INT. RECORDING STUDIO (LAST SESSION) - LA DEC 1970 - NIGHT
A dark silence hovers along the deserted, bunker-like studio.
MIKE stands and booms shadow a grand piano...
The ENGINEER waits in the booth, lit, alert man, bored,
Hey Jim, It's your birthday man,
whaddaya say we try this another
Camera moving tentatively along the shadows, discovering the
sidelight on a Navy surplus pea jacket thrown on a chair;
moving to a candle's orange flutter on pages written with
verse... a hand breaking the seal of the bottle of Irish
Kill the lights a little more, will
They might drop a bit more... Camera crawling past the FINGERS
weaving a new cigarette out of the Marlboro pack. An ashtray
full of butts... and an asthmatic horrid cough, filled with
phlegm... crawling up the slight paunch in the bright jersey
with #66 on it... stitched on the sleeve is the team mascot --
an American Indian in full headdress.
Hey man, how come the Doors aren't
in on this?
Camera revealing JAMES DOUGLAS MORRISON, -- 27, poet, buried
in the shadows, curls of cigarette smoke about his haunted
sensuous eyes, meditative lips scragged with beard and long
greasy hair, not a pretty sight, yet a man full and bold and
struggling for survival through his words... beneath the
Bushmill moon, he takes the tambourine and shakes it violently
in our face
No music, No Doors. Let's roll... Is
everybody in?... Is Everybody in?...
Is everybody in? The ceremony is
about to begin...