The pilot's wheal is now a crystalline sculpture of ice. The
forward mast lies across the deck like a broken limb,
extending out over the ice on a tangle of rigging...
The ship's prow is smashed open above the water line ...
A familiar rosary lies broken on the deck. Beads scattered.
A tiny Christ figure lies with arms thrown wide, painted
eyes staring up at the sky through a thin sheet of ice ...
HIGH, HIGH ANGLE
From the top of mast #2. A breathtaking perspective of the
entire ship below, guaranteed to induce vertigo. The corpse
of the lookout is suspended below us at the end of the
frozen rope, His posture mimics the Christ figure: His arms
thrown wide, dead eyes staring up at the sky through a thin
sheet of ice. A ghastly still-life, the corpse twisting
ever-so-slightly on the wind, rope creaking ...
A SAILOR thrusts into frame swaying precariously in the
rigging, WIDEN to reveal TWO MORE MEN as they reach out with
long gaffing poles to snag the corpse.
EXT - NEVSKY - LOW ANGLE FROM ICE - TWILIGHT
Walton watches them reel the body in. ANGLE SHIFTS as he
turns, revealing the rest of the crew working desperately to
free the ship. Axes and picks rise and fall in waves,
slamming into the ice, throwing up frozen chips. The men are
near collapse, exhaustion carved in their faces. The dogs
are nearby, huskies and malamutes huddled in the snow.
Walton rejoins the men, rams his axe fiercely into the ice.
Put your backs into it!
What's the use? This godless ice stretches for
miles! Would you have us chow our way back to
No. But we'll chop our way to the North Pole if
we have to. Inch by bloody inch.
You can't mean to go on! Our journey is ended!
The best we can hope for now is to get out of this