Grosse Pointe Blank

FADE IN:

ROLL CREDITS OVER:

EXT. GOLF COURSE - DAWN

VARIOUS EXTRA CLOSE-UPS of this luxurious patchwork of

brilliant greens:

A POLISHED BRASS SPRINKLER HEAD

pops up from the ground and begins to water the already dew-

soaked lawn.

FLEET OF DUCKLINGS

No mother in sight, cruise through the thrushes.

GRAVEYARD OF GOLF BALLS, UNDERWATER

At the bottom of a water hazard.

PALM FRONDS:

After a neat they sway, revealing the barren desert that

surrounds the artificial oasis. The sun already bakes the

air. We hear the opening guitar strains of the Kim Deal-Kurt

Cobain suet of "WHAT I DID FOR LOVE," as we CRANE DOWN the

palms to

A BRAND-NEW TITLEIST 3 BALL.

Just on the edge of the rough. A pair of yellow trousers

moves in. An iron confidently addresses the ball, and chips

it out. The trousers walk out after it.

HANDS:

Digging dirt out of the grooves of the iron's face with a

golf tee, while on the way to the green. Both hands are

gloved, instead of one, and the gloves are black.

YELLOW TROUSERS:

In a squat over the ball, sizing up the curvy, fifty-foot

journey to the hole. The figure positions himself and the

putter above the ball, then pops the ball lightly. The ball

rolls and bobs with purpose toward the hole, dodging hazards

and finding lanes, until it finally falls off of the green

and into the hole.

THE GLOVED HAND:

Sets the ball on the next tee. The figure moves to a leather

golf bag. The hands pull the wipe rag off of the top of the

bag and drop it on the ground, reach into the bag, drawing

out a compact SNIPER RIFLE, affixed with a long silencer.

The figure drops one knee down onto the rag, the other foot

firmly setting its spikes. We move the figure to see the

face of the sniper, concentrating down the scope in his half-

squat. He is MARTIN BLANK.

We SWING AROUND behind his head to look down the barrel with

him. Four-hundred yards away, on another part of the course,

another green is barely visible through groves of trees and

rough. Three miniscule, SILVER-HAIRED FIGURES come into view.

One of them, in a RED SWEATER sets up for first putt. He

could be an investment banker, or an arms trader.

MARTIN'S ARM

Flinches, and a low THUNK reports from the rifle. A second

later in the distance, the

RED SWEATER'S HEAD

Seems to vanish from his shoulders into a crimson mist. His

body crumples to the green.

MARTIN:

Returns the rifle to the bag, pulls out a driver, moves to

the tee and whacks the ball. He watches its path and whispers

absently...

MARTIN:

Hooked it.

INT. CLUB HOUSE PATIO - LATER

The outdoor post-golf luncheon area of an elite Texas golf

club. Martin sits in on the fringes of a conversation between

a group of executive types. CLUB MEMBER #1 has a Buddha-like

peace in his eyes through the philosophical talk.

CLUB MEMBER #1

I'd come to the realization that

everything I'd based my life on was

false. And that my life had no

meaning.

CLUB MEMBER #2

(to Martin)

He gets this way when he hits over

eighty-five.

CLUB MEMBER #1

It seemed like my life was slipping

away, somehow. I was a knot in the

middle of a wet rope. Everything was

futile and nothing had value.

CLUB MEMBER #3

That's the way life is. The only

meaning and value is what we create.

Through structure, and discipline.

Though they seem to limit our freedom,

they actually give us great comfort.

Your problem is you're looking for

some great answer. Some ultimate

truth. When what you really should

do is go to work and go home.

CLUB MEMBER #2

And take golf lessons.

CLUB MEMBER #1

That's a tragedy. Can I finish my

story please? I began my search for

meaning. I was a Catholic, Jew,

Scientologist, Sufi, Buddhist. I

went to a Psychologist, psychiatrist,

herbalist, nutritionist, a shaman,

and a psychic. And they all pretty

much say the same stuff.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes