Crash

- We're about ready to go here.|- Good.

I'm looking for James.|Has anybody seen James Ballard?

- You know- the producer of this epic.|- I think I saw him in the camera room.

James?

Are you in there?

Could we please get your approval|on our Steadicam shot?

Of course.

Be there in a minute.

Where were you?

In a private aircraft hangar.

Anyone could have walked in.

Did you come?

No.

What about your camera girl?

Did she come?

We were interrupted.

I had to get back to the set.

Poor darling.

Maybe the next one.

Sh*t.

Not a lot of action here.

They consider this|to be the airport hospital.

This ward is reserved|for air crash victims.

The beds are kept waiting.

Well, if I ground up|during my flying lesson Saturday...

you might find me next to you.

You're getting out of bed soon.

They want you to walk.

The other man-|the dead man-

his wife's a doctor.

Dr Helen Remington.

She's here somewhere,|as a patient, of course.

Maybe you'll find her in the hallway|during one of your walks.

What was her husband?

A chemical engineer|for a food company.

Where's the car?

Outside,|in the visitors car park.

What?

- They brought the car here?|- My car, not yours.

Oh.

Yours is a complete wreck.

The police had to drag it|to the pound.

It's behind the station.

After being bombarded endlessly|by road safety propaganda...

I'm almost relieved to have...

found myself|in an actual accident.

Dr Remington.

- James Ballard?|- Yes.

- Crash victim?|- Yes.

We'll deal with these later.

Both of the front wheels of their car|and the engine...

were driven back|into the driver's section.

Oh, and the floor.

Blood still marked the hood|like little streamers of black lace...

running toward|the windshield wiper cutters.

Tiny flecks were spattered|across the seat and steering wheel...

and the instrument panel was...

buckled inwards...

cracking the clock|and speedometer dials.

The cabin was deformed.

There was dust, glass...

plastic flakes everywhere inside.

The carpeting...

was damp.

It stank of blood|and other body and machine fluids.

I should've gone to the funeral.

I wish I had.

They bury the dead so quickly.

They should leave them|lying around for months.

What about his wife, the woman doctor?|Have you been to visit her yet?

I couldn't.

I feel too close to her.

I don't like the idea|of you getting into a car so soon.

I can't sit on this balcony forever.|I feel like a potted plant.

How can you drive,James?

You can barely walk.

Is traffic heavier now?

There seem to be three times as many|cars as there were before the accident.

I have to leave for work.

After this sort of thing how can people|even look at a car, let alone drive one?

I'm trying to find Charles' car.

It's not here.

Maybe the police|are still holding it.

They said it was here|this morning.

This is your car?

You might tear your glove.

I never should have come here.

I'm surprised the police|don't make it more difficult.

Were you badly hurt?|We saw each other at the hospital.

I don't want the car.

In fact, I was appalled to find|I have to pay to have it scrapped.

Can I give you a lift?

I somehow find myself|driving again.

You haven't told me|where we're going.

I haven't?

- To the airport, if you don't mind.|- The airport?

- Why? Are you leaving?|- Not yet.

Though not soon enough|for some people.

A death in the doctor's family|makes the patients uneasy.

I take it you're not wearing white|to reassure them.

I'll wear a f***ing kimono|if I want to.

So, why the airport?

I work in|the immigration department.

- Do you want a cigarette?|- No.

I started to smoke|at the hospital.

Kind of stupid.

All this traffic-

- I'm not sure I can deal with it.|- It's much worse now. Have you noticed?

Yes.

The day I left the hospital...

I had the extraordinary feeling|that all these cars...

were gathering for some special reason|I didn't understand.

There seemed to be|ten times as much traffic.

Are we imagining it?

You've bought yourself|exactly the same car again.

It's the same shape and colour.

We're close to the airport garage.

It won't be busy|this time of day.

"Don't worry.|That guy's gotta see us."

"Don't worry.|That guy's gotta see us."

These were the confident last words of|the brilliant, young Hollywood star...

James Dean...

as he piloted his Porsche|550 Spyder race car...

toward a date with death...

along a lonely stretch|of a California two-lane blacktop-

Route 466.

"Don't worry.|That guy's gotta see us."

The year:
1955.

The day:
September 30.

The time:
now.

The first star of our show...

is Little Bastard...

James Dean's racing Porsche.

He named it after himself|and had his racing number 130...

painted on it.

Who is that, the announcer?|Do I know him?

That's Vaughan.

He spoke to you at the hospital.

I thought he was|a medical photographer...

doing some sort|of accident research.

He wanted every conceivable detail|about our crash.

When I first met Vaughan|he was a specialist...

in international|computerized traffic systems.

I don't know what he is now.

Which brings us to|the second star.

The stuntman and former race driver|Colin Seagrave.

Colin Seagrave!

He will drive our replica|of James Dean's car.

You up for this?

You bet.

I myself shall play the role of James|Dean's racing mechanic Rolf Vudrich...

sent over from the Porsche factory|in Germany.

This mechanic was himself fated to die|in a car crash in Germany...

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