The Starveling

Adapted from Don DeLillo’s Short-Story of the same name

FAM3010F 

6 May 2016

INT. LEO’S APARTMENT – EARLY MORNING

A claustrophobic one-room 70’s apartment, minimally filled

with amenities but with the walls covered in movie posters,

looking out through a large postcard-frame window on one of

the darker reaches of Manhattan.

LEO ZHELEZNIAK – 22, clean-shaven in plain, ruffled pajamas

– sits at a table by it with his face in his hands and a

steaming cup of coffee before him.

He puts his hands down and waits for a moment.

Suddenly, the bright lamp extending from the facing wall

fizzles, sparks and catches alight, the shade engulfed in

seconds.

LEO, without otherwise reacting, jumps from his seat, picks

up an adjacent towel and throws it over the flames, leaving

the place in darkness.

INT. MOVIE THEATER – MORNING

The theater’s screen stays dark for a beat, before the title

of the film-within-this-film comes up: ’The Starveling: The

Story of Leo Zhelezniak’.

The next text reads ’Written by You, Told by Us.’

LEO – now 55 and plumper, silver-haired in an old t-shirt

and jersey – sits in the front row, not apparently perturbed

by the screen’s direct address. Instead he wears the focus

of a fighter-pilot. ’Reality’ is in black-and-white, the

action on the screen in full colour.

A woman now materializes on the screen, standing and smoking

against a similar large postcard-frame window.

She is FLORY – 48, as beautiful as Diane Lane, somehow

elegant in her own old pajamas – and her back is turned to

the audience, staring out at the apartments across the

street.

INT. FLORY’S APARTMENT – DAY

The view is quite different to the one from Leo’s 70’s

bachelor pad. The neighbourhood appears healthy, the glass

itself is much cleaner and ambient hoots & barks stay

distant and regular.

FLORY finally turns to face the audience.

(CONTINUED) 

CONTINUED: 

2. 

                    FLORY

          Hey Leo. This is your life’s

          exposition. You’re hearing it

          because by now it could so easily

          become lost amongst all the other

          movies. I’m your confidante, Flory.

          We were married for a while, and we

          still live together, not just out

          of convenience. You sleep on a cot

          here in the living-room but

          occasionally we make love again in

          my bed, and afterwards I wonder

          aloud why you do what you do and

          are who you are.

INT. FLORY’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

LEO and FLORY are lying in her single bed together in the

half-light, a slight distance separating their faces. FLORY

talks soundlessly, her voice-over overlapping her lips. LEO

listens steadily, still interested.

                    FLORY (CONT’D & O.S.)

          You’re a Movie-Monk. A lapsed

          catholic needing some kind of

          communion. You got stuck at the

          mirror-phase as a baby. You think

          you’re more fictional than real,

          that the big screen contains your

          only friends. You want to be your

          own Master, like a great director,

          but through consumption, not

          production…

INT. FLORY’S APARTMENT – DAY

Back to her address from the window.

                    FLORY (CONT’D)

          I know you don’t like voice-over

          but I’m sure you prefer it to an

          unbroken lecture. Anyway, the facts

          are that thirty years ago, before

          you met me, you inherited your

          father’s hoarded fortune and

          decided to use it to go to the

          movies four times a day for the

          rest of your life.

EXT. MANHATTAN SIDEWALK – DAY

25-year-old LEO stands slumped near the front of a queue

looping ’round the block for a neighbourhood cinema. The

Marquee reads ’Coppola’s New Epic’.

                 FLORY (CONT’D & O.S.)

          By coincidence, Apocalypse Now 

          came out the weekend he passed. You

          even reckoned that his heart-attack

          must have struck just as you first

          saw Kurtz emerge from the darkness.

INT. MOVIE THEATER – AFTERNOON

25-year-old LEO looks up in subtle wonder from the front row

as Kurtz mumbles to Willard in their eventual confrontation.

The mystic orange light of the scene plays over his face.

                    FLORY (CONT’D & O.S.)

          Maybe not at that exact moment, but

          close enough to make it symbolic.

EXT. BROOKLYN SIDEWALK – MORNING

50-year-old LEO walks along the street, hands in pockets,

moving briskly through the sunshine to another screening.

His eye is caught by the headlines on the newspaper boxes.

                    FLORY (CONT’D & O.S.)

          When Brando himself died, it felt

          like a more personal tragedy. He

          was eighty, but he was also every

          age of all his characters. A

          hundred different people had died

          with him, but least believable was

          his ancient self, past any kind of

          prime.

LEO pulls out a paper and studies the details of Brando’s

obituary before tucking the memento under his arm.

INT. FLORY’S APARTMENT – DAY

                    FLORY (CONT’D)

          A few years into your routine, you

          met me coming out of seeing Tootsie. 

3. 

INT. CINEMA LOBBY – EVENING

In the middle of the late bustle of 1982 audiences, a

28-year-old LEO and a 21-year-old FLORY – both in

student-wear with long hair – stand together by a

salt-serving table, their chatter absorbed by the presiding

drone.

                    FLORY (CONT’D & O.S.)

          You told me you’d already written a

          million words in a pile of

          notebooks. Spare details of every

          movie you’d ever seen, what the day

          was like, overheard comments, the

          history of an entire era in our

          experience. And it seemed like a

          true achievement, the first I’d

          ever stumbled across.

INT. LEO’S APARTMENT – DAY

Young LEO sits at his table, scribbling away. In a far

cupboard, several piles of identical marbled notebooks are

revealed in all their heft. Every single line in them is

taken up by a manic scrawl in multicoloured inks.

                    FLORY (CONT’D & O.S.)

          You could’ve kept writing, leaving

          behind a complete record of

          yourself, but you realized the

          notes were becoming the purpose of

          your routine. You felt you had to

          be at the movies just to be there,

          no other distractions or excuses.

          So you quit.

INT. MOVIE THEATER – EVENING

Young LEO and FLORY sit together in the back row sans

popcorn. He studies the screen, as always, while she studies

the side of his face.

                    FLORY (CONT’D & O.S.)

          I used to come with you, to be your

          crutch, to try understand you, to

          see if my theories checked out.

4. 

INT. FLORY’S BEDROOM – MORNING

Young FLORY and LEO get dressed together, seated on either

side of the bed. She glances back at him on occasion.

                    FLORY (CONT’D & O.S.)

          I could never tell. I don’t think

          you needed a reason for your

          routine. I just needed an answer

          for myself. But I felt I had to

          find my own work if going to the

          movies was your 9 to 5, so we grew

          apart. I acted, did voice-work,

          reported traffic on the radio, but

          never appeared in a movie, not even

          as an extra. I didn’t ever want to

          be both with you and not.

Young FLORY and LEO, now both fully dressed, walk out the

door and the apartment together. They kiss on the doorstep.

EXT. MANHATTAN SIDEWALK – MORNING

Young LEO marches up to the doors of his ageless

neighbourhood cinema, ’The Goldman’, in the stark winter

light. He enters with a practised stride.

INT. GOLDMAN LOBBY – MORNING

55-year-old LEO continues his younger self’s motion through

the door.

He checks his pocketed ’slate’ of movie times, buys a ticket

and some snacks, sees a young WOMAN – 22, a petite young Mia

Farrow look-alike with a well-worn shoulder-bag – out of the

corner of his eye and shuffles with her into the right

theatre.

                    FLORY (CONT’D & O.S.)

          So you carry on. You never watch

          TV, you don’t talk to the

          ticket-sellers, you stay through

          the credits, you canvas the city,

          you only use public transport, you

          eat on the go, you try remember

          every movie without writing its

          details down, you don’t acknowledge

          the other Monks even though you

          notice their occasional presence,

          you stick to your unspoken vow. You

          try to embody the knowledge that

(MORE) 

(CONTINUED) 

5. 

CONTINUED: 

6. 

                    FLORY (CONT’D & O.S.) (cont’d)

          ’All human existence is just a

          trick of light.’ You understand

          that even this movie must end

          eventually. I’ll be waiting for you

          at the end of it.

INT. MOVIE THEATER – NOON

Back to Reality. The screen cuts from Flory’s monologue to the end of The Consequences of Love. The credits start to roll. 

LEO gets up quickly, against his better judgement.

EXT. MANHATTAN SIDEWALK – NOON

LEO sits on a fire hydrant a slight distance away from the

Goldman’s doors. The numerous passersby keep him relatively

inconspicuous.

The WOMAN from earlier (henceforth ’THE STARVELING’) walks

out of the lobby and pauses at the edge of the street, just

a few feet from LEO. Anyone could spend a lifetime watching

her face.

He looks on as she extracts a maroon beanie from her bag and

pulls it over her head in a sublime gesture before striding

across the road and turning towards a subway entrance

further down the street.

LEO stands up and hesitates. His face is pained and his

right foot subtly points one way then the other.

He finally decides to follow her.

INT. SUBWAY ENTRANCE/STATION – NOON

LEO rushes down the stairs and through the entrance-tunnel,

almost immediately out of breath, occasionally zipping

around slower commuters.

He sees THE STARVELING through the turnstile standing on a

far platform. He buzzes his transit-card and walks towards

her just as her train arrives.

He jumps onto the train a second or two before the doors

close.

INT. SUBWAY TRAIN – NOON

The train zooms along its tunnel. LEO stands with his back

to the door, holding onto the high rail, staring through the

crowded lunchtime car at THE STARVELING seated near the

front.

She gazes down and away, into nothing. Her knees are tight

and she hugs herself as if expecting to come under siege.

Successive subtitles appear with her image so as to evidence

LEO’s thoughts:

– Is she … anorexic, maybe? – Does she live alone? – Does

she ride the subway often? – How long has she led the Life?

– I’ll call her the Starveling for the time being.

He swallows and looks around at the car’s advertising.

The station-indicator above the door lights up as the train

arrives at Broadway.

EXT. BROADWAY – NOON

THE STARVELING walks out of the tunnel, joining the usual

throng of tourists and audiences milling about the theater

district. LEO follows in steady tow.

INT. SHOPPING MALL – AFTERNOON

THE STARVELING and LEO ride an escalator together, still

keeping a set distance. A big, kitsch Hollywood sign greets

them at the top.

THE STARVELING buys a ticket from the box-office vendor and

heads to CINEMA 3. A man sits on a couch beside the vendor

nonchalantly reading a book.

LEO watches her enter the theatre then purchases a ticket

himself.

INT. MULTIPLEX MOVIE THEATER – AFTERNOON

The trailers are already playing. LEO steps down the

side-aisle and spies THE STARVELING’S short blonde hair in

the third row.

He sidles along the fourth row and sits in the seat directly

behind her.

(CONTINUED) 

7. 

CONTINUED: 8. 

He looks rattled, his knee jumping a little, equally

studying the screen and the back of her head.

She seems calm, laid back in her seat, completely unaware of

him.

The production logos finally come up on screen.

INT. ELEVATED TRAIN – LATE AFTERNOON

LEO and THE STARVELING sit in the same positions,

one-behind-the-other, staring out at opposite windows.

His unease has developed into an expression of elemental

confusion. An aging black woman sits smoking in the row

across from them, looking out at the industrial avenues and

distant skyscrapers.

The thought-subtitles again, following THE STARVELING’s

gaze:

– Do I know what I’m doing? – This is the Bronx, I think. –

Have I ever been out this far? – Does she make this

pilgrimage every day? – Does she know I’m here yet?

EXT. ELEVATED PLATFORM – LATE AFTERNOON

THE STARVELING leaves the train and clambers down the metal

staircase to ground level.

EXT. BRONX STREET – LATE AFTERNOON

LEO watches as she walks through the revolving door of a

run-down brick apartment building half a block down from the

station.

Across the street he notices a tiny Kurdish deli with an

empty table by its window.

EXT. KURDISH DELI – EVENING

LEO, seated at the table, angled to keep an eye on her

building, finishes a plastic bowl of some indeterminate kind

of stew.

THE STARVELING suddenly emerges from the revolving door,

bearing an umbrella and a heavier jacket. She heads down the

street away from the elevated platform.

LEO jumps up, just remembering to grab his jersey at the

last moment.

EXT. BRONX BUS STOP – EVENING

LEO follows her onto a chugging blue bus, joining only a

smattering of passengers.

INT. COMMUTER BUS – EVENING

LEO is seated a few rows behind her now.

A few of the other passengers chatter in what sounds like

Greek.

A series of parkways, thruways, loops and interchanges pass

by on either side as the bus descends further into unknown

territory. He looks around their twilit surroundings with

pointed concern.

Now the bus is in a gigantic arched shopping mall, threading

through a small lane between endless kaleidoscopic

storefronts and customer flocks.

It draws to a stop beside an incongruous multiplex cinema.

LEO looks up at the marquee in slight wonder.

INT. MULTIPLEX CINEMA LOBBY – LATE EVENING

LEO follows THE STARVELING out of a theatre once again. Just

a few late-show denizens are left in the lobby.

For a moment he loses sight of her.

Then he sees the door to the Women’s Bathroom down an

adjacent corridor closing behind her.

INT. WOMEN’S BATHROOM – LATE EVENING

THE STARVELING is standing at a sink on the room’s far side,

washing her face, her bag at her feet.

LEO enters. She turns around to look at him for the first

time all day. There is no-one else in the room.

Nothing happens for a beat, the two just gaze at each other

with a sense of strange occasion. Full colour has returned

to the world.

Eventually, he begins speaking in a steady, surprised drone.

                                                 (CONTINUED)

9. 

CONTINUED: 

10. 

                    LEO

          The faucets in the men’s room

          aren’t working. I came in here to

          wash my hands.

She doesn’t react. He wipes the back of his neck. Neither of

them look away from each other, though she still doesn’t

seem to properly acknowledge his presence.

                    LEO (CONT’D)

          I keep thinking of a Japanese movie I saw about ten years ago. It was sepia tone, like grayish brown, three and a half hours plus, an afternoon screening in Times Square, theatre gone now, and I can’t remember the title of the movie. This should drive me crazy but it doesn’t. Something happened to my memory somewhere along the way. It’s because I don’t sleep well. Sleep and memory are intertwined.

(Beat) 

I used to know everything about every movie I ever saw but it’s all fading away. It embarrasses me to say three and a half hours. I should be talking about minutes, the exact number of minutes that make up the running time. I used to know every title of every foreign film in English plus the original language. But my memory’s shot. One thing doesn’t change for you and me. We arrange the day, don’t we? It’s all compiled, it’s organized, we make sense of it. And once we’re in our seats and the feature begins, it’s like something we always knew, over and over, but we can’t really share it with others. (Beat) 

          The old memories outlive the new

          ones. When I lived on my own, the

          lampshade in my room started

          burning. Out of nowhere, flames. I

          have no idea how I reacted to it.

          For a while did I start believing

          in randomness? Or carried on as

          usual? I have no idea. Sleep and

          Memory, these things are

(MORE) 

(CONTINUED) 

CONTINUED: 

11. 

                    LEO (CONT’D) (cont’d)

          intertwined. But what I started to

          say at the beginning, the Japanese

          movie, I went into the men’s room

          when it was over and the faucets

          didn’t work. There was no water to

          wash my hands. That’s what got me

          started on this whole subject. The

          faucets then and now. But there it

          made sense, there it was unreal

          like everything else…

The squeak of the bathroom door opening behind him is heard.

Again, everything is frozen for a beat.

Then THE STARVELING calmly picks up her bag, grabs a

paper-towel and walks past him out of the bathroom, not even

glancing back, leaving with whoever opened the door.

LEO stands breathless.

After a moment he bends down, his knees quaking, taking

deep, unhealthy, quiet gasps.

Finally he looks across at his face in the mirror, as if for

the first time.

He looks simultaneously ancient and infantile, his eyes

quite worn and deep blue.

INT. FLORY’S APARTMENT – NIGHT

LEO unlocks the door and enters. The world is back to black

and white.

He switches a lamp on, rubs his face and takes off his

rain-soaked jersey.

He sits himself on the edge of his cot, about to lift up his

shoes for unlacing, when he sees FLORY, in colour, standing

at the far window in much the same pose she held at the

start of the exposition film, except without a cigarette.

She stays unmoving, almost camouflaged, in a tank top and

baggy pants, looking out into the night with the same

intensity LEO showed at the early movie.

For a while he just watches her, charmed by her physical

arrangement in the room, not sure if he can affect her.

Then she intones and repeats a few words, like a calm

mantra.

(CONTINUED) 

CONTINUED: 

12. 

                    FLORY

          Fin. Sayonara. That’s all, folks.

          Fin. Sayonara. That’s all, folks.

          Fin. Sayonara. That’s all, folks.

Then she turns to face him.

FADE OUT: