Lethal Weapon

 

 

Screenplay by                     Shane Black

 

Produced by                       Richard Donner

                                     Joel Silver

 

Directed by                        Richard Donner

 

 

 

Cast List:

 

Mel Gibson                      Martin Riggs

Danny Glover                   Roger Murtaugh

Gary Busey                      Joshua

Mitchell Ryan                  The General

Tom Atkins                      Michael Hunsaker

 

 

 

FADE IN:

 

 

CITY OF ANGELS

 

Lies spread out beneath us in all its splendor, like a bargain basement Promised Land.

 

CAMERA SOARS, DIPS, WINDS its way SLOWLY DOWN, DOWN, bringing us IN OVER the city as we:

 

SUPER MAIN TITLES.

 

TITLES END, as we –

 

 

SPIRAL DOWN TOWARD

 

... a lush, high-rise apartment complex. The moon reflected in glass.

 

CAMERA CONTINUES TO MOVE IN THROUGH billowing curtains, INTO the inner sanctum of a penthouse apartment, and here, boys and girls, is where we lose our breath, because...

 

Spread-eagled on a sumptuous designer sofa lies the single most beautiful GIRL in the city. Blonde hair. A satin nightgown that positively glows. Sam Cooke MUSIC, crooning from five hundred dollar SPEAKERS.

 

PASTEL colors. Window walls. New wave furniture tortured into weird shapes. It looks like robots live here.

 

On the table next to the sleeping Venus lies an open bottle of pills... next to that, a mirror dusted with cocaine.

 

She rouses herself to smear some powder on her gums. As she does, we see from her eyes that she is thoroughly, completely whacked out of her mind...

 

She stands, stumbles across the room, pausing to glance at a photograph on the wall:

 

Two men. Soldiers. Young, rough-hewn, arms around each other.

 

The Girl throws open the glass doors... steps out onto a balcony, and there, beneath her, lies all of nighttime L.A. Panoramic splendor. Her hair flies, her expression, rapt, as she stands against this sea of technology. She is beautiful.

 

On the balcony railing beside her stand three potted plants.

 

The Girl sees them, picks one up. Looks over the balcony railing... It is ten stories down to the parking lot.

she squints, holds the plant over the edge.

 

GIRL

Red car.

 

Drops the plant. Down it goes, spiraling end over end – until, finally... BAM! SHATTERS. Dirt flies. A red Chevy is now minus a WINDSHIELD. The Girl takes another plant.

 

GIRL

Green car.

 

She drops it. Green Dodge. Ten stories below, BAM Impact city. Scratch one paint job. Grabs the final plant and holds it out, saying:

 

GIRL

Blue car.

 

POW. GLASS SHATTERS. Dirt sprays. A blue BMW this time. The Girl loves this game... her expression is slightly crazed. She reaches for another plant – There aren't any. Her smile fades – And for a moment, just a moment, the dullness leaves her eyes and she is suddenly, incredibly sober. And tears fill her eyes as she looks over the edge –

 

GIRL

Yellow car.

 

And jumps the railing. Plummets, head over heels like a rag doll. Hits the yellow car spot on. She lies, dead, like an extinguished dream. Still beautiful.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

EXT. BENEATH THE PIER  NIGHT

 

FOUR TOUGH-LOOKING DOCK WORKERS are camped out under the pier, warming themselves around a small bonfire, laughing loudly. Christmas decorations dangle above them from the pier, and empty beer cans litter the sand around them.

 

CAMERA PUSHES IN to discover an old collie tied to one of the pilings. Then we realize that the dog is being tormented by the dock workers. They flick lighted matches at him. Shake their beers and spray him in the face. These guys are not rocket scientists.

 

The dog cowers, tugging on the rope. Tries to get away. All to the great amusement of its tormentors.

 

One of them turns, laughing –

 

As a shadowy FIGURE strides calmly up to the fire: Long hair. Cigarette dangling from-lower lip. Shirt-tails hanging loose below the waist.

 

Nothing threatening in his manner as he plops down beside the men, smiling. They are immediately on their guard.

 

RIGGS (FIGURE)

Happy holidays. Mind if I join you?

 

PUNK #1

Yes.

 

PUNK #2

Fuck off.

 

Riggs smiles at him innocently. Strokes the collie's fur with one hand. With the other, he reaches into a paper sack and produces, a spanking new bottle of Jack Daniels, possibly the finest drink mankind has yet produced.

 

RIGGS

I need help drinking this. Cool?

 

The dock workers exchange glances. There seems to be no harm in this. One of them frowns:

 

PUNK #1

You a homo?

 

RIGGS

Do I look like a homo?

 

PUNK #1

You got long hair. Homos got long hair.

 

PUNK #3

I hate homos. Arrggh.

 

Riggs shakes his head, laughs.

 

RIGGS

Boy, you guys are terrific. You make me laugh, you just do.

 

At which point, appropriately enough, Punk #4 shakes a beer and sprays it in the old collie's face.

 

The DOG pulls away, WHINING. Riggs leans forward.

 

RIGGS

This your dog? Nice dog.

 

And then, he proceeds to do a peculiar thing: He starts to talk to the dog – in what seems to be the dog's own language. Very weird, folks... He coos, snuffles, barks softly, then withdraws, listening, his ear to the dog's muzzle. Riggs nods. Frowns. The others look on, puzzled. Then Riggs looks at each of the four dock workers.

 

RIGGS

Huh. You know what? He says he doesn't want you to spray beer in his face. He says he just hates that.

 

A pause. Uncomfortable. Then –

 

PUNK #1

Oh, he does...?

(beat)

Well, mister, why don't you ask him what he likes...?

 

The others snicker. Riggs simply nods.

 

RIGGS

Okay.

 

And once again, begins to confer with the dog. Listens intently, piecing together what he is hearing.

 

RIGGS

What...? You want... oh. Oh, well no, I couldn't do that... Nossirree bob, you little nut.

 

He ruffles the dog's hair. The men are more puzzled than ever as Riggs turns and says:

 

RIGGS

(chuckling)

Get this: He wants me to beat the shit out of you guys.

 

Everything stops. A cloud passes over the assembled faces and a pin-dropping silence ensues.

 

Riggs, completely heedless, once again attends to the dog:

 

RIGGS

What's that...? The one... in the middle... 'is a stupid fat duck'... What...?

(listens again)

Oh... Oh! A 'stupid fat fuck!' Right.

 

He looks up, shakes his head.

 

RIGGS

Boy, this dog is pissed.

 

The one in the middle grabs Riggs by the collar. Hoists him to his feet. Gulp.

 

Stands, staring down at Riggs, whose eyes are completely neutral, like a snake's.

 

PUNK #1

Buddy, you're shortening your life span.

 

He flicks open a mean-looking switchblade.

 

Riggs is dead meat.

 

So why then, does he choose this moment to execute a Three Stooges' routine, consisting of nose tweak, eye gouge, and rotating fist that bobs the dock worker on the head...?

 

He's nuts or something...

 

Riggs steps back and adopts a neutral fighting stance. The others begin to circle.

 

The DOG BARKS. Riggs turns to the dog, but his eyes never leave his grinning attackers.

 

RIGGS

(to the collie)

What's that...? You want me to take the knife away... and break his elbow...?

 

Circling...

 

Riggs, watching them, his eyes beginning to dance... Breathing slow and even...

 

RIGGS

But that would be excruciatingly painful...

 

Something inside Riggs is gearing up... the others can perhaps sense it, their smiles falter a bit, they crouch, combat-ready... Riggs, eyes blazing...

 

RIGGS

And if I separated the fat one's shoulder... he'd probably scream...

 

No doubt about it. We know from the look in Riggs' eyes he's nuts. He wants the fight, badly, all four of them at once...

 

And then Punk #1 springs... Big mistake.

 

Needless to say, mincemeat is made of the four meddlesome dog-torturers.

 

The beach is littered with their writhing forms as Riggs does, finally, what he set out to do:

 

Unties the dog.

 

Starts to go. As he does, he pats his shirt...

 

Pats his jeans... Realizes his wallet has flown free during the fracas.

 

Scoops to retrieve it from its resting place on the sand, where it lies open, and as it lies open, yes, folks, that is a badge we see.

 

Riggs, we realize, is an officer of the law.

 

He lights a cigarette and notices the collie, seated. Frowns:

 

RIGGS

Okay, skeezix. Go on. Get outta here.

 

He begins to walk away. The dog remains close at his heels. Following him.

 

RIGGS

No, no. Don't follow me. I'm an asshole. Go away.

 

The dog sits obediently and Riggs walks away. He can't help it, looks back over his shoulder...

 

Sees the dog watching him with a beseeching expression. Pitiful.

 

RIGGS

Aw, shit.

 

He signals the dog.

 

RIGGS

Awright. Move it. Let's go.

 

The COLLIE BARKS happily and dashes toward him through the surf, kicking up sand and water.

 

As they shuffle off against the palm-lined skyline, we hear, supered, Riggs' voice.

 

RIGGS (V.O.)

So. You live in the area? What's your major...?

 

And so on as we...

 

CUT TO:

 

 

EXT. MURTAUGH'S HOUSE – PRE-DAWN

 

Palm trees cast shadows on the lawn. Toys, lots of them, littered across the lawn. A Big Wheel, a G.I. Joe figure. Christmas lights are strung across the eaves.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

INT. HOUSE – BATHROOM – SAME

 

A real gun, a .38 Police Special, dangling in its holster from the back of a chair. Next to it – A real badge, gleaming in the light. It identifies its owner as LAPD Robbery/Homicide.

 

 

ANOTHER ANGLE

 

A birthday cake comes INTO FRAME. A set of matronly hands places it directly in front of –

 

 

DETECTIVE ROGER MURTAUGH

 

Seated in the bathtub. He groans, throws a towel over himself, and mutters in mock indignation: Roger is tough: An old-fashioned fighter, wears his past like a scar. Piercing eyes; cynical. He is surrounded by his family; wife and three children, names and ages as follows: TRISH: Roughly thirty-eight. She used to be a stunner. NICK: Ten years old. Precocious. CARRIE: Age seven. Eyes like saucers. Adorable. RIANNE: Heartbreaker stuff, Seventeen. Takes your breath away folks. The cake is a real beauty.

 

CARRIE

Make a wish, Daddy.

 

RIANNE

Go for it, Dad.

 

MURTAUGH

(smiles)

Go for it, huh...? Okay, I'll go for it.

 

He blows out the candles. Applause. His  gaze  lingers on – the cake. Or rather, the message scrawled atop it in icing: "WELCOME TO THE BIG 50"

 

The presents arrive.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

EXT. SIMI VALLEY – MORNING

 

The scorched landscape stretches out beneath a lattice-work of high-tension power lines. only scrub grass grows here. Rusted railroad tracks wander into the distance, and nestled beside them, like the last stop before death – sits a lonely trailer home. Battered TV antenna. A dirt yard which houses a beat-up pickup truck. Dead garden sprouting weeds. The ground begins to tremble... like an earthquake, RATTLING the POWER POLES, as, without warning – An express TRAIN BLASTS BY CAMEPA and streaks past the trailer at seventy miles an hour.

 

 

INT. TRAILER HOME

 

Now we are inside, the RUMBLING FAINTER... And we are looking at a tired, chiseled face. Etched with line and shadow. Eyes closed, as the shadows from the speeding train strobe across DETECTIVE SERGEANT MARTIN RIGGS. Morning is not a good time for Riggs. The CLOCK RADIO suddenly BLARES to life: "Silver Belllls... It's Christmas Tiiime in the City... " Riggs snaps awake instantly. Alert. Tense. Face bathed in sweat.

 

 

ANOTHER ANGLE

 

He is not alone. In the doorway sits a thoroughly loveable black Labrador. Sitting stock still. Staring at Riggs, watching him sleep. Tail going thump-thump-thump on the carpet.

 

Riggs sits up. Stares at the dog.

 

RIGGS

Sam, today is the first day... of the rest of my life.

 

He lights a cigarette. Inhales. Coughs and hacks.

 

The TRAIN THROBS by outside, rattling his skull...

 

CUT TO:

 

 

INT. MURTAUGH HOME – SAME TIME

 

And it is a typical morning for Detective Roger Murtaugh. Chaos. The TELEVISION BLARES. Young Carrie Murtaugh wails like a banshee. Her brother Nick tells her to shut up. Trish Murtaugh is burning eggs in the kitchen. Roger Murtaugh enters then, fixing his tie. The following dialogue is fast and furious, tossed over the shoulder as Murtaugh scurries to and for, getting dressed:

 

MURTAUGH

Honey, what's this on my tie?

 

She looks.

 

TRISH

An ugly  spot?

 

MURTAUGH

Thanks. Sharp as a pin.

 

TRISH

I'm thinking of going on 'Jeopardy.'

 

MURTAUGH

Don't take any questions on cooking.

 

TRISH

Thanks. I love you, too.

 

Carrie is still shrieking. Tears stream down her face.

 

MURTAUGH

Hey, kid, turn off the waterworks, okay?

 

CARRIE

(points to Nick)

Daddy, he changed the channel!

 

MURTAUGH

NOOOOOO.

 

NICK

She's a crybaby, Dad.

 

MURTAUGH

Mind your own business.

(nods toward the TV)

That's illegal.

 

NICK

What's illegal?

 

MURTAUGH

Can't put a dead body in an ambulance. This 'Kojak'?

 

NICK

'Starsky and Hutch.'

 

MURTAUGH

Huh. It's illegal. Never put a dead body in an ambulance, son, you got that?

 

NICK

Sure, Dad.

 

MURTAUGH

Honey, where's the spot remover?

(turns to Carrie)

Young lady, stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about. Damn.

 

He dabs at his tie. Carrie screams. In the kitchen Trish drops the eggs, swears. The PHONE RINGS. Carrie screams.

 

MURTAUGH

That's it. I'm gonna give you something to cry about.

 

He grabs a copy of Newsweek and hands it to her.

 

MURTAUGH

Starving children. See? They haven't eaten, it's very sad. Cry.

 

He moves away.

 

CARRIE

Daddy, you're weird...

 

MURTAUGH

Thank you, Carrie. Hear that, honey, the children think I'm weird.

 

TRISH

They're bright children.

(hangs up the telephone)

Honey, you know a man named Dick Lloyd? Don't step in the egg.

 

MURTAUGH

Where's my thinking? I should've checked the floor for egg. Dick Lloyd...?

(beat)

Jesus, Dick Lloyd. What's he want?

 

TRISH

The office called. He's been trying to reach you for three days now.

 

MURTAUGH

I haven't talked to him in... shit, twelve years? No, wait a minute, that would make me fifty years old, that can't be right.

 

TRISH

(smiles)

You're not getting older, you're getting better.

 

MURTAUGH

Inform the children of this.

(kisses her; heads for the door)

Forget the eggs, I'll eat later.

 

TRISH

Whatever.

(beat)

Honey?

(as he stops)

How come I never heard of Dick Lloyd?

 

MURTAUGH

I never talked about him.

 

TRISH

Oh.

(beat)

Vietnam  buddy?

 

MURTAUGH

Yeah. Vietnam buddy.

 

He exits the kitchen, crosses the entrance hall. Stops, noticing Rickles the cat, who is happily munching on the remains of Roger's birthday cake.

 

MURTAUGH

Hey.

 

He swats it aside. Pauses, his gaze lingering on the silent message which gnaws at his guts.

 

THE BIG 50...

 

He comes out the front door. Flicks off the Christmas lights, crosses to the car. Looks up, and sees – his oldest daughter Rianne. Jogging past. She wears an adorable pair of dolphin shorts. Walkman headphones. She waves.

 

RIANNE

'Bye, Daddy.

 

He waves.

 

MURTAUGH

(shakes his head)

Goddamn heartbreaker. She's a heartbreaker.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

SERIES OF SHOTS – RIGGS GETTING DRESSED

 

Riggs enters the living room, naked. Scars on his back, the kind you get from knives. Runs a hand through limp hair. Turns on the lamp. As he does – the TELEVISION also springs to life; hooked to the same circuit. Pops three aspirin from a bottle. Chews thmn. Opens a bag of peanuts, throws it to the big Lab, who gobbles them down.

 

Eats a sandwich, standing in the middle of his apartment. 'Looking at the floor. What a lonely fucking guy... Straps on his gun. .9 millimeter Beretta, if it matters. Throws on a jacket. Downs a shot of whiskey. Pauses, looking at a photograph on the wall. Riggs, much younger, along with a pretty and vivacious woman in a wedding gown: his wife. Stares at the photograph. His fingers twirl the whiskey glass with completely unconscious skill. Tense. Tense... twirling the glass... RICHARD DAWSON DRONES from the TV (our survey says – !). Riggs slings the shot glass. Dead center, SHATTERING the TV SCREEN.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

INT. POLICE FIRING PANGE – MORNING

 

Targets: Human silhouettes with kill zones numbered. Murtaugh enters. Sheds his coat, unholsters the .38. Steps to the red line. Shifts. Stretches. Cracks his neck. This is a ritual for him. He stops to examine his right hand, holding it steady before his eyes. Except there is a slight tremble. Tiny, but it's there. He frowns. Braces himself: Cross-draws with lightning swiftness. – BAM! – The sound is DEAFENING in the closed room. A neat round hole appears in the target. Perfect shot: a neat third eye. Murtaugh smiles. Holsters his gun. Puts on his coat – and sings softly to himself:

 

MURTAUGH

Happy birthday to me...

 

CUT TO:

 

 

INT. CAR – DAY

 

Sergeant Martin Riggs is driving. He looks like he hasn't slept. He certainly hasn't shaved. The DISPATCH RADIO SQUAWKS. He turns down the MUSIC from the car radio and hears:

 

DISPATCHER (V.O.)

All units in the vicinity and Fourteen X-ray thirty-one, shooting in progress at Venice Beach, Washington and Navy. Three victims down, PA en route Fourteen X-ray thirty-one, handle code three.

 

Riggs hits the gas pedal and PEELS OUT.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

EXT. CENTURY CITY PARKING LOT – MORNING

 

The sky threatens rain. Cars buzz by as the city awakens.

 

A section of the parking lot is cordoned off by yellow streamers which read: "POLICE LINE – DO NOT CROSS", and as we watch, a black and white patrol car pulls up, admitting two beat COPS and a young hooker. Her name is DIXIE, and she is not happy.

 

DIXIE

Can I stay in the car?

 

COP #1

No.

 

DIXIE

Aw, cut me a break. I told you already: she came out on the balcony –

 

COP #1

(points)

That balcony...?

 

DIXIE

– No, the Chandler fucking Pavillion, of course that fucking balcony, and then slie jumped, and then I puked in a trash can. Can I go now?

 

COP #1

Not 'til you talk to the Sarge.

 

DIXIE

Terrific. Where the hell is he?

 

 

INT. MURTAUGH'S CAR

 

The sarge drives up and gets out. A BEAT COP Toes by.

 

BEAT COP

Happy 50th, Rog.

 

MURTAUGH

Fuck you.

 

He crosses to the two Cops and Dixie.

 

COP #2

Hey, Sarge.

 

MURTAUGH

'Morning, Phil. Get some rain, looks like.

(beat)

Hey, Dixie. Nice threads.

 

DIXIE

Hey, Murtaugh. Tell these bozos to lay Off.

 

MURTAUGH

You. Bozos. Lay  off.

 

COP #1

Had a jumper last night, Sarge. Dixie here was walking by, saw the whole thing.

 

MURTAUGH

You got a statement? Send her home.

 

DIXIE

Thanks, Rog. I'm beat, you know how it is.

 

MURTAUGH

Sure.

(points to her outfit)

All dressed up and no one to blow.

 

DIXIE

You're hilarious.

 

She exits. Cop #2 escorts Murtaugh across the parking lot.

 

COP #2

Nice wholesome girl. She got a new job, you know.

 

MURTAUGH

What's that?

 

COP #2