Shawshank Redemption

1INT -- CABIN -- NIGHT (1946)

A dark, empty room.

The door bursts open. A MAN and WOMAN enter, drunk and

giggling, horny as hell. No sooner is the door shut than

they're all over each other, ripping at clothes, pawing at

flesh, mouths locked together.

He gropes for a lamp, tries to turn it on, knocks it over

instead. Hell with it. He's got more urgent things to do, like

getting her blouse open and his hands on her breasts. She

arches, moaning, fumbling with his fly. He slams her against

the wall, ripping her skirt. We hear fabric tear.

He enters her right then and there, roughly, up against the

wall. She cries out, hitting her head against the wall but not

caring, grinding against him, clawing his back, shivering with

the sensations running through her. He carries her across the

room with her legs wrapped around him. They fall onto the bed.

CAMERA PULLS BACK, exiting through the window, traveling

smoothly outside...

2EXT -- CABIN -- NIGHT (1946) 2

...to reveal the bungalow, remote in a wooded area, the

lovers' cries spilling into the night...

...and we drift down a wooded path, the sounds of rutting

passion growing fainter, mingling now with the night sounds of

crickets and hoot owls...

...and we begin to hear FAINT MUSIC in the woods, tinny and

incongruous, and still we keep PULLING BACK until...

...a car is revealed. A 1946 Plymouth. Parked in a clearing.

3INT -- PLYMOUTH -- NIGHT (1946) 3

ANDY DUFRESNE, mid-20's, wire rim glasses, three-piece suit.

Under normal circumstances a respectable, solid citizen; hardly

dangerous, perhaps even meek. But these circumstances are far

from normal. He is disheveled, unshaven, and very drunk. A

cigarette smolders in his mouth. His eyes, flinty and hard, are

riveted to the bungalow up the path.

He can hear them f***ing from here.

He raises a bottle of bourbon and knocks it back. The radio

plays softly, painfully romantic, taunting him:

You stepped out of a dream...

You are too wonderful...

To be what you seem...

He opens the glove compartment, pulls out an object wrapped

in a rag. He lays it in his lap and unwraps it carefully --

-- revealing a .38 revolver. Oily, black, evil.

He grabs a box of bullets. Spills them everywhere, all over

the seats and floor. Clumsy. He picks bullets off his lap,

loading them into the gun, one by one, methodical and grim.

Six in the chamber. His gaze goes back to the bungalow.

He shuts off the radio. Abrupt silence, except for the distant

lovers' moans. He takes another shot of bourbon courage, then

opens the door and steps from the car.

4EXT -- PLYMOUTH -- NIGHT (1946) 4

His wingtip shoes crunch on gravel. Loose bullets scatter to

the ground. The bourbon bottle drops and shatters.

He starts up the path, unsteady on his feet. The closer he

gets, the louder the lovemaking becomes. Louder and more

frenzied. The lovers are reaching a climax, their sounds of

passion degenerating into rhythmic gasps and grunts.

WOMAN (O.S.)

Oh god...oh god...oh god...

Andy lurches to a stop, listening. The woman cries out in

orgasm. The sound slams into Andy's brain like an icepick. He

shuts his eyes tightly, wishing the sound would stop.

It finally does, dying away like a siren until all that's left

is the shallow gasping and panting of post-coitus. We hear

languorous laughter, moans of satisfaction.

WOMAN (O.S.)

Oh god...that's sooo good...you're

the best...the best I ever had...

Andy just stands and listens, devastated. He doesn't look like

much of a killer now; he's just a sad little man on a dirt

path in the woods, tears streaming down his face, a loaded gun

held loosely at his side. A pathetic figure, really.

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