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TRAVIS BICKLE, age 26, lean, hard, the consummate loner. On

the surface he appears good-looking, even handsome; he has a

quiet steady look and a disarming smile which flashes from

nowhere, lighting up his whole face. But behind that smile,

around his dark eyes, in his gaunt cheeks, one can see the

ominous stains caused by a life of private fear, emptiness

and loneliness. He seems to have wandered in from a land

where it is always cold, a country where the inhabitants

seldom speak. The head moves, the expression changes, but

the eyes remain ever-fixed, unblinking, piercing empty space.

Travis is now drifting in and out of the New York City night

life, a dark shadow among darker shadows. Not noticed, no

reason to be noticed, Travis is one with his surroundings.

He wears rider jeans, cowboy boots, a plaid western shirt

and a worn beige Army jacket with a patch reading, "King

Kong Company 1968-70".

He has the smell of sex about him: Sick sex, repressed sex,

lonely sex, but sex nonetheless. He is a raw male force,

driving forward; toward what, one cannot tell. Then one

looks closer and sees the evitable. The clock sprig cannot

be wound continually tighter. As the earth moves toward the

sun, Travis Bickle moves toward violence.

FILM OPENS on EXT. of MANHATTAN CAB GARAGE. Weather-beaten

sign above driveway reads, "Taxi Enter Here". Yellow cabs

scuttle in and out. It is WINTER, snow is piled on the

curbs, the wind is howling.

INSIDE GARAGE are parked row upon row of multi-colored taxis.

Echoing SOUNDS of cabs idling, cabbies talking. Steamy

breath and exhaust fill the air.

INT. CORRIDOR of cab company offices. Lettering on ajar door

reads:

PERSONAL OFFICE:

Marvis Cab Company

Blue and White Cab Co.

Acme Taxi

Dependable Taxi Services

JRB Cab Company

Speedo Taxi Service

2.

SOUND of office busywork: shuffling, typing, arguing.

PERSONAL OFFICE is a cluttered disarray. Sheets with heading

"Marvis, B&W, Acme" and so forth are tacked to crumbling

plaster wall:
It is March. Desk is cluttered with forms,

reports and an old upright Royal typewriter.

Dishelved middle-aged New Yorker looks up from the desk. We

CUT IN to ongoing conversation between the middle-aged

PERSONNEL OFFICER and a YOUNG MAN standing in front on his

desk.

The young man is TRAVIS BICKLE. He wears his jeans, boots

and Army jacket. He takes a drag off his unfiltered cigarette.

The PERSONNEL OFFICER is beat and exhausted: he arrives at

work exhausted. TRAVIS is something else again. His intense

steely gaze is enough to jar even the PERSONNEL OFFICER out

of his workaday boredom.

PERSONNEL OFFICER (O.S.)

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