A Serious Man

FADE IN:

SNOWFLAKES FALLING IN BLACK

The flakes drift lazily down toward us. Our angle looks straight up.

Now an angle looking steeply down: the snow falls not quite dead away to collect on a

foreground chimneypot and on the little shtetl street that lies maplike below us.

It is night, and quiet, and the street is deserted except for one man who walks away from

us, his valenki squeaking in the fresh snow. He leads a horse and cart.

We cut down to street level. The man walks toward us, bearded, and bundled against the

cold. Smiling, he mutters in Yiddish—the dialogue subtitled.

Man

What a marvel . . . what a marvel. . .

HOUSE INTERIOR:

Its door opens and the man enters.

Man

Dora!

Voice

Yes. . .

The man crosses to the stove with a bundle of wood. Dora’s voice continues:

. . . Can you help me with the ice?

The man dumps the wood into a box by the stove as his wife enters with an ice pick. pick.

. . . I expected you hours ago.

Man

You can’t imagine what just happened. I was coming back

on the Lublin road when the wheel came off the cart—

thank heavens it was the way back and I’d already sold the

geese!

Wife

How much?

Man

Fifteen groshen, but that’s not the story. I was struggling to

set the cart upright when a droshky approaches from the

direction of Lvov. How lucky, you think, that someone is

out this late.

Wife

Yes, very remarkable.

Man

But that’s the least of it! He stops to help me; we talk of

this, we talk of that—it turns out this is someone you know!

Traitle Groshkover!

His wife stares at him as he beams. He takes the stare as a sign that she can’t place the

name.

. . . You know, Reb Groshkover! Pesel Bunim’s uncle!

The chacham from Lodz, who studied under the Zohar reb

in Krakow!

Still she stares. Then, quietly:

Wife

God has cursed us.

Man

What?

Wife

Traitle Groshkover has been dead for three years.

Laughter erupts from the man but, as his wife continues to stare at him, he strangles on it.

Quiet.

Wind whistles under the eaves.

The man says quietly:

Traitle Groshkover has been dead for three years.

Laughter erupts from the man but, as his wife continues to stare at him, he strangles on it.

Quiet.

Wind whistles under the eaves.

The man says quietly:

Man

Why do you say such a thing! I saw the man! I talked to

him!

Wife

You talked to a dybbuk. Traitle Groshkover died of typhus

in Pesel Bunim’s house. Pesel told me—she sat shiva for

him.

They stare at each other. Outside, the wind quickens.

A rap at the door.

Neither husband nor wife immediately respond.

Finally, to her husband:

. . . Who isit?

Man

I . . . invited him here. For some soup, to warm himself.

The wind moans.

. . . He helped me, Dora!

THE DOOR:

We are looking in from the outside as the door unlatches and creaks in, opened by the

husband in the foreground, who has arranged his face into a strained look of greeting. In

the background the wife stares, hollow-eyed.

Man

Reb Groshkover! You are welcome here!

Reverse on Reb Groshkover: a short, merry-looking fellow with a bifurcated beard. He

gives a little squeal of delight.

Reb Groshkover

You are too kind, Velvel! Too kind!

He steps into the house and sees the wife staring at him.

. . . And you must be Dora! So much I have heard of you!

Yes, your cheeks are pink and your legs are stout! What a

wife you have!

The husband chuckles nervously.

Man

Yes! A ray of sun, a ray of sun! Sit!

Wife

My husband said he offered you soup.

Reb Groshkover

Yes, but I couldn’t possibly eat this late, or I’d have

nightmares. No, no: no soup for me!

Wife

I knew it.

Reb Groshkover laughs.

Reb Groshkover

I see! You think I’m fat enough already!

He settles, chuckling, into his chair, but Dora remains sober:

Wife

No. A dybbuk doesn’t eat.

Reb Groshkover stares at her, shocked.

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