The Public Eye

FADE IN:
BEGIN TITLES

In murky light, a piece of paper sinks in a shallow tin tub.

By degrees, faces and forms appear on the page: a swooning

woman, (circa 1940) a cop who tries to catch her, a crowd of

onlookers standing in the shadows of a tenement house in the

aftermath of a murder. Before the photograph has completely

developed, it seems to fade in a dreamy

DISSOLVE TO:

Another submerged page. A new images begins to appear: a

thick-ankled stripper (again, 1940) sleeping between shows

in her dingy dressing room. Before it has fully developed,

this photo also

DISSOLVES TO:

A new page on which appears a billboard attached to a burning

building. It advertises a 1930's sunburn medication: "Put

out the flames with SunzoCaine!" Painted flames rises from a

sunbather's burnt back, mixing with the real ones.

We continue sensuously to DISSOLVE THROUGH black and white,

high-contrast photos as they come hauntingly to life (all of

them depicting New York, at night, in the late 30's or early

40's) till we END TITLES.

We PAN TO the dim red darkroom bulb, under which we begin to

hear a faint siren and

DISSOLVE TO:

...another red bulb, this one atop a patrol car.

EXT./INT. POLICE CAR [APRIL, 1942] - NIGHT

We hear a Dispatcher's monotonous voice over a hissing police

radio.

DISPATCHER (V.O.)

Signal 30. Two-three-six Thompson

Street.

Inside the car, the Young Cop who's driving angles forward

in his seat, pressing heavily on the gas.

His older partner stares forward, blankly.

CUT TO:

EXT. 236 THOMPSON STREET - SAME

A respectable working-class block. Neighbors are clustered

by the stoop in robes, pajamas, undershirts. A woman with

young children holds them to her nightgown. All watch as The

Cops pull up by the curb and rush from their squadcar. They

push their way through the crowd.

TEENAGER:

(in an undershirt,

grinning)

Third floor.

The Cops continue into the building.

INT. STAIRWELL - 236 THOMPSON

The Cops move stealthfully up the dim stairwell, guns drawn.

On the third-floor landing, a door is ajar. Light spills out

onto the floorboards.

As they ascend, the Cops can see the corpse of a smartly

dressed young man inside:

It lies face down, its features rudely pressed and bloody

against the floor. A freshly-blocked hat lies a few feet

from the dead man; he was shot as he came home.

On the landing, the Cops move carefully to the door, hugging

the wall.

They hear someone moving inside the apartment. They freeze,

barely breathing.

The older Cop c*cks his gun, crosses himself, wraps his hand

around the doorframe. He jumps into

THE APARTMENT:

crouching, gun drawn. A crackling, blistering sound is heard

as a flash of light fills the room, blinding him.

COP:

(blinking as he stands)

Jesus.

REVERSE:

A flashbulb hits the floor hollowly.

BERNZY (whose real name is Leon Bernstein and whose

professional name is "The Great Bernzini") inserts a new

bulb in the giant chrome flash attachment of his Speed Graphic

press camera. A cigar is planted in the corner of his mouth.

Bernzy cuts a curious figure: He wears an oddly oversized

suit that has capacious pockets to accommodate camera lenses,

film plates and flashbulbs. His thick-soled shoes are sensible

to a fault. He wears a hat but no tie.

His face is alert and ironic, his movements rapid and

purposeful.

BERNZY:

(to the Cop, deadpan)

You scared me.

He reaches into his jacket to extract a new 4 x 5 glass film

plate (from a bag of plates hung over his shoulder) with a

well-practised, unhurried speed.

The older cop, O'BRIEN, is annoyed; his comment sounds like

an accusation.

O'BRIEN

We weren't six blocks from here when

it come over the radio.

Bernzy is lining up another shot; he speaks from behind both

cigar and camera.

BERNZY:

I killed him. To get the pictures.

The Young Cop has entered. Bernzy waves him back.

BERNZY:

You're casting a shadow.

He backs up, obligingly. Bernzy takes his shot.

The Young Cop kneels by the corpse. He finds a gun in the

waist-band of its suit trousers.

YOUNG COP:

(to O'Brien)

Second one this week.

O'BRIEN

(to Bernzy)

Who'd this guy work for, Bernzy?

But Bernzy hears a car pulling up outside, a car door

slamming. He peers down into the street through the window.

BERNZY'S POV:

Another Photographer is arriving. He crosses the street,

lugging a press camera.

O'BRIEN

Bernzy!

BERNZY:

I think Farinelli. But he's not

lookin' his best tonight... Could

you move his hat closer?

O'BRIEN

What?

BERNZY:

His hat. The hat. People like to see

a dead guy's hat.

O'Brien grudgingly picks up the hat, drops it closer to the

corpse.

The flashbulb fires.

CUT TO:

EXT. ALLEY - NIGHT

Bernzy, in the alley alongside the building, is hunched over

the open trunk of his sedan on a camp stool.

The car trunk has been turned into a darkroom. The truck

lamp has been replaced with a darkroom bulb. A drying line

is suspended over a shallow tub. (Also in the trunk are two

dozen boxes of Wabash super-flash photo lamps, an open box

of cigars, a pot of glue, various cameras and lenses, and a

tiny, battered typewriter.)

Bernzy looks up into the apartment window as the explosion

of a flashbulb-fills the window.

Bernzy unpins four nearly dry photos on the line, fans them

in the air, lays them face down on the trunk floor, and stamps

their backs with his identifying imprint:

Deco lettering is surround by the stamped outline of an eye,

like something on an optometrist's sign. Around the upper

and lower lids of the eye it says "CREDIT PHOTO TO - THE

GREAT BERNZINI". In the center of the eye it says "THE PUBLIC

EYE"

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