"SWINGERS" (1996)

Swingers (1996) movie script by Jon Favreau. Third draft, December 13, 1994.

The soundtrack opens with Frank Sinatra’s "Fly Me to the Moon".

A HELICOPTER SHOT OF THE L.A. basin.

The pool of golden light disintegrates into the thousands of points which constitute it as we rapidly draw closer to the city.

We are just above the tops of the highest buildings as we approach Hollywood Boulevard. Below is neon and the icy thrust of search lights rotating on the corner of Hollywood and Vine.

We continue west, then quickly north.

There is the momentary appearance of the moonlit HOLLYWOOD sign as we pass the blinking red beacon of the Capital Records building and drop into Franklin avenue and over the

Architectural remnants of Hollywood’s past whip up. We are heading east at treetop level. A warm glow in the distance quickly grows into a modest commercial strip which includes cafes, bookstores, and a theater.

We drop to eye level as we spy through the plate glass showcase window of the "Bourgeois Pig" coffeehouse, which holds the translucent reflection of the full moon.

A cigarette wedged between knuckles smoulders. MIKE takes the last drag with great effort, then crushes it out. He sits in the window sprawled across a red velvet couch that once perfectly complemented a faux spanish foyer.

WINDOW - NIGHT

ROB sits down next to Mike, pouring himself some tea.

Close up on answering machine. Mike pushes the button.

Hello, you have f fi iv ve e messages.

Mike’s eyes light up. He paces in anticipation as the tape rewinds.

Hey, baby. It’s Trent. I hope you’re feeling better about your old girlfriend. I hope my advice helped...

Mike fast-forwards to next message.

Skipping message.

(male voice)

Whatsup, Mike. If you want to talk some more about Michelle...

(synthesized voice)

Skipping message.

(female voice)

Mike, it’s Chris. Feeling better yet about...?

(synthesized voice)

Skipping message.

Tension grows with every inch of spooling tape. Did she leave a message?

Hi, Mike. Did she call yet? If she didn’t then she doesn’t deserve...

(synthesized voice)

Skipping message.

The last one. It’s a long shot, but he’s got the faith.

Michael, this is Grandma. I want to know if you got the part on that television program. I told the whole family and they’re very excited to know if...

(synthesized voice)

Skipping message. End of final message.

Shit.

You have to put things in perspective.

I know, I know.

You’ve been through worse.

Ever since I’ve known you.

Moving here from New York was much more of an adjustment than this.

That’s because it was a challenge. You has control over you’re situation. It was hard, but you rose to it.

You really should. Life, after all, is really just a series of challenges...

Enough. I’ve got to use the phone.

Are you calling Her?

The LED goes black as the machine beeps off. Mike picks up the phone and hits autodial.

Machine beeps off. Phone rings again, then is answered.

Hello?

We hear the clicks of call-waiting-hold limbo. The silence is interrupted.

You should call your Grandmother.

That was Sue. We got two parties tonight. One’s for a modeling agency.

You got it bad, baby. You need Vegas.

A long thoughtful pause.

Mike is dressed to the nines in classic vintage threads. He’s trying to look at ease as he straightens his cuff links. He approaches Trent who suavely leans against his worn down ride. He’s a tall, slim, good-looking cat. His sharkskin suit hangs well on his lanky frame as it tapers to his ankles. Sinatra’s "Come Fly With Me" on the tape deck adds an elegance to the scene. They exchange an impish grin and depart without saying a word. Maybe this isn’t such a bad

idea.

The NEEDLE IS PINNED. The gauges are blurred by the vibration of the poorly tuned engine. The SHOT WIDENS to reveal that the "Oil" and "Service" dummy lights are both illuminated, causing an eerie red glow onto TRENT’s white knuckles.

Trent’s car is red-lined. The SWINGERS are Vegas bound. Do not pass go.

I took out three hundred, but I’m only gonna bet with one. I figure if we buy a lot of chips, the pit boss will see and they’ll comp us all sorts of shit, then we trade back the chips at the end of the night. You gotta be cool though.

Mike twists up the Chairman of the Board as we...

The two swingers are starting to fray around the edges but are unwilling to admit it to each other or themselves. Frank has been replaced by talk radio.

The needle is still buried.

Sleep deprivation and desert static radio.

Mike is sleeping in the passenger seat.

Whu?

Trent points out a mountain range. It is now the only thing separating them from their destination. The surreal glow of the desert sky is accentuated by the loud slashing of the cobalt and ruby lasers emanating from a source masked by the craggy peaks. Mike slowly stirs from his slumber. He is transfixed by this affrontation of nature. It is his first glimpse of the city without God.

Vegas.

The shrill cry of Basie’s fat brass section heralds the arrival of the young swingers. Their eyes drink every watt of golden light as Sinatra’s crooning urges them on.

Mike has either had enough sleep or so little that it no longer matters. Either way, there’s no turning back.

They roll up to a casino valet. TILT UP to a skull and crossbones which looms overhead.

The two guys walk and talk down a fluorescent hallway. It is well past midnight and the only patrons at this hour are tourists too drunk to sleep and compulsive gamblers who snuck out of their rooms without waking their wives.

It is a weeknight and it is beginning to become painfully obvious that our boys are overdressed.

The decor is nautical plaster. Castings of bearded men with primitive prosthesis clutching daggers between their teeth are everywhere.

All of ye olde promenade shoppes are closed.

Pirates of the fucking Caribbean.

The corridor empties into the equally kitch CASINO.

Trent contorts his face at a cute WAITRESS passing by with a tray of drinks.

The waitress cracks a smile as she crosses away. Mike is visibly embarrassed.

it, then they give you shit for free.

Mike points to a semi-curtained, semi-roped-off area near the baccarat tables. The clientele is classier, but they’re still obviously overdressed.

That’s where we make our scene.

Mike is at a blackjack table with Trent at his side. The game has paused to observe the newcomers as Mike draws a billfold out of his breast pocket. They’re pulling it off with only slightly noticeable effort.

Mike tries to hand the DEALER a handful of twenties after counting them twice.

The other players grow impatient.

Oh... right.

The dealer lays out the bills such that the amount is visible to the camera encased in the black glass globe overhead. Trent and Mike look up at it open-mouthed like turkeys in the rain.

Mike’s attention is recaptured by the dealer, but Trent continues trying to peer through the smoked glass.

The dealer chirps out an unintelligible formality and the PIT BOSS chirps the response. Trent’s focus whips away from the camera as both he and Mike stare at the pit boss ten feet away.

The dealer plunks down the measly THREE CHIPS which represent Mike’s entire cash reserve. Not quite the effect he had hoped for.

The swingers stare at the chips. The players stare at the swingers. The dealer stares at the pit boss.

The dealer indicates a FIVE-DOLLAR TABLE across the room where an Hispanic woman deals to a BLUEHAIR, a BIKER, and a COUPLE in matching Siegfried and Roy T-shirts.

The swingers look back to the dealer who is now flanked by the pit boss.

The tense silence is broken by...

(then to Trent)

How about you, C Ca ap p’ ’n n?

Trent looks over to see that it’s the same WAITRESS who flashed him a smile earlier. At first he begins to smile, then, remembering that he is locked in a high stakes battle of wills, subtly shakes her off. She smirks and starts to leave until she is interrupted by Mike holding up a finger.

It’s a balsy move, but everyone’s watching. The kid’s going for broke.

I’ll have a vodka martini, straight up, shaken not stirred, very dry.

Smooth. Trent is impressed, but masks his pride.

One "James Bond".

Ow. She exits.

No. Blacks will be fine.

Mike throws a chip in the circle. Trent is shocked. That’s a hundred bucks. Mike and Trent share a look. The dealer and the pit boss exchange glances. Bets are all down and the cards are meticulously dealt.

The dealer has a two showing. Mike has been dealt a five and a six- e el le ev ve en n.

Double down.

What?!?

Everyone’s waiting for them.

The dealer, the pit boss, and all the players look on as Mike drops ANOTHER BLACK CHIP in the circle with a barely audible, yet deafening, thud.

Double down.

A bead of sweat.

The sharp snap of a dealt card.

It’s a seven. E Ei ig gh ht te ee en n.

Disappointment twists their faces.

Finally the dealer flips over his card.

It’s a king! T Tw we el lv ve e. Here comes the bust...

Flick - four. S Si ix xt te ee en n! Here comes the bust...

Flick - five. T Tw we en nt ty y o on ne e. Groans all around, except for the swingers who watch their chips slide away in silence.

Mike breaks the spell with a plucky smile from the pit of his stomach.

Sure could use some dinner about now.

Trent and Mike are wedged between the BLUEHAIR and the BIKER At the FIVE DOLLAR TABLE. They share a pile of red chips.

In the meantime, the Bluehair has been dealt an eleven. This captures the swinger’s attention.

Four. F Fi if ft te ee en n all together.

Two. S Se ev ve en nt te ee en n. Dealer has a seven showing.

Four! T Tw we en nt ty y o on ne e.

Twenty one.

Polite applause from around the table which the Bluehair humbly waves off. Mike looks at Trent. Daggers. Trent shrugs.

A different PIT BOSS approaches.

I’m gonna fuckink ki il ll lyou.

Mike is presented a stack of twenties by the CASHIER, who counts them out. Trent looks on.

(polite smile)

Mike throws her a disgusted look, then turns to go. Trent struggles to cheer him up.

Mike throws him a disgusted glare.

W Wh ho o’ ’s s the big winner?

Mike looks away, shaking his head in disgust.

M Mi ik ke ey y’ ’s s the big winner.

What an asshole.

The same WAITRESS from before approaches the swingers as they are about to leave.

A couple of high rollers like you?

Bring a James Bond for me a an nd d my boy Mikey, and if you tell the bartender to go easy on the water...

(holds up a half-dollar)

...this Kennedy has your name on it. Now run along, I’m timing you.

The waitress smiles in spite of herself, shakes her head, and walks away.

of her beautiful baby friends.

y ye ea ar rs s. That’s before AIDS. I’m scared.

I don’t know how to talk to them, I don’t know...

Tee is interrupted by the WAITRESS who, thank God, barely missed his comment.

... One fifty-nine, Two minutes.

(reads nameplate)

... Christy?

Mike can’t believe it. Tee is just making it happen.

(Trent throws the half-dollar on her tray)

Trent and Mike are looking at menus. They’re smoking at the table because the can.

The COFFEE SHOP WAITRESS approaches the table. She’s cute, but not nearly as hot as Christy.

(points to Trent, who nods)

Two coffees. It says "Breakfast Any Time", right?

It goes over like a lead balloon.

She takes the menus and goes.

Nice, baby.

"Age of Enlightenment". Shit. Like some waitress in a Las Vegas coffee shop is going to get an obscure French philosophical reference. How demeaning. I may as well have just said "Let me jump your ignorant bones."...

(checks watch)

We gotta go soon.

Mike tries to catch the attention of their waitress, who is passing with a huge platter containing a BREAKFAST BANQUET.

She passes their table and sets the ENTIRE FEAST in front of the BLUEHAIR from the casino who sits alone.

Christy is at the bar wearing acid-washed jeans with a matching denim top. She’s sexy in a pathetic mid-eighties sort of way. She’s sitting next to a pretty brunette, LISA, dressed in a similar fashion.

There is something bizarre about her appearance. Her hair is tied into long pig-tails with powder blue ribbons. Her makeup job is almost theatrical, with bright pink/red lips. She can’t be t th ha at t out of it, or can she?

The girls have already been flanked by a herd of potential COURTIERS.

The SWINGERS saunter up to the girls in a smooth, SLOW-MOTION SHOT.

The girls notice them.

The courtiers sense their rejection and part like the Red Sea for the swingers in perfect slow-motion choreography.

(with contempt)

and this is my friend "Doubledown Trent".

Stop.

(then to the girls)

Ladies, don’t you double down on an eleven?

I’m a "Dorothy".

Oh... a D Do or ro ot th hy y.

Another lead balloon. Uncomfortable silence.

More uncomfortable silence.

Oh? You know about booking agents... I don’t, uh, actually have a w we es st t c co oa as st t agent as of yet...

Mike rolls his eyes at how full of shit he is.

The swingers exchange a glance.

Beat.

TRENT & MIKE

Sounds good to me... Fine... Sure

Establishing shot of an Airstream trailer dug into the desert on chocks. Trent’s car and two El Caminos are parked out front.

The foursome, now somewhat more intimate, sit huddled around the fold-out table.

They’ve been drinking whiskey and long-neck Buds, judging by the recyclables.

The pairings seems to be Trent/Christy, Mike/Lisa.

The cramped compartment is filled with secondary smoke and laughter.

crying... The casting director, she starts crying...

o ol ld d. I’m like "How old is the

Brother?". He’s like, he says this with a straight face, I swear to God, he says "E El le ev ve en n."

d do ow wn n."?

They all crack up even more.

The room dies down. The girls settle into the arms of their men. There’s a lot of body language and pheromones, but not a lot of words.

She gets up and leads Trent into the sleeping compartment to the rear. The door slaps shut.

Mike and Lisa, in all her made-up glory, look into each others eyes.

Trent is already at work. He’s smooth. A cascade of stuffed animals tumble off the bed with every thrust. Clothes start to peel off.

Trent takes a breather. He takes a step to the door.

Trent cracks the door and peers through. The light is dim, but he can make out that they’re starting to neck.

He closes the door, satisfied.

What a good friend. I can use a friend like you.

(she beckons him back to bed)

What seemed like necking is actually Lisa and Mike huddled tight having an intimate conversation.

I’m sure she’ll call. Six years is a long time. You don’t just break it off cleanly after six years.

Beat.

Mike gets up and approaches the door.

Mike lightly knocks on the door.

(knock knock)

Tee.

The door cracks.

Trent pokes a CONDOM through the door.

The door closes.

I hope I’m not interrupting anything. They weren’t in there that long.

Lisa reassuringly shakes her head.

Beat.

Christy walks out wearing only Trent’s sharkskin jacket as a robe.

Trent follows with a towel wrapped around his waist.

Trent glares at Mike as they pass. Daggers.

I’ve got a calling card, there’s no charge to your phone.

Mike dials.

Half naked Trent and Christy sit with fully clothed Lisa.

The poor thing. Six years?

Trent is not happy.

Mike is on the phone.

She didn’t call.

Disappointment pulls at Mike’s brow.

The girls clean up the bottles and ashtrays. The coffee is brewing. The shades are up. It’s officially morning.

Trent’s chin is in his hand. He radiates the blue tinge of glandular congestion. He’ll have no part of any of this.

Mike enters.

The girls immediately stop their chatter and look at him in anticipation.

Mike shakes his head "no".

The girls walk to embrace him in consolation.

Trent just shakes his head. He’ll have no part of any of this.

Establishing whot of Trent’s car heading back to L.A. on the northbound I-15. The speeding car is dwarfed by the expansive badlands.

See? And what does this guy she’s with do?

I hear he drives a carriage around Central Park or something.

Trent cranks some Frank. "You Make Me Feel So Young".

Mike is finally, genuinely, smiling.

He turns down the music enough to talk.

Trent just smiles and cranks Frank back up

Trent’s car drives off into the distance. A sign reads: "Los Angeles - 270 miles".

Establishing shot of MIKE and ROB teeing off with nine irons.

Rob wears a Yale sweatshirt. Mike wears one from Queens College. A Mets cap shades his eyes. Neither have shaved and, odds are, neither showered. They each carry a loose nine blade and putter as they wander to their lie.

They split up and both over-chip the green miserably.

Mike and Rob putt.

Mike pulls out the flag for Rob’s putt. He misses.

(re: the ball)

Go ahead. Play it out.

Rob putts the "gimme". He misses by an inch.

Rob taps it in. He tends the pin or Mike, who misses.

Mike putts again, and misses.

Mike plunks it in.

The two of them count and recount as they revisualize each shot in their head. Throughout the process they count under their breath and point to different parts of the fairway and green.

The two of them revolve, point, and mumble for an absurdly long amount of time until finally...

(writes score)

Rob points to the far-off crowd of a dozen IRATE GOLFERS Waiting to tee off.

First of all, SUE is a g gu uy y, and a tough guy at that. He is wearing an L.A. Kings home jersey. His sweater bears the sacred number "99". Sue is lounging in front of the TV in army surplus khaki cutoffs and untied Doc Martin boots.

Sue brushes back a shock of straight, greasy, dirty blonde hair as not to obscure his view of the screen. His face glows with the reflection of the SEGA HOCKEY game on the set. Sue and TRENT are locked in a heavily contested battle of motor reflexes. Nothing moves but their eyes, thumbs, and mouths...

MIKE looks on. He is more captivated with the simulated sporting event than the Clippers game on the TV across the room.

Electric guitars blaze over the stereo.

The room, like the guys, could use a spring cleaning. Pizza boxes, beer bottles, and full, full ashtrays. You can taste the smoke.

The PHONE RINGS. Sue picks it up and balances it on his shoulder as he plays.

(re: game)

S Sh hi it t!

(back to phone)

Yeah. The elevator doesn’t work.

(he lets the phone drop. Then to Mike)

It’s Pink Dot. Buzz him in - hit nine.

Mike picks up the phone off the matted shag carpet. He pushes "9", listens, then hangs up.

The DELIVERY MAN knocks on the door.

(Trent pauses the game)

While Sue gives Mike the money, Trent UNPAUSES the game and checks Gretsky into the boards, leaving him writhing in a pool of red pixels.

Sue dives onto Trent. They wrestle a little too rambunctiously for indoors. Trent pulls the hockey sweater over Sue’s head and starts wailing on his back.

Mike crosses. The CAMERA follows him down a shallow hallway to the door. He unlocks it.

A delivery man of eastern-hemispheric decent is out of breath from four flights of stairs. He hands Mike a twelve-pack of Bud cans and three packs of Marlboro reds.

He can HEAR, but NOT SEE, the chaos ensuing in the living room.

Trent and Sue are flushed. They pause long enough to torment Mike.

Is he c cu ut te e? Ask him if he wants to stay for a cocktail!

... Is he b br ro ow wn n?

Mike forces an apologetic smile. He is embarrassed. The delivery man doesn’t seem to understand any of this.

Mike, out of guilt, hands him a four dollar tip. This he seems to understand. He smiles and leaves.

Mike crosses back to the main room.

Aww... He got away?

Trent)

Gimme my reds. I’ve been jonesing for an hour.

Mike throws him a pack of smokes, which he unravels with surgical precision.

Cans of beer are tossed around and cracked.

TRENT & SUE

Midnight.

Yeah. He’s a "rounder".

MIKE and ROB walk down the dirty deserted alleyway. Mike is wearing baggy slacks, Doc Martin shoes, and an oversized Eisenhower-cut jacket with a vertical stripe inset. The collar is large and pointy, but definitely not seventies. His ensemble has more of an early sixties vibe.

Rob hasn’t been at it quite as long. He’s wearing worn-in Levies over worn-in boots and, the nineties standby, an untucked flannel.

Mike walks with purpose. He intermittently tries to pull open locked steel doors along the alley. Rob looks confused.

(beat)

Where is this place?

It’s one of these. For some reason, cool bars in L.A. have to be very hard to find and have no signs out front.

It’s kinda like a speakeasy kind of thing. It’s kinda cool. It’s like you’re in on some kind of secret. You tell a chick you’ve been some place, it’s like bragging that you know how to find it. The only way you could know where a place is is if someone who knows brought you there. You have to have someone come before. There is a direct line connecting you back to the original, unequivocally cool, club patrons. It’s kinda like Judaism...

At this point they come upon an unmarked BLACK METAL DOOR, which Mike successfully pulls open to reveal...

A smoke-filled, windowless, black-walled room. There are several round padded booths lining the walls. The place is packed, and the funk standard "Brick House" throbs over the

P.A..

A HANDHELD SHOT as the two guys serpentine to the mirrored bar at the far end of the room. Enshrined in its center is a framed photograph of SINATRA smiling in approval as he presides over the evening’s activities.

Mike proudly points out the photo to Rob.

Classy.

Mike catches the attention of a cute female BARTENDER.

(looks to Rob)

She goes.

one of them.

The bartender serves them their drinks.

Whassup Mikey?

Mike turns to see CHARLES. A young black man with a tight Dolomite fro. He wears a black leather blazer over a black turtleneck. Just look up "cool" in the dictionary.

A handshake turns into a hug.

Shake.

Why not? This place is dead anyway.

MIKE, TRENT, SUE, CHARLES, and ROB sit around the round scotch-plaid corner booth of the retro-hip coffee shop. All of our boys, with the exception of Rob, are classily dressed. They wear a lot of black, brown, and gray with a splash of gold and maroon.

The CAMERA REVOLVES around the table in a repeating "Reservoir Dogs" style over the shoulder 360 DEGREE PAN.

Well, let’s hit that party.

The five swingers walk down the boulevard in a SLO-MO SHOT which is extremely "derivative" of the "Reservoir Dogs" credit sequence.

The scene is choreographed to Bennett’s big band arrangement of "O SOLE MIO".

Muffled music seeps through the door. The swingers turn the knob and enter...

The huge sunken living room is packed with people congealed into circles of conversation and sipping cocktails.

EVERYTHING STOPS when they enter. The music, the conversations, all movement, everything.

Everyone in the room STARES at them standing in the doorway.

Beat.

The music starts back up and everyone returns to their conversations.

The swingers weave their way through the crowd to...

The swingers fix themselves drinks from an assortment of bottles cluttering the table. The shamelessly paw at the top shelf brands.

With that, the three of them peel off to work the room.

Trent and Sue are scouting some LADIES across the room. One wears a FUNKY OVERSIZED HAT. Intermittent eye contact has been established.

Mike and Rob have come back into the room. They scout the terrain.

Mike spots a pair of beautiful BLONDES in black. They’re wearing stretch bell-bottoms and tops that expose their mid- drifts. The seventies never looked so good.

I’m going in. Will you be my wing-man?

They make the approach. With a great deal of effort, Mike catches their attention...

... only to be interrupted by the party STOPPING to check another entrance.

Beat.

The party RESUMES and the blondes redirect their attention to Mike. He is a little put-off but, God love him, he gets back in there.

The blondes immediately enter back into their conversation as if they were never approached.

Mike and Rob exchange defeated glances.

One more try.

Trent and Sue are trying to look like they’re not paying attention to the group of ladies they saw across the room.

Mike and Rob walk up to Trent and Sue.

Minnie Pearl.

Mike and Rob STARE DIRECTLY at the girls like a deer in the headlights... a big no-no.

Trent and Sue react with frustrated disappointment.

Trent crosses away.

Mike’s P.O.V. of Trent passing near and the GIRL IN THE HAT. He says something, smiles, and points to her hat. She laughs.

Trent is having a sensitive one-on-one with the girl in the hat.

Under Trent’s affirmative response we hear the first haunting TUBA PULSE of the JAWS THEME:

U Uh hh hh hh h... H Hu uu uu uh hh hh h.

CLOSE UP of MIKE’S FACE as he looks on in HORRIFIED AWE from afar.

The second TUBA PULSE accompanies Trent’s sound of agreement:

EXTREME CLOSE UP of MIKE’S HORRIFIED EYES.

The third, and progressively faster, TUBA PULSE sounds under Trent’s response as the JAWS THEME begins to speed up and fill out:

- -H Hu uh h...

Mike, Rob, and Sue look on.

The group’s P.O.V. of the conversation.

The JAWS THEME reaches its violent crescendo as the girl looks into her purse.

Trent winks to the boys. Smooth.

She comes up with a pen and writes our her phone number.

Trent crosses back as the music dies away.

Using his body as a shield so the girl can’t see, but so his boys can, he rips up and drops the number as he approaches them.

The door opens. The party PAUSES to look, then RESUMES.

Trent smiles and waves to her across the room. She coyly waves back and makes a "phone sign" with her hand. Trent nods and smiles.

Big butt... you know, can’t fly coach.

Charles approaches the crew.

Overhead LONG SHOT of the swingers entrenched in the CROWDED PARTY.

The swingers have left the party and are heading to their cars. They are all parked in a row, one behind the other. They each climb behind the wheel of their own car. They pull out in UNISON.

They travel like a train with their bumpers ALMOST TOUCHING.

SHOTS of the CAR-TRAIN driving and making turns.

"O SOLE MIO" reprise.

The car-train BREAKS UP to nose-in park behind the bar. They all "club" their steering wheels.

The SWINGERS lounge in a booth against the cork-paneled wall, sipping cocktails. They watch MARTY and ELAYNE, the resident lounge act, perform a jazz fusion cover of "Staying Alive" on synth and upright bass. The seventies are alive and well here, but they’re starting to yellow around the edges...

The room is busy, but not packed.

The swingers have all had a few.

Trent and Sue are involved in a different conversation. They

are observing two HOT GIRLS at another cocktail table.

The girls are wearing short plaid skirts with black stockings pulled up to midthigh. It’s the "catholic-school-girl-gone- bad" look.

The girls are a little too touchy-feely with each other, suggesting a certain sexual open-mindedness.

As they get up to leave...

They cross to the ladies.

Mike’s P.O.V.

The girls seem at first cold, the receptive. Trent and Sue join their table and share some laughs.

Mike half-heartedly looks on. He is obviously not happy with where he stands on the bell-curve of masculinity.

Mike, looking for any kind of escape, crosses to the bar.

Mike unsuccessfully tries to catch the attention of the middle aged BARTENDER.

I can’t even get t th hi is s g gu uy y to notice me...

A cute BLONDE sitting at the bar chuckles at his comment.

Mike is at first self-conscious, then pushes ahead.

She raises her finger and the bartender immediately approaches.

He goes to fix it.

Well, you know, it’s tough. A lot of traveling. A lot of hotels... but, you know, it’s a dream... and the money’s really good. I think I might buy another really expensive imported car after my next gig in Vegas...

I know! Starbucks! I served you an espresso at Starbucks.

Oh, yeah... Boy, that must’ve been a while ago.

You better pay the man.

Mike notices the bartender, who has been waiting patiently with the drink.

Oh... Sorry.

She chuckles. He pays and throws down a two-dollar tip apologetically.

Well, thank you...?

He walks away kicking himself. He is interrupted by Trent and Sue, who both hold up cocktail napkins with scribbles.

(to Mike)

You’re so money, you don’t even know...

Beat. Mike smiles.

Now when you talk to her, I don’t want you to be the guy in the PG-13 movie that everyone’s pulling for. I want you to be the guy in the rated R movie who you’re not sure if you like.

Mike nods and, energized by the bombardment, crosses back to the bar and right into the fray.

Trent and Sue rejoin the other swingers.

Swinger’s P.O.V. of Mike decisively engaging her in conversation.

She laughs.

Out comes the pen and the cocktail napkin. Bingo.

Mike crosses back to the swingers’ table and, using his body to shield Nikki’s view, pretends to rip the napkin. This breaks the guys up.

Mike sits down and, after admiring the blotchy numerals, delicately folds the napkin and pockets it.

MIKE

Everyone reacts favorably to this area code.

... I used to wait two days. Now everyone waits two days. Three days is kinda money now, don’t you think?

Why don’t I just wait three weeks and tell her I was cleaning out my wallet and found her number...

(pause)

Then I’ll ask if we fucked. How’s that,

Tee? Is that "the money"?

The guys laugh.

TRENT & SUE

Six days.

The swingers are leaving through the back door. The doorway is congested with another group of guys who are entering.

A BALD GUY with a goatee brushes by Sue.

That’s it. Now they’re squaring off in the empty parking lot.

All the bald guy’s boys fall in behind him. All the swingers fall in behind Sue. The swingers are not happy with Sue at all.

The two cliques contrast each other in every way.

The bald guys all have facial hair and multiple pierced extremities with the odd neck-tattoo thrown in for good measure.

Baggy denim and boots. Pot leaves and Pumas. Long, heavy key chains. Vintage 1994 whiteboy faux-gansta. They do, however, look big and mean next to our boys.

The early sixties style sweater jackets and blazers over button down shirts and tapered slacks don’t quite have the same fear factor, but the boys do look classy.

The word "bitch" is growled out by the two of them a half

dozen more times until...

Sue pulls a PISTOL out of his belt.

Everyone is SCARED. Especially the swingers.

The bald guys HOLD UP THEIR HANDS and slowly back up to their ride.

They jump in the car and SPEED AWAY.

Sue belts the gun and stands tall like Clint.

Charles leaves.

Rob leaves, shaken up.

Mike walks to his car.

It’s too late. He’s leaving.

Sue starts to open his mouth.

(pause)

You a as ss sh ho ol le e.

Mike opens the door and flicks on the lights in his sparsely furnished single.

He drops his keys on the table and makes a bee line to the answering machine.

He pushes the button.

She didn’t call.

Mike collapses into his futon and lights a smoke.

Beat.

He pulls out the COCKTAIL NAPKIN. He stares at the number.

He looks at the clock. 2:20 AM.

He looks at the napkin.

He thinks better of it, and puts the napkin away.

Beat.

He takes out the napkin and picks up the phone.

Don’t do it, Mike.

He dials.

It rings twice, then...

Hi. This is Nikki. Leave a message.

(beep)

(beep)

Mike hangs up.

Beat.

He dials again.

Hi. This is Nikki. Leave a message.

(beep)

(beep)

Mike calls back right away.

Hi. This is Nikki. Leave a message.

(beep)

(he regrets saying it immediately)

... I mean, you know, we should just hang out. That’s it. No expectations. Just, you know, hang out. Bye.

(beep)

He hangs up.

Beat.

He dials.

Hi. This is Nikki. Leaves a message.

(beep)

(pause)

This is Mike.

(beep)

He dials again. There’s no turning back.

Hi. This is Nikki. Leave a message.

(beep)

(beep)

He dials yet again.

Hi. This is Nikki. Leave a message.

(beep)

Mike?

Don’t call me ever again.

(click)

She hung up on him.

He’s frozen.

He hangs up.

Beat.

He pulls the comforter off the futon and curls up in the corner of the room.

MONTAGE FLASHBACK:

The following sequence is m.o.s. over Billie Holiday’s "Maybe You’ll Be There."

YOUNGER MIKE catches his first glimpse of MICHELLE. She doesn’t see him looking at her. She is paying attention to the lesson.

Mike approaches Michelle for the FIRST TIME. She looks beautiful when she looks up at him for the first time.

They’re having a PICNIC with white wine, Cheese, prosciutto, and French bread. Mike plays a ukulele.

Mike and Michelle sit with a lap full of food. They are laughing about something. Mike leans in for his first deep,

passionate KISS. The crowd jumps up to cheer a Daryl Strawberry home run which the lovers don’t notice. They stay seated, kissing, and are lost to the CAMERA in the crowd.

Their first sexual experience. Mike is obviously nervous as he lies undressed under the covers. He sporadically adjusts his hair and strikes poses as he waits for Michelle to come out of the bathroom. This is INTERCUT with shots of the closed bathroom door.

Mike and Michelle are Christmas shopping in the snow. It’s like a story book.

A newspaper, barely noticeable on stand in b.g., reads "VITO CORLEONE FEARED MURDERED"

Mike and Michelle lethargically lay across the couch. They half-heartedly watch a rented video as they shovel Chinese take-out into their bloating faces.

Mike and Michelle say good bye. They hug and cry. He boards a plane for L.A..

SHOT of answering machine.

... Pick up.... Pick up, Mikey... Are you home?

He is.

He is sitting in the same corner, smoking, with a two day beard. He is surrounded by full ashtrays and empty Tropicana containers. Billie Holiday’s "Maybe you’ll Be There" draws to a close on the C.D. player.

... I guess you’re not home. Why don’t

you come out tonight, baby. We haven’t seen you for two days. We’re gonna play hockey at Sue’s house til ten thirty then we’re either going to the Lava Lounge for Sinatra night, or the Derby for the Royal Crown. We might also check out Swing Night at the Viper. If we’re not there we’ll be at the Three of Clubs. So come meet up with us. We’ll see you there, gorgeous.

(beep)

He hasn’t moved.

The PHONE RINGS.

He looks to the answering machine hopefully as it picks up after one ring.

Mikey...? It’s Rob. Pick up, buddy.

His shoulders slack with DISAPPOINTMENT. It’s not Her.

... I’m downstairs. Buzz me in. I know you’re home. Your lights are on and your car’s here. Come on, buddy. Open up...

Mike picks up the phone, pushes "9", and hangs up.

He lights a cigarette.

A knock at the door.

Mike opens it, and Rob walks in with a brown bag.

He surveys the scene. He’s seen this before. He moves some laundry off an armchair and sits down.

He pulls a pepperoni and a loaf of seminola out of the bag.

He hands Mike a pint of orange juice.

Mike shakes his head, "no".

Mike shakes his head again.

Rob cuts into the pepperoni with his Swiss army knife. Mike drinks his juice.

Mike half-smiles.

Beat.

Mike grabs his head in pain.

Beat.

Mike lets it sink in.

Mike smiles, then...

Then why won’t she call...?

We see that Mike has been GNAWING AWAY at Rob’s pepperoni and semolina as he listens intently.

(finishing the loaf)

You wanna grab a bite?

Sure.

He helps Mike up.

You always know the right thing to say.

Trent opens the door. He sees Mike standing there dressed for trouble. His face lights up.

Mikey!

Mike HEARS the sound of a hotly contested SEGA MATCH.

The CAMERA follows Mike and Trent into the...

Mike’s JAW DROPS when he sees that Sue has been playing hockey against the BALD GUY from the Dresden.

The room is filled with the BALD GUY’S CREW. They greet Mike as they take hits off their forty ouncers.

They do a high-speed "controller handoff."

Sue crosses to Mike.

All the baldies howl and slap hands at something funny Tee said.

(they hug)

I’ve been hating myself for the last two days.

(then to Trent)

Yo, Double Down! What time are we leaving?

The THREE SWINGERS are waved pass the line by the doorman in a Scorsese-style STEADICAM SHOT which continues up the stairs and through a curtained doorway into...

They enter the domed decco lounge and the full house parts for them and greets them in perfect Scorsese choreography.

They pass the billiard table and the circular brass rail bar.

The six piece swing band decked out in zoot suits wail on stage as the crowded dance floor whirls.

The swingers eventually settle into a dark curtained-off onstage booth.

Sue thrusts a scotch into Mike’s hand.

Montage of smoking, drinking, and carousing.

The parquet floor is packed with swinging hepsters dressed in Hollywood’s take on forties threads. The dancing is full- blown overcrowded slam swing. The floor is full, and everyone is damn good. This definitely aint amateur night.

Mike steps up to the bar to refill his drink. He sees a BRUNETTE sitting at the bar.

She’s cute.

Real cute.

She glows.

There’s something fresh about her. She’s dressed nice, but different. She definitely is not a regular.

She throws Mike a half-smile, then looks away.

He looks away.

Should he?

He shakes his head to himself. No.

Beat.

He looks over at her again.

Mike’s P.O.V. of a WHITE BUNNY sitting on the bar stool.

He smiles, shrugs, and CROSSES TO HER.

When he gets to her she has reverted back to human form.

Yes. Like the quiche.

Trent points the conversation out to Sue from across the room.

Trent and Sue’s P.O.V. of Mike and Lorraine having an unforced, enjoyable conversation.

BACK IN THE TRENCHES:

I thought I was going to die.

It does.

Like what?

single. I want to know what the advantages are.

Well... You can talk to a beautiful woman at a bar without worrying if anyone’s watching you.

Trent and Sue are watching from across the room.

BRUNETTE

What else?

No... Maybe that’s not the case. Maybe she shouldn’t be such a smug little shit because she’d be surprised at what a good dancer he really is, but it’s been a long time and he doesn’t know if he’s ready to...

She gets up. She’s beautiful. She is beautiful.

She’s in great shape, and look how classy her vintage dress looks. A vision from the forties. She’s too good for this place. She belongs on the nose of a B-52. What can he say, but...

He awkwardly leads her to the unusually empty dance floor. They START TO DANCE. It’s a slow song and they boringly rock back and forth. Mike is self-conscious, but her touch. Oh her touch.

Trent and Sue watching in disbelief.

The couple’s dance is cut short as there were only a few bars left of the slow ballad. Mike smiles politely in relief and begins to lead Lorraine off the floor.

She pulls him back. He’s not getting off that easy. She wants a whole song. He politely holds her, poised for another slow number. They’re alone on the floor.

Much to Mike’s dismay, the song begins with a DRIVING TOM TOM SOLO. This cues every hep cat in the Derby that the big one’s coming. They all flood the floor for the last dance of the night.

Mike pleadingly shakes his head at Lorraine. It’s too fast.

Her eyes narrow as her grip tightens. No sympathy here.

The band breaks into the full-tilt swing number and the dance floor writhes around them.

They stand motionless for what seems like an eternity.

Gut check. Fuck it. Sink or swim.

Mike grabs her like a man grabs a woman. It’s just a simple six-count swing step, but they’re in perfect harmony.

Mike and Lorraine look into each others eyes. It’s on, baby.

As Mike’s courage grows, the moves start to flow. A spin at first. Then a double twirl. It’s not long before he’s throwing her through combinations that stand out even among the pros.

Trent and Sue, mouths agape.

Mike is whipping her smoothly through violent-looking combinations without a trace of hesitation, and, boy, can she follow.

The set ends with a flourishing crescendo. They’re frozen in a final dip, panting through a glaze of clean sweat.

Mike and Lorraine smile and look into each other’s eyes. The smile slowly disappears. Will they kiss?

They’re close.

Really close.

Lips almost touching.

Mike tries to muster-up the courage, but it’s been so long.

He can’t do it. He lets her up.

The floor clears. Exhausted dancers push past them. Forget it. The moment’s gone.

What the hell. They had a great time. What’s the hurry?

Mike is walking Lorraine to her car. They come upon a parked Escort.

(opens the door)

Do you have something to write on?

Mike hands her a business card.

You’re a comedian?

(She writes her number on the card.)

Can I have one of these?

(hands her a card)

Beat.

Beat.

Mike leans in and slowly gives her the sweetest, softest, most innocent kiss.

He backs up. She’s got that goofy look as she unlocks her club and starts the car.

She drives off.

He watches her go.

Mike is driving Trent and Sue home in his car.

Trent and sue pretend to cry and hug each other.

Mike looks at them in the rear view mirror.

He smirks and shakes his head.

Trent and Sue scream at the top of their lungs as they cruise down Sunset. Alcohol is a terrible drug.

Mike is standing in the middle of the room looking at LORRAINE’S NUMBER on the back of the BUSINESS CARD.

He looks at the clock.

2:45 A.M.

He looks back at the NUMBER.

Beat.

He thinks better of it. He wedges it into a crack in the answering machine and unbuttons his shirt for bed...

Good move.

Mike smirks.

Mike wakes up and rolls out of bed.

He walks to the phone and pulls the CARD out of the crack.

He looks at the clock.

12:10 PM.

He sticks it back in the crack.

He makes an "x" on a day of his calendar.

Mike brushes his teeth.

He looks at the card clipped into the frame of the bathroom mirror.

He turns the faucet, allowing exactly ONE DROP of his precious Los Angeles water supply to drip onto his toothbrush.

He resumes brushing.

Mike sips espresso as he stares at the CARD.

Mike is playing solitaire with the CARD laying above all the playing cards.

The PHONE RINGS.

Mike rushes to get it, then forces himself to wait another ring and a half exactly.

(pause)

I think about things.

Pierre...

The BEEP of Mike’s CALL WAITING.

He clicks to the OTHER LINE.

He clicks back to the OTHER LINE.

Mike SWITCHES LINES, cutting Michelle off mid-sentence.

Mike holds his palm over the receiver and looks at the answering machine.

Beat.

Do you realize that I’ve been waiting for that call for six months and I cut her off?

You’re money, baby.

Mike smiles.

Back to Lorraine.

MEDIUM SHOT of Mike through his window as he looks down onto Franklin avenue and talks on the phone.

Hollywood have signs. Anyway, I’m so bad at this, if you’re not busy I thought you might...

Mike smiles as the CAMERA PULLS BACK from the window and backwards down Franklin Avenue in a reverse of the first shot of the movie. The soundtrack kicks in with Sinatra’s "Here’s To The Losers"....

...We rise and pass the glowing Hollywood sign. It’s still a full moon...

.... Past the blinking red beacon of the Capital Records building...

... Up and over Hollywood Boulevard. High above the city...

... It’s all just a pool of beautiful golden light.

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