One Saliva Bubble

 

 

 

Screenplay by                             David Lynch

Mark Frost

 

 

 

Unproduced Script

 

 

 

FADE IN:

 

 

INT. HIGH-TECH TRACKING STATION – NIGHT

 

A top-secret, experimental, offensive/defensive military installation hidden away in the countryside outside Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

 

CLOSE on a beautiful, intricate, state of the art computer panel as it is lifted out of a large console. A huge, dimly lit display board, sporting a galaxy of small running lights, looms above.

 

The panel's removal creates a large, vulnerable opening, inside of which is a massive confluence of electronics.

 

As a small group of refined, well-groomed SCIENTISTS studiously examine the removed panel, their intense concentration is periodically disrupted by the hysterical guffaws of a nearby group of three uniformed SECURITY GUARDS, who appear to be refugees from the Neolithic period.

 

The Guards, totally oblivious to the Scientists, are regaling each other with pitiful and infantile jokes.

 

GUARD #1

... so she said to him, "poo-poo on your pee-pee".

 

The Guards explode like a pack of howling hyenas. The Scientists glance over at them with a look that seems to say, "How is it possible for us to be sharing the same planet?"

 

GUARD #2

Did you just cut a big one or is Suzie back in town?

 

Guard #3, the biggest Neanderthal of the bunch, stops laughing long enough to contribute a rude, tounge-flapping raspberry, during the course of which...

 

CUT TO:

 

 

CLOSE ON FLAPPING TONGUE

 

Unbeknownst to him, Guard #3 jettisons a perfect saliva bubble out into the air and we follow it through space, across the room, past the unknowing, refined, well-groomed Scientists and down into the microscopic copper wires, creating a tiny, seemingly insignificant electrical short circuit, which will soon prove to have monumental consequences.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

CLOSEUP COMPUTER CONTROL PANEL

 

Unnoticed by anyone in the room, a small, yellow light emitting diode blinks on, then blinks off.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

EXT. EARTH'S STATOSPHERE – NIGHT

 

A simple, streamlined satellite, which resembles nothing so much as a large red onion surrounded by a hula-hoop, suddenly stops, then spins on its axis. As we MOVE IN CLOSE on the satellite we hear a loud metallic CLICK, and a small panel slides open revealing a digital clock with a readout of: 24:00. Another CLICK and the clock begins to count down.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

EXTREME CLOSE UP

 

On the bubble rhythmically pulsating between the two copper wires. Bubble MUSIC begins and we roll CREDITS.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

EXT. NEWTONVILLE, KANSAS – MORNING

 

A billboard beside the highway on the outskirts of town reads:

 

"WELCOME TO NEWTONVILLE

LIGHTNING CAPITAL OF THE WORLD...

WE'RE ZAPPY TO SEE YOU!!!

pop. 43,108"

 

Behind the billboard, two lightning bolts crack the dry desert sky, followed by a peal of distant thunder, under which FADES IN the melodic strains of a happy country waltz.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

EXT. NEWTONVILLE ROLLER RINK – MORNING

 

A gigantic, old red barn, its roof adorned by a huge, cement roller skate, whose weatherworn wheels revolve lazily in the warm morning sun. Neon sparks spray out from under the wheels. A sign under the skate reads:

 

"GET A CHARGE ON OUR LIGHTNING FAST SPEEDWAY!"

 

CUT TO:

 

 

INT. NEWTONVILLE ROLLER RINK – MORNING

 

BIG TOM and WOODY, the rink's proprietors, sit on a small balcony overlooking the rink, directly above the concession stand, manned by RANDY, a pear-shaped menial. Randy pours two coffees, under the critical supervision of Woody, a man particularly obsessive about the preparation of his java.

 

WOODY

One lump you idiot.

 

RANDY

How many lumps?

 

WOODY

ONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

BIG TOM

(leaning down, kindly)

Randy, defrost the "Beefy Cheese Louise".

 

RANDY

Yes, sir.

 

Randy moves to a refrigerator, plastered with a garish sign that reads:

 

"HOT AND JUICY BEEFY CHEESE LOUISE"

 

He opens it, revealing neatly arranged rows of bright yellow, cheese-covered hamburger patties. Big Tom and Woody sit back, sip their coffee, gazing out at the lone COUPLE skating around the rink.

 

BIG TOM

Not bad business for a Wednesday.

 

Woody looks nervously at his watch, hardly reassured.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

EXT. ROLLER RINK – MORNING

 

MOVING off the huge skate, we travel down the road and can't help but notice the large, rotating, neon lightning rod on top of an electric pink, pearlescent stucco building. The sign below the rod reads:

 

"ANNIE'S LIGHTNING ROD

COMING SOON

SAMMY "THE STOMP" JOHNSON"

 

Ominous jazz MUSIC fades up and out as we pass Vinnie's. Across the street, on the marquee of the Rialto Theatre we see the words:

 

"ONE WEEK ONLY

THE FABULOUS CHINESE ACROBATS

FROM THE FAR PROVINCES"

 

DISSOLVE TO:

 

 

EXT. USED CAR LOT – MORNING

 

The sign above reads:

 

"LUCKY BUCK'S

USED CARS AND TRUCKS:

14U

DON'T PASS THE BUCK"

 

A YOUNG COUPLE examines a used Rambler, parked outside the sales office.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

INT LUCKY BUCK'S SALES OFFICE – MORNING

 

WALLY NEWTON, a forty year old milquetoast salesman, wilts under the stern finger of his boss, militaristic, ramrod-stiff LUCKY BUCK.

 

LUCKY BUCK

Before you fall out for chow, you yellow-bellied, jelly-spine, you march directly out there, soldier, engage the enemy, and DON'T let them look under the hood.

 

WALLY

(quivering)

But, but the engine –

 

LUCKY BUCK

Mister, the only BUT I want to hear from you is, "my butt's out there selling that vehicle". Move out!

 

WALLY

Yes sir, Lucky Buck.

 

Wally heads directly out the door. The door closes. Lucky Buck watches him go.

 

INTERCUT:

 

 

LUCKY BUCK'S POV

 

Wally moves to the Couple, engages them in a conversation we don't hear. The Husband points to the hood. Wally nervously glances back at Lucky Buck, who stares at him. Wally pulls his neck in and opens the hood. Lucky Buck shakes his head in dismay, mutters...

 

LUCKY BUCK

Mister, you are one sorry piece of poop.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

INT. RAMBLER HOOD

 

Empty. No engine.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

EXT. COMPANY "B" – DAY

 

A large, imposing, 30's style, concrete office building, topped by a gigantic, blue "B".

 

CUT TO:

 

 

INT. COMPANY "B" – DAY

 

The lobby reception area; blue carpet, blue walls. Two EMPLOYEES pass by the RECEPTIONIST, all wearing standard company issue yellow uniforms that sport a big blue "B" on the lapel.

 

Looking through the glass front doors we see HORTON THURSBY, a man who from a distance you might mistake for Wally Newton, until you get close enough to feel his radioactively terrifying aura of twisted, homicidal power. His eyes are like black, malignant bumblebees. His sport coat is a hundred decibels. The doors fly open as if to flee from him and he enters without breaking his juggernaut stride. The Receptionist, who on the face of it appears she could give him a run for his money, looks up as he reaches the desk.

 

HORTON

Horton Thursby.

 

RECEPTIONIST

I'm sorry, there's no one here by that name.

 

HORTON

(extremely ominous)

What did you say?

 

RECEPTIONIST

I s-s-said, no one here, that name.

 

HORTON

Because that's my name, tubby.

 

RECEPTIONIST

(nailed to her chair)

W-who shall I say is calling?

 

HORTON

(leaning in very close)

Horton Thursby.

 

Panicked, she rifles through her appointment book and slams her finger down when she finds...

 

RECEPTIONIST

Uh-huh, I s-s-see your name right here.

 

HORTON

I have a pointment with Mr. Biggs, bean brain.

 

RECEPTIONIST

Indeed you do, of course you do, you certainly do, he's expecting you, he's set aside the time to –

 

HORTON

(a finger in her face)

That's enough.

 

RECEPTIONIST

(nods vigorously, can't look at him, points)

Ma-Mr. Thuraby, if you'd like to take the Ex-exec-executive Elevator –

 

Horton's already making a beeline for the elevator; its doors zip open and shut behind him as he enters.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

INT. EXECUTIVE ELEVATOR

 

Horton stands underneath a speaker, piping out insipid Muzak. His icy stare travels up to the speaker. It sputters, gasps and goes silent. His gaze moves back down.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

EXT. AIRPORT, ZURICH, SWITZERLAND – DAY

 

Deep, deep snow and more falling. The Matterhorn is visible in the distance. A sign reads:

 

"ZURICH INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

ALWAYS ON TIME"

 

Lederhosen clad PORTERS on skis carry in the curbside luggage of passengers arriving in a variety of sleds and toboggans. A small herd of bell-clad COWS part as a horse-drawn sleigh pulls up and out hops a sprightly, middle-aged, bright-eyed, frizzy-haired genius, PROFESSOR HUGO ZINZERMACHER. He walks up to the DRIVER and hands him a note.

 

HUGO

International Airport, please.

 

The Driver looks at him, looks at the note. The note reads:

 

"PLEASE TAKE THE PROFESSOR TO

ZURICH INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT"

 

The Driver turns back to the Professor.

 

DRIVER

You are here.

 

HUGO

That may be, however I have a plane to catch.

 

DRIVER

Please. This IS the airport.

 

The Professor looks around, looks back at the Driver.

 

HUGO

Thank you so much.

 

He takes off his coat, hands it to the Driver and gets back into the sleigh. The Driver exhales heavily.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

INT. ZURICH AIRPORT TERMINAL – DAY

 

Doors open, the Driver hustles the Professor in through the doors, carrying his bag and coat. Two young clean-cut men, BERT FINE and MEL GLEASON, both in bright blue uniforms with a big yellow "A" on the label, spot the Professor, rush across the terminal to him.

 

BERT

Professor Zinzermacher?

 

HUGO

(cheerfully)

No, I'm Professor Zinzermacher.

 

Bert and Mel look at each other. The Driver shakes his head, hands the bag and coat to Bert and Mel and walks away.

 

HUGO (CONT'D)

I am Professor Hugo Zinzermacher. Hugo you way und I'll go mine.

 

He extends a hand. They each shake it. Under the following wails the low, sonorous boom of an Alpine horn.

 

BERT

Bert Fine.

 

MEL

Mel Gleason. It's an honor to meet you, sir.

 

HUGO

You boys seemed a bit confused at first.

 

BERT

It's a long flight from Kansas, we're a little jet lagged.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

BERT, MEL AND THE PROFESSOR

 

Mel looks at his watch.

 

MEL

That's us. Have your ticket, Professor?

 

HUGO

Well, I don't mind if I do. What kind?

 

Mel and Bert look at each other again.

 

BERT

Would you mind going through your pockets, Professor –

 

MEL

And see if you're in possession of an airline ticket to Kansas.

 

HUGO

(with a faraway look)

What if we relate the vector on a parallelogram, equidistant to but not exceeding the bifurcation of the remaining cardinal coordinates?

 

BERT

Mel, go through his coat –

 

MEL

(searching him)

You can bet that plane's going to leave on time.

 

BERT

There was something in the report about his socks...

 

They both kneel down and each pulls up a pant leg, revealing droopy socks of vastly different colors. One sock yields a toothbrush and the other a crumpled airline ticket which Mel immediately grabs.

 

MEL

Let's move.

 

They each grab one of Hugo's arms and start running him towards the gate.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

MEANWHILE, BACK IN NEWTONVILLE, KANSAS

 

INT. COMPANY "B" BOARDROOM – DAY

 

THWACK! A telescoping pointer in the hand of Company "B"'s CEO, MR. BIGGS, smacks into a lifesize photograph of Professor Zinzermacher on the wall of the Company "B" boardroom. In the photograph, the Professor's shoelaces are wildly askew. His rumpled, tweed suit is encrusted with food. His frizzled hair looks like a bird's nest. A small retinue of yellow-clad FUNCTIOMARIES sit at the conference table, giving Horton, at the far end, a wide berth.

 

MR. BIGGS

He can't even tie his own shoes, yet he's one of the greatest minds of Western Civilization, and who's got him? Company "A"!! According to Mr. Posthole, our worthy mole who's penetrated the innermost sanctums of Company "A" –

 

CAMERA drifts over and finds MR. POSTHOLE, the Company "B" spy, a shifty blonde guy in brick-thick black hornrims.

 

MR. BIGGS (CONT'D)

– they've purchased Professor Zinzermacher's brainpower for their covert Center for Advanced Nucleacly Abritrary Permutations Experimentation, also known as C.A.N.A.P.E. Yes, they've got the Professor. But, ladies and gentlemen, not for long, because we've got Mr. Horton Thursby.

 

Everyone smiles and all eyes turn to Horton. He doesn't flinch.

 

MR. BIGGS (CONT'D)

Thursby, this... is your target.

 

CLOSE on Horton, as he squints at Hugo's picture.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

HORTON'S POV

 

Hugo's picture comes into focus and cross-hairs appear between his eyes, as if looking through the telescopic sight of an elephant gun.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

HORTON

 

As he lights a cigarette, inhales a big drag. His eyes flit back to Mr. Biggs.

 

HORTON

It's your money.

 

The Functionary nearest to Horton subtly moves the tabletop "THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING" plaque out of Horton's sightline.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

INT. AIRPLANE – NIGHT

 

Mel and Bert are asleep under blankets, both smiling blissfully, but their sleep becomes more troubled and they are eventually woken by an atrociously loud cellophane rustling SOUND. The Professor is trying desperately to open a small airline bag of peanuts.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

EXT. VALLY NEWTON'S HOUSE – DAY

 

Wally drives his 1950 two-tone, four-door Pontiac Firechief into the driveway of his modest house. He stops the car, cuts the engine and cautiously peers out the window. Silence. He carefully opens the car door, trying to minimize all sounds, gets out and tip-toes towards the front door.

 

Out of nowhere, flies a tiny, yapping Pekinese dog, sporting a yellow ribbon in its hair and baring its hideous little teeth. Wally breaks into a sprint and is about to reach the door when the dog overtakes him and clamps its jaws onto one of his ankles. Wally wildly flails his leg around, trying to dislodge the beast, finally succeeds and sends it soaring into the air over a hedge.

 

Wally bolts into the house, slamming the door behind him, just as the dog jets back on the attack, making a hair net out of the screen door.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

INT. WALLY NEWTON'S HOUSE – DAY

 

Wally catches his breath, turns. A savage cry is heard and his son, GORDIE, rolls out from behind an overstuffed chair and empties a toy machine gun at his father's chest and head. Wally just stands there.

 

POLLY'S VOICE

Where have you been? Do you realize what time it is?

(appearing around a corner)

I'll tell you what time it is, Gordie, what time is it?

 

Gordie activates his talking military digital.

 

WATCH VOICE

Sixteen hundred hours. Time to bivouac.

 

POLLY

Sometimes I think you're stupider than your Cousin Newt, don't you realize what we were supposed to do tonight?

 

GORDIE

Newt's an idiot.

 

POLLY

We were supposed to look at our video BEFORE dinner so we could practice DURING dinner. I suppose you forgot the wine, too.

 

WALLY

I had a –

 

POLLY

Are you going to give me an excuse? You were going to give me an excuse, weren't you? Wally? Do I look like the type of person who'd be interested in an excuse?

 

Demoralized, Wally slouches towards his overstuffed chair, reaching under his left arm to scratch.

 

POLLY (CONT'D)

Don't you touch that rash! You'll keep me up all night with your scratching!

(Wally slumps in the chair)

If I was really interested in hearing some pitiful story don't you think I'd ask to hear it? Do I look like the type of person who lives in a fantasy world? Look at me, Wally. Wally, look at me when I'm talking to you, what do you see? Hmm?

(Wally shakes his head)

Do you see a poor, tired housewife, holding our lives together by sheer force of will, who received today a phone call? A phone call from your rich relatives up at the Manor who didn't otherwise even know I'm alive, who asked ME to ask YOU to please pick up your idiot cousin Newt tomorrow at the airport? Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?

 

She stands and screams towards the ceiling, repeatedly. Wally covers his eyes and face with his hands. When he uncovers them, Gordie is right in front of him, assuming the classic police stance. He fires six quick rounds from his toy pistol, emptying the magazine point blank at Wally's head.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

A TV MONITOR

 

CLOSE on the grainy image of a sophisticated couple seated at a candlelit table. Syrupy MUSIC and a dry, industrial film NARRATOR over...

 

NARRATOR'S VOICE

Sniff the cork along with us now and let its heady bouquet transport you into the Wonderful World of Wine Tasting! Part Two.

(big music cue)

 

Wally and Polly sit facing the television, each holding a large glass of red wine, staring attentively at the screen. Wally wears an apron that says: "DON'T BOTHER ME I'M COOKING"

 

NARRATOR'S VOICE (CONT'D)

You've made your selection, and by the sommelier's sly little smile you know he approves. The wine's been decanted, it's had a chance to b-r-e-a-t-h-e. It sits, poised in your glass, a ruby nectar beckoning your lips.

(hushed tones)

Now, band forward... a little further... a little further, that's right...

 

Wally and Polly follow the actions of the couple on the screen.

 

NARRATOR'S VOICE (CONT'D)

Extend the neck... imagine your lips forming the perfect letter "o"... lower the "o" to the rim... now, remember the babbling brook...

 

The couple on screen LOUDLY SUCKS UP AIR AND WINE, making a weird fluted whistling sounds. Wally and Polly mimic it.

 

NARRATOR'S VOICE (CONT'D)

... and again...

 

Both couples repeat the action.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

EXT. SOOTHING BREEZES SANITARIUM – DAY

 

CLOSE on a sign that reads:

 

"SOOTHING BREEZES SANITARIUM"

 

A fierce wind is howling, violently waving a tree limb in front of the sign.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

INT. SOOTHING BREEZES OFFICE – DAY

 

DR. ANGELA RUTHERFORD, in a sharp, tailored tweed suit, is consulting with the sanitarium's administrator, DR. ETHAN FLORD. As they speak, he watches the fish in a small aquarium on his desk. Angela holds a thermos of coffee.

 

ANGELA

So all I really need is your signature here, Dr. Flord, and we can release Newt Newton for his annual visit home.

 

She puts a form in front of him on the desk.

 

DR. FLORD

You know, he's not even left us yet and it's as if I miss Newt already. When I'm with him, of course I'm always with him in spirit, as I am with all our patients, even now, against all evidence to the contrary, I sense some small spark of mental activity behind those bulging eyes. Perhaps this is a projection on my part. A projection filled with a physician's unquenchable hopefulness.

 

ANGELA

Uh-huh.

 

DR. FLORD

Has it been a year already? It seems it was only last week when he was flying off to the bosom of his family, when in fact three hundred and sixty five days, give or take a few – this wasn't a leap year was it? No, of course not. Ah, remembrances – remembrances.

 

Fighting off the wave of crippling boredom and mental exhaustion induced by the Doctor's monotone, Angela quickly pours a large cup of coffee, stifling a yawn.

 

ANGELA

I only need your signature –

 

DR. FLORD

Was it March of last year when my Aunt was fitted for her prosthesis? I suppose it was. What a difference it made, how it changed her! In ways one couldn't possibly imagine. First, the new carpeting. Inexplicable perhaps, at first glance. But on closer scrutiny, however, an underpinning of rationality seemed to emerge.

 

Angela takes a big gulp of coffee, grabs an arm of a chair and lowers herself into it, struggling to keep her eyes open. The fish in the aquarium begin to slow perceptibly.

 

ANGELA

Only your signature. Please, Doctor.

 

DR. FLORD

(looking at his hands)

As if creation, splintered into a hundred million realities, was actually nothing less than the complicated interweavings...

(locking his fingers together)

... of one, grand design. Well-hidden, mind you, but upon deeper examination, open the doors...

(he opens his hands and wiggles his fingers)

... and there's all the people.

(a small, vanilla chuckle)

And of course that's when I realized Aunt Hildy had friends and had purchased a pet. Which brings me back to Newt. Isn't it odd how every Newton since Newt's Grandad has been struck by lightning? Newt's Grandad was struck by lightning. He's a complete idiot. Newt's father was struck by lightning. He's no longer with us. And of course Newt was struck by lightning and by golly, he's a complete idiot. And all of them were named Newton. Newton Newton. Newton Newton. Newton Newton...

 

We hear the SOUND of liquid pouring slowly onto the carpet. We see Angela's relaxed hand tipping her coffee cup towards the floor. We see Angela is sound asleep. A fish in the aquarium slowly rolls and goes belly up.

 

DR. FLORD (CONT'D)

Those eyes. Those bulging, happy puppy eyes.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

NEWT NEWTON'S EYES

 

Bulging. Happy, gleaming puppy eyes. We periodically and rhythmically hear the SOUND of breaking eggs. With each crack his eyes widen.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

INT. SOOTHING BREEZES CORRIDOR – DAY

 

Angela is leaning over a drinking fountain, splashing cold water onto her face, trying to shake off Dr. Flord's torpor. She moves on and stops to speak to a PATIENT standing in the hall, dressed as and in fact bearing an uncanny resemblance to Napoleon.

 

ANGELA

Have you seen Newt?

 

PATIENT

Helping out in ze kitchen. Assemble all ze men; tomorrow we march on Moscow.

 

ANGELA

Thank you, your Highness and good luck tomorrow.

 

PATIENT

We will need it; zose beasts haf no souls. I hope ze weather holds. I saw Bing Crosby in a dream.

 

She moves on towards the kitchen.

 

CUT TO:

 

 

INT. SOOTHING BREEZES KITCHEN – DAY

 

We see a COOK pick up an egg, crack the egg on top of Newt's head and empty it into a huge bowl. We MOVE around and down the customized chair Newt is strapped into, to his right knee; as we hear another egg crack, Newt's knee jerks up and hits a pedal device that flips a pancake on a long, conveyor-belt griddle. We follow the pancakes on the beltway to he end of the line where another