Taxi Driver: The Shootout

CUT TO: The film is moving fast now; it pushes hard and straight toward its conclusion. We're moving toward the kill. LATE AFTERNOON. TRAVIS' taxi skids around a corner and speeds into Manhattan. TRAVIS checks his mail slot: the letter to IRIS has already been picked up by the MAILMAN. TRAVIS, stripped to the waist, walks back and forth across his INT. APARTMENT, wiping his torso with a bath towel. TRAVIS begins dressing: • He straps the Army combat knife to his calf. • He reflexes the metal gliders and the Colt .25 on his right forearm. INTERCUT: SPORT stands in his doorway on the LOWER EAST SIDE shot with LONG DISTANCE LENS. It is EARLY EVENING. INTERCUT: A pudgy middle-aged white PRIVATE COP walks up to SPORT. The two men laugh, slap each other on the back and exchange a soul shake. They discuss a little private business and the PRIVATE COP walks off in the direction of IRIS' apartment. • TRAVIS straps on holster and fits the .38 Special into it. INTERCUT: PRIVATE COP walks down block. • TRAVIS hooks the huge Magnum into the back of his belt. He puts on his Army jacket and walks out the door. INTERCUT: PRIVATE COP turns up darkened stairway to IRIS' apartment. NIGHT has fallen: TRAVIS' taxi careens down 10th Ave. He speeds, honks, accelerates quickly. The glare of speeding yellow and red lights flash through the night. TRAVIS' P.O.V.: PEDESTRIAN attempts to flag down TRAVIS' taxi, but quickly steps back up on the curb when he sees TRAVIS has no intention of stopping for anything. INTERCUT: waves to a GIRL who passes, and she waves back. TRAVIS' taxi screeches to a stop and parks obliquely against the curb. CUT TO: TRAVIS walks down the block to the doorway where SPORT stands. CAMERA TRACKS with TRAVIS. Without slowing, TRAVIS walks up to SPORT and puts his arm on his shoulder in a gesture of friendliness. TRAVIS: Hey, Sport. How are things? SPORT (shrugs): O.K., cowboy. TRAVIS (needling him): How are things in the pimp business, hey Sport? SPORT: What's going on? TRAVIS: I'm here to see Iris. SPORT: Iris? TRAVIS pushes SPORT back into the dark recesses of the corridor. SPORT: Wha -- ? TRAVIS: Yeah, Iris. You know anybody by that name? SPORT: No. (beat) Hillbilly, you'd better get your wise ass outa here and quick, or you're gonna be in trouble. TRAVIS is being propelled by an inner force, a force which takes him past the boundaries of reason and self-control. TRAVIS (restrained anger): You carry a gun? SPORT looks into TRAVIS' eyes, saying nothing: he realizes the seriousness of the situation. TRAVIS pulls his .38 Special and holds it on SPORT, pushing him even further back against the wall. TRAVIS: Get it. SPORT (submissive): Hey, mister, I don't know what's going on here. This don't make any sense. TRAVIS (demanding): Show it to me. SPORT reluctantly pulls a .32 caliber pistol (a "purse gun") from his pocket and holds it limply. TRAVIS sticks his .38 into SPORT's gut and discharges it. There is a muffled blast, followed by a muted scream of pain. TRAVIS: Now suck on that. Agony and shock cross SPORT'S face as he slumps to the floor. TRAVIS turns and walks away before SPORT even hits. As TRAVIS walks away, SPORT can be seen struggling in the b.g. TRAVIS, he gun slipped into his jacket, walks quickly up the sidewalk. AROUND THE CORNER, TRAVIS walks into the darkened stairway leading to IRIS' apartment. As he walks up the stairs, TRAVIS pulls the .44 Magnum from behind his back and transfers the .38 Special to his left hand. He walks up the steps, a pistol dangling from each hand. AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, TRAVIS spots THE OLD MAN sitting at the far end of the dark corridor. THE OLD MAN starts to get up when TRAVIS discharges the mighty .44 at him. BLAAM! The hallway reverberates with shock waves and gun powder. THE OLD MAN staggers at the end of the corridor: his right hand has been blown off at the forearm. There is the sharp SOUND of a GUNSHOT behind TRAVIS: his face grimaces in pain. A bullet has ripped through the left side of his neck. Blood flows over his left shoulder. TRAVIS' .44 flies into the air. TRAVIS looks down the stairway: there SPORT lies choking in a puddle of his own blood. He has struggled long enough to fire one shot. Falling, TRAVIS drills another .38 slug into SPORT's back but SPORT is already dead. TRAVIS slumps to his knees. Down the corridor THE OLD MAN with a bloody stump is struggling toward him. TRAVIS turns his .38 toward THE OLD MAN. The door to No. 2 opens: IRIS' scream is heard in the b.g. The bulky frame of the PRIVATE COP fills the doorway. His blue shirt is open, in his hand hangs a .38 service revolver. The PRIVATE COP raises his gun and shoots TRAVIS. TRAVIS, blood gushing from his right shoulder, sinks to the floor. His .38 clangs down the stairs. THE OLD MAN grows closer. TRAVIS smashes his right arm against the wall, miraculously, the small Colt .25 glides down his forearm into his palm. TRAVIS fills the PRIVATE COP's face full of bullet holes. The PRIVATE COP, SCREAMING, crashes back into the room. THE OLD MAN crashes atop TRAVIS. The .25 falls from TRAVIS' hand. Both men are bleeding profusely as they thrash into IRIS' room. IRIS hides behind the old red velvet sofa, her face frozen in fright. TRAVIS, trapped under the heavy OLD MAN, reaches down with his right hand and pulls the combat knife from his right calf. Just as TRAVIS draws back the knife, THE OLD MAN brings his huge left palm crashing down on TRAVIS: THE OLD MAN's palm is impaled on the knife. OLD MAN SCREAMS in pain. Police SIRENS are heard in b.g. With great effort, TRAVIS turns over, pinning THE OLD MAN to the floor. The bloody knife blade sticks through his upturned hand. TRAVIS reaches over with his right hand and picks up the revolver of the new dead PRIVATE COP. TRAVIS hoists himself up and sticks the revolver into the OLD MAN's mouth. THE OLD MAN's voice is full of pain and ghastly fright: OLD MAN: Don't kill me! Don't kill me! IRIS screams in b.g. TRAVIS looks up: IRIS: Don't kill him, Travis! Don't kill him! TRAVIS fires the revolver, blowing the back of THE OLD MAN's head off the silencing his protests. The police SIRENS screech to a halt. SOUND of police officers running up the stairs. TRAVIS struggles up and collapses on the red velvet sofa, his blood-soaked body blending with the velvet. IRIS retreats in fright against the far wall. First uniformed POLICE OFFICER rushes in room, drawn gun in hand. Other POLICEMEN can be heard running up the stairs. TRAVIS looks helplessly up at the OFFICER. He forms his bloody hand into a pistol, raises it to his forehead and, his voice croaking in pain, makes the sound of a pistol discharging. TRAVIS: Pgghew! Pgghew! Out of breath fellow OFFICERS join the first POLICEMAN. They survey the room. TRAVIS' head slumps against the sofa. IRIS is huddled in the corner, shaking. LIVE SOUND CEASES. OVERHEAD SLOW MOTION TRACKING SHOT surveys the damage: • from IRIS shaking against the blood-spattered wall • to TRAVIS blood-soaked body lying on the sofa • to THE OLD MAN with half a head, a bloody stump for one hand and a knife sticking out the other • to POLICE OFFICERS staring in amazement • to the PRIVATE COP's bullet-ridden face trapped near the doorway • to puddles of blood and a lonely .44 Magnum lying on the hallway carpet. • down the blood-specked stairs on which lies a nickle- plated .38 Smith and Wesson Special • to the foot of the stairs where SPORT's body is hunched over a pool of blood and a small .32 lies near his hand • to CROWDS huddled around the doorway, held back by POLICE OFFICERS • past red flashing lights, running POLICEMEN and parked police cars • to the ongoing nightlife of the Lower East Side, curious but basically unconcerned, looking then heading its own way. FADE TO: FADE IN: EXT. TRAVIS' APARTMENT - DAY It is EARLY FALL. The trees are losing their leaves. CUT TO: SLOW TRACKING SHOT across INT. APARTMENT. Room appears pretty much the same, although there is a new portable TV and an inexpensive easy chair. VISUAL: TRACK begins at table and works across the room to the mattress. We see these items: • On the table rests the diary, closed. A desk calendar stands on the table: it is October. • Across the wall where the Palantine clippings once hung there are now a series of new newspaper clippings. Right to left, they read: 1. The first is a full back page from the N.Y. Daily News. Headline reads: "CABBIE BATTLES GANGSTERS." There are large photos of police standing in IRIS' room after the slaughter, and a picture of TRAVIS' cabbie mug shot. 2. Underneath there is a more discreet clipping without photo from the N.Y. Times. Two-column headline reads: "Cabbie Shootout, Three Dead." 3. A follow-up story from the News. Two-column photo shows plain middle-aged couple sitting in middle-class living room. Two-column headline reads: "Parents Express Shock, Gratitude." 4. A two-column Daily News story without photo. Headline reads: "Taxi-Driver Hero to Recover." 5. A one-column two-paragraph News story stuck on an obscure page. Headline reads: "Cabbie Returns to Job." • At the end of the clippings, a letter is tacked to the wall. It is a simple letter hand-written on plain white paper. The handwriting makes a conscious effort to appear neat and orderly. We recognize that it is the same letter that is being read in voice over. • When we finally arrive at the mattress, we find it is barren. A pillow and blanket (new purchases) are folded at the head of the mattress. AUDIO: THROUGHOUT THE TRACK, we hear the voice of a middle-aged uneducated man reading in voice over. It is the voice of IRIS' FATHER and he is reading a letter he sent to TRAVIS, and which TRAVIS has tacked to his wall. IRIS' FATHER (V.O.): Dear Mr. Bickle, I can't say how happy Mrs. Steensma and I were to hear that you are well and recuperating. We tried to visit you at the hospital when we were in New York to pick up Iris, but you were still in a coma. There is no way we can repay you for returning our Iris to us. We thought we had lost her, but now our lives are full again. Needless to say, you are something of a hero around this household. I'm sure you want to know about Iris. She is back in school and working hard. The transition has been very hard for her, as you can well imagine, but we have taken steps to see she never has cause to run away again. In conclusion, Mrs. Steensma and I would like to again thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Unfortunately, we cannot afford to come to New York again to thank you in person, or we surely would. But if you should ever come to Pittsburgh, you would find yourself a most welcome guest in our home. Our deepest thanks, Burt and Ivy Steensma