Blow

FADE IN:

EXT. GUARJIRA, COLOMBIA - 1989 - DAY

A majestic panorama of the lush green slopes that are the

Columbian highlands. A faint chopping sound IS HEARD and

then another. WHOOSH. WHOOSH. The view changes and tiny

dots appear on the hillside vegetation. WHOOSH.

CLOSER:

We realize the dots are people. Workers swinging long steel

machetes in slow methodical rhythm. WHOOSH. WHOOSH. WE SEE

the South American Indian MEN clearly now. Their tar stained

teeth. Their gaunt faces riddled with crow's feet. Their

jaws chewing away on huge wads of coca leaves as they collect

the harvest.

EXT. DIRT ROAD - COLOMBIA - DAY

Old rickety trucks carrying the huge green tractor-sized

bales speed along the narrow road.

EXT. CLEARING - COLOMBIA - DAY

The bundles are undone and Columbian women separate out the

leaves. Tribes of underweight workers carry armload after

armload of the harvest and ritualistically dump them into a

gigantic cannibal pot which sits on top of a raging bonfire.

The leaves are being boiled down and a huge plume of smoke

streaks the sky. Wizened Indios brave the heat and shovel

ashes into the pot to cool the solution.

INT. JUNGLE - COLOMBIA - DAY

A primitive but enormous makeshift lab contains all the

equipment. The machinery. The solutions. The over-sized

vats. Dark-skinned bandoleros smoke cigarettes and sport

automatic weapons at all the points of entry. The coca is

now a "basuco" paste and is being sent in for a wash.

INT. LABORATORY - COLOMBIA - 1989 - DAY

A conveyor belt pours out brick after brick of pure cocaine

hydrochloride. The bricks are wrapped, tied up, weighed, and

stamped with a "P" before being thrown into duffel bags.

EXT. JUNGLE AIRSTRIP - COLOMBIA - DAY

A small twin-engine Cessna is loaded with dozens of duffel

bags and the plane takes off.

EXT. VERO BEACH AIRFIELD - NIGHT

The Cessna touches down.

EXT. WORKSITE - WEYMOUTH - 1966 - DAY

The worksite is busy. George is amongst other workers,

working a summer job. As George is taking five, he looks

across the sight to Fred, who is sweeping up debris. A long

way from being the boss.

INT. COLLEGE ADMISSIONS OFFICE - WEYMOUTH - 1966 - DAY

George stands in line to register for college, wearing his

Brooks Brothers suit, bowtie, and freshly Bryllcreamed hair.

The room is crowded and the line is long. Bob Dylan's

"Subterranean Homesick Blues" blares out of one of the kid's

transistor radios. George looks around the room. He is

uncomfortable. He catches his reflection in the shiny glass

partition and stops. He doesn't like what he sees.

Something is not right. He looks like everyone else. Same

cookie-cutter hair, same cookie-cutter clothes, same cookie

cutter faces. He's a carbon copy.

REGISTRATION WOMAN

Next.

It's George's turn but he doesn't hear it. "Twenty years of

schooling and they put you on a day shift." The words hit

him like a tone of bricks as he continues to stare at his own

reflection.

GEORGE (V.O.)

I was standing there, and it was like

the outside of me and the inside of me

didn't match, you know? And then I

looked around the room and it hit me. I

saw my whole life. Where I was gonna

live, what type of car I'd drive, who my

neighbors would be. I saw it all and I

didn't want it. Not that life.

EXT. CONSTRUCTION SITE - WEYMOUTH - 1966 - DAY

George sits with Fred. It's breaktime and Fred eats from a

lunch box.

GEORGE:

There's something out there for me, Dad.

Something different. Something free

form, you know? Something for me, and

college just isn't it.

FRED:

That's too bad. You would have been the

first one in the family.

GEORGE:

I know.

FRED:

Alright. You want me to get your old

job back? Because I could, you know, I

could put in that word.

GEORGE:

No, Dad. I don't want to...I mean, I

just don't want...

It's obvious to Fred that his son doesn't want to be like

him.

FRED:

What are you going to do?

GEORGE:

I'm going to California.

EXT. BELMONT SHORES APARTMENT - 1968 - DAY

SUPERIMPOSE:
MANHATTAN BEACH, CALIFORNIA 1968

George and Tuna, now 21-years old, struggle with their bags.

Their new place is a tackily furnished, two-story apartment

with small balconies and a view of the ocean. As George and

Tuna struggle with the bags, two California beauties appear

on the balcony next door: BARBARA BUCKLEY, 20, and MARIA

GONZALES, 21.

GIRLS:

You guys need some help?

George and Tuna share a look.

TUNA:

I don't know about you, but I think

we're gonna like it here.

EXT. MANHATTAN BEACH - 1968 - DAY

SERIES OF SHOTS:

Barbara and Maria introduce George and Tuna around to the

Manhattan Beach regulars. They are immediately accepted

despite their ill fitting shorts and Tuna's unhip black

socks. The beach scene is one big party. Lots of beer,

music, bikinis, and good times. By the end of the day,

George and Tuna have a hundred new friends.

GEORGE (V.O.)

California was like nothing I'd ever

experienced. The people were liberated

and independent and full of new ideas.

GEORGE (V.O.) (CONT'D)

They used words like "right on,"

"groovy," and "solid." The women are

all beautiful and seemed to share the

same occupation.

WOMAN #1

I'm a flight attendant.

WOMAN #2

I'm a flight attendant.

WOMAN #3

I'm a flight attendant.

The weed comes out and is passed around. Pipes. Joints.

Bongs. In SLOW MOTION, Barbara takes a huge hit of grass,

grabs George's face, french kissing him, and giving him a

huge shotgun.

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