry
too --
MUSSBURGER
Sure, sure...
The elevator doors open.
BUZZ
It's been a pleasure serving you,
Mr. Mussburger.
Buzz turns to Norville. He is puzzled but trying to hide it:
BUZZ
...and it's been a pleasure serving
you too, uh... buddy.
MR. MUSSBURGER
is already striding through the lobby; Norville has to lope
to catch up.
NORVILLE
Say, Mr. Muss -- uh, Sid! Shouldn't
we be a little bit concerned with
the downward spiral of our stock
these last few days? I mean, you're
the expert, but at the Muncie College
of Business Administration they told
us --
Mussburger gives an artificially hearty laugh and claps
Norville on the shoulder.
MUSSBURGER
Relax, Norville. It's only natural
in a period of transition for the
more nervous element to run for cover.
NORVILLE
Okay, Sid. Like I said, you're the
expert, but --
EXT. SIDEWALK
Norville is still loping behind Mussburger, trying to keep
up with his long strides.
NORVILLE
...You don't happen to remember the
plan I outlined to you the day I set
fire to your off -- uh, the day I
was promoted?
MUSSBURGER
I do remember and I was impressed.
Anyway, that's all forgotten now.
Driver!
NORVILLE
Thank you, Sid, but the reason I
mention it is, it would require such
a small capital investment -- again,
you're the expert here --
MUSSBURGER
Damnit, where's my car!
NORVILLE
-- But there's such an enormous
potential profit-wise given the
demographics -- baby boom --
discretionary income in the burgeoning
middle class --
A black limousine pulls up to the curb.
MUSSBURGER
Finally.
NORVILLE
-- So if you think it's appropriate,
I'd like to bounce the idea off a
few people at lunch --
Mussburger is getting into the back seat --
MUSSBURGER
Sure, sure, tell whoever you want...
And, to Norville's surprise, slamming the door shut behind
him.
MUSSBURGER
...And I'd like to hear more about
it at some point, too.
SCREEEECH -- the CAR pulls away. Norville is left talking to
himself on the empty sidewalk.
NORVILLE
But, Sid, I thought you and I were...
DOORMAN
Say, bud, could you keep the sidewalk
clear here?
NORVILLE
But I'm the president of this --
aww, forget it.
CUT TO:
INT. COFFEE SHOP
A cheap coffee shop a half-flight down from the street.
We are LOOKING ACROSS an elbow of the coffee shop counter.
In the middle b.g., Norville sits dejectedly stirring a cup
of coffee.
Behind him, THROUGH the window wells, we see the back and
forth feet of pedestrians bustling by on the sidewalk.
In the extreme f.g. sit two steaming mugs of coffee.
They belong to two VETERANS of the coffee shop, who, from
O.S., narrate the scene.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
I got gas, Bennie.
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
Yeah, tell me about it.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
No kiddin', Bennie. I got gas.
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
Ya get the special?
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
Fah from it...
He gives a low whistle under his breath as a woman enters
from the street and hesitates by the door, looking around.
Still attractive but looking somewhat down-at-the-heels, it
is Amy Archer.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
...Enter the dame.
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
There's one in every story.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
Ten bucks says she's looking for a
handout.
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
Twenty bucks says not here she don't
find one.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
She's looking for her mark.
The woman's eyes settle on Norville, and she heads for the
empty stool next to his.
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
She finds him.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
She sits down.
The woman says something to the counter waitress, who exits.
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
...and awduhs a light lunch.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
She looks in her purse...
She is holding her wallet upside down.
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
...No money.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
The mark notices.
Beat. Norville, however, is not noticing: He is staring
intently at his coffee spoon, his hat pushed back on his
head, his other hand propping up a cheekbone; the woman's
presence does not seem to have registered yet.
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
...He's not noticing, Benny.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
Maybe he's wise.
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
He don't look wise.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
Plan two: Here come the waterworks.
The woman starts crying.
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
Yellowstone.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
Old Faithful.
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
Hello, Niagara.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
He notices.
As the woman cries, she accidentally-on-purpose jostles
Norville and he finally does indeed notice.
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
He's concerned.
The woman mouths words at Norville who reacts sympathetically
and waves his hands at the waitress.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
She explains her perdicament, and...
VETERAN #1 & #2 (O.S.)
(in unison)
...entuh the light lunch.
The waitress is entering to set a plate in front of the woman.
The woman continues to talk to Norville, smiling wanly at
him.
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
She's got other problems, of course...
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
...Her mother needs an operation...
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
...adenoids.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
No, Bennie: Lumbago.
Veteran #1's enunciation of "lumbago" falls into perfect
sync with the woman's moving lips.
Norville is listening sympathetically, but he suddenly notices
his watch.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
(alarmed)
She's losing him, Bennie.
Norville is rising to his feet.
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
Maybe he's wise.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
He don't look wise.
As Norville turns to leave:
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
How does she pull this out?
She puts the back of her hand dramatically to her forehead.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
(disbelieving)
She isn't!
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
(thrilled)
She is!
And indeed she does: Faint dead away, falling backwards on
the stool, so that Norville has no choice but to catch her.
Norville holds her awkwardly, looking around for help.
VETERAN #1 (O.S.)
She's good, Bennie.
VETERAN #2 (O.S.)
She's damn good, Lou.
A WAITRESS enters extreme f.g. to BLOCK OUR VIEW of the
swooned woman and the embarrassed Norville. The Waitress is
FACING the CAMERA and the two O.S. Veterans; the CROPPING
gives us only her torso and the steaming pot of coffee she
holds.
WAITRESS
(bored, nasal voice)
Can I get you boys anything else?
REVERSE ANGLE
Back of the Waitress's torso in f.g.; on either side beyond
her, the two Veterans are looking up at her O.S. face. They
sport extremely bored expressions, topped by "cabbie" caps.
VETERAN #1
Bromo.
Beat.
VETERAN #2
...Bromo.
INT. NORVILLE'S OFFICE
Looking at its frosted-glass door; the sign painter is just
finishing lettering in: NORVILLE BARNES, President.
The sign painter makes way as we see Norville's shadow
approaching; even from inside the room we can hear that he
is WHEEZING HEAVILY. He is apparently carrying the girl,
cradled in his arms. He tries to reach down to get the
doorknob; can't manage it; turns to press his back against
the door and get the knob with his other hand.
The door opens as Norville swings around to enter. He is
wheezing like a gas pipe about to explode.
He swings around to kick the door shut. We see that the
lettering on the door is now terribly smudged; we also see,
in wet ink, on the seat of Norville's pants: senraB ellivroN
tnediserP.
Weakly, still cradled in Norville's arms:
AMY
I'm sorry we had to take the stairs.
It was just that horrible little
elevator boy...
NORVILLE
Not at all. You're light as a feather.
AMY
(pointing languorously)
The couch, please.
Still wheezing horribly, Norville staggers over to the couch
and deposits her gently on it. He straightens up and looks
at her.
NORVILLE'S POV
She is smiling wanly AT the CAMERA. The entire IMAGE PULSATES
as the blood pounds behind Norville's eyeballs.
We hear the LOUD, RASPING of his BREATH, resonating inside
his head. Amy is talking but her voice is barely audible, as
if coming from a long way away.
BACK TO SCENE
NORVILLE
Just a minute.
He perches drunkenly on the edge of the couch and puts his
head between his knees, still fighting for breath.
AMY
I don't know what came over me. I
suppose it was the shock of eating
after so long without; the enzymes
kicking in after so long, or whatever.
But then you couldn't possibly know
what it is to be tired and hungry...
Speaking into his knees as he wheezes:
NORVILLE
Hungry, anyway.
AMY
I don't want to bore you with all
the sordid details of my life; it's
not a happy story...
Norville rises and starts putting throw pillows behind her
head.
AMY
...Suffice it to say that I'm jobless --
though not for want of trying, that
I'm friendless, with no one to --
thank you -- take care of me; and
that had you not come along at just
exactly the moment that you did --
She screams, staring down at the couch.
Norville jumps, startled, then looks where she is looking.
On the white sofa cushion where he had been sitting is
printed, in wet ink, right side around: NORVILLE BARNES,
President.
AMY
Norville, I didn't know you were
president here!
Norville stares dumbfounded at the sofa cushion. When the
nickel finally drops, he spins around to try to look at the
seat of his pants.
Distracted but still modest:
NORVILLE
Oh, it's nothing really. Just
determination and hard work...
He unbuckles his trousers.
NORVILLE
...Of course, when I started in the
mailroom last Tuesday I thought it
might take more time --
Buzz enters holding a brown paper bag.
BUZZ
Say, buddy, here's the whiskey you
asked f --
He freezes, taking in the scene: Amy reclining on the couch;
Norville standing in front of her with his pants around his
ankles, still breathing heavily; the bottle of whiskey in
his own hand.
NORVILLE
(flustered)
Thank you, Buzz, just leave it on
the desk.
Leering:
BUZZ
Happy days, buddy...
As he turns to leave:
BUZZ
...and I'll tell your secretary you're
not to be disturbed. Yowzuh!!
He snaps the elastic strap under his chin.
After the doors shut behind Buzz:
AMY
(shuddering)
What a horrible little person.
NORVILLE
Oh, Buzz is pretty harmless, really --
AMY
At any rate I arrived in town not
ten days ago, full of dreams and
aspirations, anxious to make my way
in the world --
Norville pours a glass of whiskey and brings it over to her.
AMY
A little naive perhaps but -- thank
you -- armed with determination, a
solid work ethic, and an indomitable
belief in the future --
NORVILLE
I myself --
He crosses back to the desk.
AMY
Only to have that belief, that
unsullied optimism, dashed against
the marble and mortar of the modern
work place --
Norville takes a cigarette from a large wood cigarette box
on the desk and sticks it in his mouth.
NORVILLE
Cigarette?
AMY
No thank you. Seek and ye shall find,
work and ye shall prosper -- these
were the watch words of my education,
the ethics of my tender years --
OVER NORVILLE'S SHOULDER
He has been pushing the box towards her. The box tilts lazily
forward and then disappears over the far lip of the desk. We
hear the THUD of the BOX landing amid the pitter-patter of
cigarettes raining onto the carpet.
Amy's brow crinkles. Continuing:
AMY
-- these were the values that were
instilled in me while I was growing
up in a little town you've probably
never heard of --
NORVILLE
Mind if I join you?
He is pouring himself a drink.
AMY
Be my guest. A little town you've
probably --
He tosses back his drink, gags, looks at Amy with his eyes
bulging.
HIS POV
Once again her IMAGE PULSATES. There is a ROARING SOUND and
an AIRY STEAM WHISTLE as she silently moves her lips.
NORVILLE
He waves his arms and talks with a
thick rasp as he staggers to his
feet.
NORVILLE
Excuse me -- I -- executive
washroom...
He staggers out a side door.
On his exit Amy leaps to her feet and scurries over to his
desk. At the top of her voice:
AMY
Are you all right?...
She throws open the top desk drawer. Inside two lonely lead
pencils roll through the otherwise empty drawer.
Amy expertly flips a cigarette into her mouth and strikes a
match off the desktop.
AMY
...Is it your lunch? The chicken a
la king?
From the washroom:
NORVILLE (O.S.)
No, I --
Amy throws open another drawer, empty except for an
appointment book. As she hurriedly flips through page after
blank page an arctic WIND WHISTLES emptiness. One page only
has a notation: 11:45. Address Wilkie Grammar School Junior
Achievers Club.
AMY
Is the a la king repeating on you?
Amy shoves the appointment book back into the drawer.
NORVILLE (O.S.)
...I'm fine, I... You were saying?
She mutters:
AMY
Values... watchwords... uh, tender
years...
(aloud)
-- A little town you've probably
never heard of...
She hastily stubs out her cigarette and waves her hand to
disperse the smoke.
AMY
...Muncie, Indiana.
She scurries back across the room as we hear the FAUCET BEING
TURNED OFF: she re-strikes her languid pose on the couch
just as the washroom door opens.
Norville gapes, one hand pressing a dripping rag to his
forehead.
NORVILLE
You're from Muncie?!
AMY
Why yes, do you know it?
Norville starts making pumping motions with his fists and
loud syncopated grunting noises. Amy gapes at him.
He starts singing, off-key:
NORVILLE
'Fight on fight on dear old Muncie
Fight on -- Hoist the gold and blue
You'll be tattered, torn and hurtin'
Once 'The Munce' is done with you!'
Amy lamely fakes singing along, coming in louder on the last,
obvious rhyme. Norville jumps an octave on it; she quickly
follows sit, also pumping her fists.
As Norville crosses his hands and locks thumbs in front of
his nose to make bird wings of his extended fingers:
NORVILLE
...Goooooooo Eagles!
Amy awkwardly imitates.
Norville excitedly sits behind his desk.
NORVILLE
...A Muncie girl! Talk about the
cat's pyjamas! Tell you what, Amy.
I'm gonna cancel the rest of my
appointments this afternoon and get
you a job here at the Hud.
AMY
Oh, no, really, I --
NORVILLE
Don't bother to thank me, it's the
easiest thing in the world. Matter
of fact, I know where a vacancy just
came up.
He hits the intercom.
NORVILLE
...Mail room.
To Amy:
NORVILLE
...This'll only take a moment.
INTERCOM (V.O.)
Yeah?
NORVILLE
Good afternoon to ya, this is Norville
Barnes --
INTERCOM (V.O.)
Barnes! Where the hell have you been!
And where's my voucher?!
Norville thumps at his pockets.
NORVILLE
...Well, I'm not sure where I --
INTERCOM (V.O.)
I need that voucher! I told you a
week ago it was important!
NORVILLE
But look, I'm president of the company
now and I --
INTERCOM (V.O.)
I don't care if you're president of
the company! I need that voucher!
Now!
CLICK. The intercom goes dead.
NORVILLE
Oh, of all the foolish... Listen, do
you take shorthand? Are you familiar
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