Man Without Fear Part 1
May. 26th, 2010 11:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficSo, with all the talking about how other Daredevil movies, both made and unmade, pretty much suck, I thought it was high time to put my money where my mouth is an prove that even someone who's written Supernatural fanfic can write a good Daredevil script (I keed, I keed. It's a great Daredevil script).
I get the feeling that a lot of times in Hollywood, this happens.
Screenwriter: So my original script will be about a dark heroine, walking the line between justice and vengeance, trying to make sense of the cruel world which murdered her family and took her virginity.
Executive: We have the license for Squirrel Girl. Work with that.
Screenwriter: Hmm... this could still work...
TWO YEARS LATER...
Squirrel Girl: The squirrels tell me to kill!
But if you got someone who was actually a fan of the comics... and who didn't direct Simon Birch, I cannot stress that enough... you might come up with a pretty good story. The idea here is to do an origin story that kicks off a trilogy, yes, just like every other fan script in existence. But instead of cliffhangers and stupid crap, each story would be self-contained and satisfying on its own, while forming one epic story of the war between Matt Murdock and the Kingpin when watched altogether. This installment would introduce all the characters who would need to be established for the Elektra Saga to work, so you wouldn't have to rush through the story like Mark Steven Johnson's version.
You could also tackle the Hand in an Elektra spin-off, or continue the series with an emphasis on Brian Michael Bendis's DD run, or even do a Punisher Vs. Daredevil crossover. But hey, it's never gonna happen. So, without further adieu for what amounts to just another fanfic...
EXT. ITALIAN RESTAURANT – EVENING
A TOWN CAR pulls up to this homey little place, joining a parade of sports cars, limos, and other such expensive cars. Men in dark suits, obnoxious in their armament, stand on patrol. For blocks, everything is closed for business and foot traffic has disappeared. If hell broke through the pavement, it couldn't be more obvious.
RIGOLETTI, an ancient Mafia don who nonetheless radiates the glamour and charisma of the Family, gets out of the car. He tucks a red rose into his lapel.
RIGOLETTI: (back into car) Come along, my friend. This won't take long. 'No' never does.
As Rigoletti moves into the restaurant, a massive PRESENCE follows him. So large that when it gets out of the car, the thing jumps on its shocks with relief.
INT. ITALIAN RESTAURANT – KITCHEN – EVENING
The OWNER, a frightened family man in his fifties, painstakingly stirs a pot of spaghetti.
OWNER: Martha, is the lasagna ready yet?
His WIFE nods from the stove.
WIFE: Yes, I'll send Maria.
Their pretty TEENAGED DAUGHTER nods obediently.
OWNER: No! Let Steven take it. (to Maria) These are bad men, my darling. If they see something they want, they will take it. And if they cannot take it, they will destroy it. Please, stay here where it's safe.
INT. ITALIAN RESTAURANT – EVENING
The empty restaurant has been converted into a conference room, the lights dimmed, the music off. Powerful men in suits that cost more than the building they're in are arrayed at a table. From the old-fashioned nature of their suits and mannerisms, we can peg this as the past. This isn't The Sopranos. This is The Godfather.
At the head of the table, Rigoletti sits. He weathers the arguments of his underlings, not touching the food in front of him.
UNDERLING: We can make millions, godfather, billions! These minor-league pimps and pushers are leaving us in the dust, and we could make ten times their profit with the machinery we have in place. All we have to do is let go of this romanticized Marlon Brando bullshit.
RIGOLETTI: This 'romanticized bullshit' is the only thing keeping me from shooting you right now.
He stands to address the table. And when he speaks, make no mistake: They listen.
RIGOLETTI: We are Cosa Nostra: men of honor, men of respect! We will not cater to unholy perversions, not infect our children with addiction, and not ally ourselves with demons! We may be criminals, but we are not animals! Now go! Leave me to my meal.
Leaving their own food unfinished, the made men file out. Rigoletti is alone.
RIGOLETTI: Music.
Something in the shadows moves. A vast presence. Bach's "Air on the G String" fills the restaurant. Rigoletti tucks in his napkin and begins his meal.
RIGOLETTI: Oh, my friend, my old friend… how they exhaust me. They would whore out our honor for pocket change, never caring that our own families would have to live in the hell they would make of this city. Wilson, I need your hands.
The presence steps out of the darkness, filling the area behind Rigoletti like a great shadow. Hands that could rend a horse descend on Rigoletti's shoulders and soothe him.
RIGOLETTI: Child prostitution, designer drugs, snuff films… madness! And they would stoop to it. You're the only one I can trust.
The hands move up Rigoletti's neck to his scalp. They could cup his entire head in their palms.
RIGOLETTI: Sometimes, I fear for this city, what it will become when I am gone. Thank God for my sons. They at least will honor the old ways when I am gone.
The presence speaks… a cultured voice, but one that rumbles like thunder.
FISK: Your sons are dead. Join them.
In one savage twist, Rigoletti's neck is broken. Fisk takes the flower from Rigoletti's chest and then let him drop into his food. He pins in to his own lapel. We never see his face, but it's obvious… this giant of a man is a warlord for the 21st century.
He walks around the table, and we notice a man sitting at the other end, feet up in a plate of spaghetti, guzzling wine from the bottle. BULLSEYE is the consummate killer, a man who enjoys his work. But his eyes mark him as something even worse than that. There's a pure kind of evil in them; the sadism of picking the wings off flies has been cultivated and taken root in his soul.
FISK: I told Rigoletti his heirs were dead. Am I a liar?
BULLSEYE: Not about this.
FISK: Then it's done. Call Calogero, tell him the deal with the Russians is back on. Let Salvatore know I want his shipment on the streets as soon as possible. New York City is open for business.
Bullseye toasts, happy as a clam.
BULLSEYE: Here's to the Kingpin of Crime.
He regards the kitchen, where the door bustles… as if someone just moved away from it.
BULLSEYE: And our gracious hosts?
FISK: No witnesses.
He sits down to enjoy his meal as Bullseye gets up, taking utensils wrapped in a napkin. A strange choice of weapon.
BULLSEYE: Shame. They make a mean gnocchi.
As the screams begin, Fisk takes a bite. Makes a noise of savoring.
FISK: That is good.
Music continues over as we cut to…
A FIELD OF BLAZING RED. Hell? No, we pull out… the read-out of a digital alarm clock.
INT. MATT'S APARTMENT – MORNING
"15 YEARS LATER."
And what an apartment it is. The minutes go from 59 to 00 and the music cuts out. Silence for a moment. Then the sounds of a city seep in. Cars, el trains, raised voices, all blending together, rising to an unbearable level, until…
MATT MURDOCK rises into frame, awake. He's the picture of a handsome young attorney on the rise. But not right now. Now he's sweaty and disheveled and looks like he hasn't slept for years. His eyes, blank as they are, come by their 1000-yard stare naturally.
MATT: (V.O.) The dream. Every night the same dream. I should say nightmare.
He picks up a remote from bedside, his fingers running over the BRAILLE on the buttons, and then presses a button. Music returns, but more contemporary. The Rolling Stones' 'Sympathy for the Devil.'
CREDITS ROLL as Matt readies himself. Eats, brushes teeth, listens to the morning news (which is clear as a bell no matter where he is in this really quite swank apartment). He exercises on a punching bag and here the yuppie mask slips. He pours rage into the Everlast until it BREAKS, bleeding sand onto the floor in the abstract patterns of its swing.
Matt is breathing hard, ashamed. We next see him in the shower, letting the water wash over him like a monk meditating under a waterfall.
INT. HOTEL LOBBY – MORNING
Matt, now dressed in a sharp three-piece suit with red sunglasses covering his dead eyes, emerges from the elevator. Bronze hair, square jaw, and a (dare I say?) devil-may-care smile make him look more like a playboy millionaire than a lawyer. It's almost enough to make us forget how he looked a few minutes ago. But not quite.
The DOORMAN greets him with cold affability.
DOORMAN: Morning, Mr. Murdock.
MATT: It's Matt. And could you order me a new punching bag?
DOORMAN: (surprised) Another one? (he recovers) Right away, Mr. Murdock.
Matt thanks him and moves off, shaking his head.
MATT: (V.O.) I've lived here five years and I'm still just another customer.
EXT. HOTEL LOBBY – MORNING
The streets of L.A. In this district, antiseptically clean. Glass and chrome. A car waits for Matt, the chauffeur reading the sports section. Seeing Matt, he quickly tucks it away.
CHAUFFEUR: Mr. Murdock, hello!
MATT: Hey Jamie. How're the Yankees doing?
The Chauffeur grins, busted.
CHAUFFEUR: None too shabby, Matt.
MATT: Day's off to a good start already.
INT. CAR – MORNING
Room to stretch out, but Matt doesn't. He sits with his cane between his knees, running his fingers over a Braille newspaper.
MATT: (V.O.) You think it'd be easy for a sightless man to turn a blind eye.
On the newspaper, a picture of a crime wave in Hell's Kitchen. Riot police take down a black man with batons, four on one.
MATT: (V.O.) But without your sight, you can see everything. It's not the smell of gun oil that gets me, that's easy to explain.
Setting down the newspaper, Matt's nostrils flare. His brow furrows.
MATT: (to himself) It's not your concern. Follow the rules.
MATT: (V.O.) It's the fear – hard, acidic. Like a corpse that's started to rot before it's dead.
MATT: Jamie, pull over here. I feel like a donut.
EXT. CONVENIENCE STORE – MORNING
The car pulls into the parking lot, its shiny contours reflecting POS cars in all the other spots. Matt gets out. His cane rattles against the pavement as he heads for the door.
INT. CONVENIENCE STORE – MORNING
A hold-up. Two SKI MASKS have the place under lock and key. One rolls a gun to the CASHIER, while the other has the CUSTOMERS held hostage in the back. He's way into a female hostage's personal space, while Ski Mask 1 is freaking out over the haul.
SKI MASK 1: Where's the rest of it, man!
CASHIER: It's all in the safe, I'm telling you, I can't open it, I can't—
The bells jangle. Ski Mask 1 shuts up, turns to see Matt… a blind man.
MATT: Hello? Are you open?
The thieves are shocked, which quickly gives way to amusement. A blind guy – hilarious!
MATT: Hello? Who's there?
Ski Mask 1 walks up to Matt, staying just out of range of his cane, mocking him – Holding his gun to Matt's head, mouthing obscenities at him, even gives him bunny ears. Matt taps his cane at the man's feet.
MATT: Is someone there?
He suddenly raises his cane, 'accidentally' bulldozing it into Ski Mask 1's crotch. The thief crumples.
MATT: Sir, I could use a little assistance. Could you direct me to the chapstick?
He turns, his shoulder 'accidentally' (I'll stop) knocking the gun from Ski Mask 1's numb hand. Ski Mask 2 is running up the aisles, when Matt knocks a display stand of cans over and kicks one into where Ski Mask 2's foot comes down. He slips.
MATT: Oh, I'm terribly sorry.
Matt sets his cane down so the tip is in the trigger guard of Ski Mask 1's dropped gun.
MATT: Would a small gratuity make up for the inconvenience?
He gets out his wallet, transferring his cane to the crook of his arm… and in the process, he catapults the gun so it slams into Ski Mask 2's head. If this were a cartoon, here's where the little stars and birdies would come in. Matt sets down a five on the counter, in front of a slack-jawed cashier.
MATT: Well, I do apologize for the mess, but since you persist in being unhelpful, I'll just have to take my business elsewhere.
The bells jangle as he leaves, with everyone else wondering what in the world just happened.
INT. CAR – MORNING
Matt gets back in. The Chauffeur sets down the sports section.
CHAUFFEUR: They didn't have any donuts?
MATT: Fresh out.
EXT. LAW FIRM – MORNING
Establishing shot, as the Chauffeur parks the car. This is the kind of building that oozes slick power.
INT. LAW FIRM – MORNING
Moving past some truly random modern art, Matt drops into his desk. He seems haunted.
MATT: (V.O.) I know that seemed pretty cool back there, but I broke the rules. My father…
Matt takes hold of a framed picture on his desk. The blind man's picture. A young Matt Murdock and his father, JACK MURDOCK. Shabbier clothes, but happier times. He rubs the glass with his thumb as if he could still feel his father's warmth.
MATT: (V.O.) He would be ashamed.
Matt's obsequious boss, JEFFERSON, stops in. Not the kind of guy you want as a boss. Or an acquaintance.
JEFFERSON: Hey Mattie. How's my favorite lawyer?
MATT: I went to see the doctor. He thinks someone's wrong with my eyes.
JEFFERSON: Ha ha, hilarious! Guess what?
MATT: What.
JEFFERSON: You're going home. Back to the old homestead. New York, New York! The city so nice they—
MATT: Why would I want to go back to New York?
JEFFERSON: The Natchios case. You know, that real estate magnate who caught his wife in bed with another man and… you know the rest. All yours, buddy. Walk in the park plea bargain. Just work your magic, chisel some years off his sentence, and you'll be back in time for kayaking.
MATT: I'd really prefer not to. Me and New York… I just like it here more.
Even Jefferson can smell the bullshit.
JEFFERSON: Look, this is an easy win. Do this, and the Owens case is yours.
MATT: The pedophile?
JEFFERSON: Alleged. I've seen the (finger quotes) 'victim' and she's the least credible witness ever. You'd destroy her. On the stand. From there, you'll have a shot at being the youngest junior partner this law firm has ever seen, then a corner office… then I'd better start watching out!
They laugh, fakely.
MATT: ("heh") You should.
JEFFERSON: So how 'bout it, Matt? You gonna get your brief on that plane and show the boys what you can do with homefield advantage?
MATT: (V.O.) Follow the rules, follow the rules…
A fake smile forms.
MATT: I'd love to.
EXT. AIRPLANE – DAY
Take-off! The engines roar like artillery.
INT. AIRPLANE – DAY
In his seat, first-class, Matt turns up his iPod. The opening bars of Stevie Wonder's 'I Wish' drown out the agonizing noise, more or less, background noise. A STEWARDESS comes by, gives Matt a drink, flirts a little. Trying to take his mind off everything, Matt flirts right back. We don't hear it.
MATT: (V.O.) I know how it looks. The Armani suit, the sports car you don't even have to drive, the boss who thinks you're the best thing since Johnnie Cochrane, the women throwing themselves at you. So what's so bad about going to New York? It's a nice town. Get in, get out, watch a Broadway show, sleep with this stewardess. The thing is, I can't enjoy it much when New York is tearing into me.
EXT. HELL'S KITCHEN – FLASHBACK
We're high up, bird's eye view, or the view from a plane. Slowly plunging down into Hell's Kitchen. Not Clinton, or whatever you want to call it. Hell's. Kitchen.
MATT: (V.O.) New York. Hell's Kitchen. My birthplace. Just thinking about it cuts into me, tears away the suit, the car, the work, the women. Strip away all that, and the aught-aughts, what have you got? A little kid who loves his dad.
Stevie Wonder takes over the soundtrack. We've down among the grit and the grime and now we know this is the past, but here's a caption for the slow people in the audience. "15 YEARS AGO."
This is Scorsese's New York. Heat and crime and cops and robbers. But there's a community here. And a sense of mischief. It's not a bad place to grow up, for Matt.
On the street, a FAT COP is lecturing some kids. Their boombox still defiantly shoots NWA.
FAT COP: You play that goddamn jungle music once more in my neighborhood, you're gonna have a nightstick so far up your ass you'll taste it!
We DOLLY UP the fire escapes strung with drying clothes and smoked cigarettes, into an open window, where a PRETEEN MATT MURDOCK is head down, studying hard. But his ears twitch. Someone just said his name.
FAT COP: (O.S.) Why can't you be good kids, like that Murdock boy? He's never in any trouble.
Breaking the image of studious concentration on his face, Matt blows bubblegum. Listening.
KID: (O.S.) Matt Murdock, that wimp? Yeah, he's a real daredevil.
The bubble pops, revealing Matt's eyes. Full of mischief.
CUT to the Fat Cop, still hammering into the kids.
FAT COP: You watch how you address a police officer, you little—
Boom. Matt, a WOOL CAP pulled over his face, zooms by, grabbing the cop's nightstick out from under his muffin-top. And the chase is on!
Even at this age, it's obvious Matt is a natural athlete. He bobs and weaves, easily keeping ahead of the Fat Cop. Then a POLICE CRUISER pulls up at the intersection he's crossing. The Fat Cop YELLS and Matt is in the shit. He goes hellbent for leather down the sidewalk, jumping a game of craps, sliding under two guys carrying a sofa, then ducks into an alley. The COPS, slim and fit authority figures, get out of the squad car. They give chase.
Matt climbs a chainlink fence like it was a ladder, but doesn't go down the other side. Instead, he crouches on the top and SPRINGS – catching the bottom rung of a FIRE ESCAPE LADDER. His meager weight doesn't pull it down and as the cops are still scaling the fence, Matt is up the stairs.
EXT. ROOFTOP – FLASHBACK
Matt zooms over the parapet and pauses to examine his prize. The nightstick might as well be Excalibur to him. Then he looks out at the city, stretching for miles from this vantage point. Hell's Kitchen. Something beautiful in the brickwork, the sheer humanity of it. It promises something he doesn't yet understand.
Matt takes off with the speed of youth, jumping the gap between buildings like it was nothing. Fearless.
Author's notes: A few things here. First, I liked the idea of setting up the Mafiosos with a modicum of honor, meeting in a backalley, and then later we have the Kingpin in a high-tech skyscraper, having completely taken it to the next level. But as I wrote it, Kingpin didn't really have a place in the story. He was, after all, just telling Bullseye what to do. So a quick rewrite and Kingpin is our Emperor Palpatine, someone who can be more fully explored in the Elektra Saga (or whatever you want to call the sequel). That keeps the cast small and streamlined, which is very important to me. You don't want this to turn into Spider-Man 3. Then at the end, the audience gets to see the Kingpin and holy shit, it's Phillip Seymour Hoffman (or whoever)! Awesome!
Another thing was Matt's intro, where I wanted to quickly get across that he's clever and resourceful and has a tendency for this kind of thing, whether as a kid or an adult. Him being a soulless L.A. lawyer is something from MWF, although it only came up at the end. I liked the idea that Matt doesn't just pay lip service to disobeying his father's wishes, in a man-pain sort of way, but actually has a lot of internal conflict over acting as Daredevil. It sets him apart from all the other heroes who do what they do to honor their dead parents/planets/refrigerators. To Matt, fighting crime is like spitting in his father's face.
And for the record, here's who I'm picturing for the various parts.
I get the feeling that a lot of times in Hollywood, this happens.
Screenwriter: So my original script will be about a dark heroine, walking the line between justice and vengeance, trying to make sense of the cruel world which murdered her family and took her virginity.
Executive: We have the license for Squirrel Girl. Work with that.
Screenwriter: Hmm... this could still work...
TWO YEARS LATER...
Squirrel Girl: The squirrels tell me to kill!
But if you got someone who was actually a fan of the comics... and who didn't direct Simon Birch, I cannot stress that enough... you might come up with a pretty good story. The idea here is to do an origin story that kicks off a trilogy, yes, just like every other fan script in existence. But instead of cliffhangers and stupid crap, each story would be self-contained and satisfying on its own, while forming one epic story of the war between Matt Murdock and the Kingpin when watched altogether. This installment would introduce all the characters who would need to be established for the Elektra Saga to work, so you wouldn't have to rush through the story like Mark Steven Johnson's version.
You could also tackle the Hand in an Elektra spin-off, or continue the series with an emphasis on Brian Michael Bendis's DD run, or even do a Punisher Vs. Daredevil crossover. But hey, it's never gonna happen. So, without further adieu for what amounts to just another fanfic...
EXT. ITALIAN RESTAURANT – EVENING
A TOWN CAR pulls up to this homey little place, joining a parade of sports cars, limos, and other such expensive cars. Men in dark suits, obnoxious in their armament, stand on patrol. For blocks, everything is closed for business and foot traffic has disappeared. If hell broke through the pavement, it couldn't be more obvious.
RIGOLETTI, an ancient Mafia don who nonetheless radiates the glamour and charisma of the Family, gets out of the car. He tucks a red rose into his lapel.
RIGOLETTI: (back into car) Come along, my friend. This won't take long. 'No' never does.
As Rigoletti moves into the restaurant, a massive PRESENCE follows him. So large that when it gets out of the car, the thing jumps on its shocks with relief.
INT. ITALIAN RESTAURANT – KITCHEN – EVENING
The OWNER, a frightened family man in his fifties, painstakingly stirs a pot of spaghetti.
OWNER: Martha, is the lasagna ready yet?
His WIFE nods from the stove.
WIFE: Yes, I'll send Maria.
Their pretty TEENAGED DAUGHTER nods obediently.
OWNER: No! Let Steven take it. (to Maria) These are bad men, my darling. If they see something they want, they will take it. And if they cannot take it, they will destroy it. Please, stay here where it's safe.
INT. ITALIAN RESTAURANT – EVENING
The empty restaurant has been converted into a conference room, the lights dimmed, the music off. Powerful men in suits that cost more than the building they're in are arrayed at a table. From the old-fashioned nature of their suits and mannerisms, we can peg this as the past. This isn't The Sopranos. This is The Godfather.
At the head of the table, Rigoletti sits. He weathers the arguments of his underlings, not touching the food in front of him.
UNDERLING: We can make millions, godfather, billions! These minor-league pimps and pushers are leaving us in the dust, and we could make ten times their profit with the machinery we have in place. All we have to do is let go of this romanticized Marlon Brando bullshit.
RIGOLETTI: This 'romanticized bullshit' is the only thing keeping me from shooting you right now.
He stands to address the table. And when he speaks, make no mistake: They listen.
RIGOLETTI: We are Cosa Nostra: men of honor, men of respect! We will not cater to unholy perversions, not infect our children with addiction, and not ally ourselves with demons! We may be criminals, but we are not animals! Now go! Leave me to my meal.
Leaving their own food unfinished, the made men file out. Rigoletti is alone.
RIGOLETTI: Music.
Something in the shadows moves. A vast presence. Bach's "Air on the G String" fills the restaurant. Rigoletti tucks in his napkin and begins his meal.
RIGOLETTI: Oh, my friend, my old friend… how they exhaust me. They would whore out our honor for pocket change, never caring that our own families would have to live in the hell they would make of this city. Wilson, I need your hands.
The presence steps out of the darkness, filling the area behind Rigoletti like a great shadow. Hands that could rend a horse descend on Rigoletti's shoulders and soothe him.
RIGOLETTI: Child prostitution, designer drugs, snuff films… madness! And they would stoop to it. You're the only one I can trust.
The hands move up Rigoletti's neck to his scalp. They could cup his entire head in their palms.
RIGOLETTI: Sometimes, I fear for this city, what it will become when I am gone. Thank God for my sons. They at least will honor the old ways when I am gone.
The presence speaks… a cultured voice, but one that rumbles like thunder.
FISK: Your sons are dead. Join them.
In one savage twist, Rigoletti's neck is broken. Fisk takes the flower from Rigoletti's chest and then let him drop into his food. He pins in to his own lapel. We never see his face, but it's obvious… this giant of a man is a warlord for the 21st century.
He walks around the table, and we notice a man sitting at the other end, feet up in a plate of spaghetti, guzzling wine from the bottle. BULLSEYE is the consummate killer, a man who enjoys his work. But his eyes mark him as something even worse than that. There's a pure kind of evil in them; the sadism of picking the wings off flies has been cultivated and taken root in his soul.
FISK: I told Rigoletti his heirs were dead. Am I a liar?
BULLSEYE: Not about this.
FISK: Then it's done. Call Calogero, tell him the deal with the Russians is back on. Let Salvatore know I want his shipment on the streets as soon as possible. New York City is open for business.
Bullseye toasts, happy as a clam.
BULLSEYE: Here's to the Kingpin of Crime.
He regards the kitchen, where the door bustles… as if someone just moved away from it.
BULLSEYE: And our gracious hosts?
FISK: No witnesses.
He sits down to enjoy his meal as Bullseye gets up, taking utensils wrapped in a napkin. A strange choice of weapon.
BULLSEYE: Shame. They make a mean gnocchi.
As the screams begin, Fisk takes a bite. Makes a noise of savoring.
FISK: That is good.
Music continues over as we cut to…
A FIELD OF BLAZING RED. Hell? No, we pull out… the read-out of a digital alarm clock.
INT. MATT'S APARTMENT – MORNING
"15 YEARS LATER."
And what an apartment it is. The minutes go from 59 to 00 and the music cuts out. Silence for a moment. Then the sounds of a city seep in. Cars, el trains, raised voices, all blending together, rising to an unbearable level, until…
MATT MURDOCK rises into frame, awake. He's the picture of a handsome young attorney on the rise. But not right now. Now he's sweaty and disheveled and looks like he hasn't slept for years. His eyes, blank as they are, come by their 1000-yard stare naturally.
MATT: (V.O.) The dream. Every night the same dream. I should say nightmare.
He picks up a remote from bedside, his fingers running over the BRAILLE on the buttons, and then presses a button. Music returns, but more contemporary. The Rolling Stones' 'Sympathy for the Devil.'
CREDITS ROLL as Matt readies himself. Eats, brushes teeth, listens to the morning news (which is clear as a bell no matter where he is in this really quite swank apartment). He exercises on a punching bag and here the yuppie mask slips. He pours rage into the Everlast until it BREAKS, bleeding sand onto the floor in the abstract patterns of its swing.
Matt is breathing hard, ashamed. We next see him in the shower, letting the water wash over him like a monk meditating under a waterfall.
INT. HOTEL LOBBY – MORNING
Matt, now dressed in a sharp three-piece suit with red sunglasses covering his dead eyes, emerges from the elevator. Bronze hair, square jaw, and a (dare I say?) devil-may-care smile make him look more like a playboy millionaire than a lawyer. It's almost enough to make us forget how he looked a few minutes ago. But not quite.
The DOORMAN greets him with cold affability.
DOORMAN: Morning, Mr. Murdock.
MATT: It's Matt. And could you order me a new punching bag?
DOORMAN: (surprised) Another one? (he recovers) Right away, Mr. Murdock.
Matt thanks him and moves off, shaking his head.
MATT: (V.O.) I've lived here five years and I'm still just another customer.
EXT. HOTEL LOBBY – MORNING
The streets of L.A. In this district, antiseptically clean. Glass and chrome. A car waits for Matt, the chauffeur reading the sports section. Seeing Matt, he quickly tucks it away.
CHAUFFEUR: Mr. Murdock, hello!
MATT: Hey Jamie. How're the Yankees doing?
The Chauffeur grins, busted.
CHAUFFEUR: None too shabby, Matt.
MATT: Day's off to a good start already.
INT. CAR – MORNING
Room to stretch out, but Matt doesn't. He sits with his cane between his knees, running his fingers over a Braille newspaper.
MATT: (V.O.) You think it'd be easy for a sightless man to turn a blind eye.
On the newspaper, a picture of a crime wave in Hell's Kitchen. Riot police take down a black man with batons, four on one.
MATT: (V.O.) But without your sight, you can see everything. It's not the smell of gun oil that gets me, that's easy to explain.
Setting down the newspaper, Matt's nostrils flare. His brow furrows.
MATT: (to himself) It's not your concern. Follow the rules.
MATT: (V.O.) It's the fear – hard, acidic. Like a corpse that's started to rot before it's dead.
MATT: Jamie, pull over here. I feel like a donut.
EXT. CONVENIENCE STORE – MORNING
The car pulls into the parking lot, its shiny contours reflecting POS cars in all the other spots. Matt gets out. His cane rattles against the pavement as he heads for the door.
INT. CONVENIENCE STORE – MORNING
A hold-up. Two SKI MASKS have the place under lock and key. One rolls a gun to the CASHIER, while the other has the CUSTOMERS held hostage in the back. He's way into a female hostage's personal space, while Ski Mask 1 is freaking out over the haul.
SKI MASK 1: Where's the rest of it, man!
CASHIER: It's all in the safe, I'm telling you, I can't open it, I can't—
The bells jangle. Ski Mask 1 shuts up, turns to see Matt… a blind man.
MATT: Hello? Are you open?
The thieves are shocked, which quickly gives way to amusement. A blind guy – hilarious!
MATT: Hello? Who's there?
Ski Mask 1 walks up to Matt, staying just out of range of his cane, mocking him – Holding his gun to Matt's head, mouthing obscenities at him, even gives him bunny ears. Matt taps his cane at the man's feet.
MATT: Is someone there?
He suddenly raises his cane, 'accidentally' bulldozing it into Ski Mask 1's crotch. The thief crumples.
MATT: Sir, I could use a little assistance. Could you direct me to the chapstick?
He turns, his shoulder 'accidentally' (I'll stop) knocking the gun from Ski Mask 1's numb hand. Ski Mask 2 is running up the aisles, when Matt knocks a display stand of cans over and kicks one into where Ski Mask 2's foot comes down. He slips.
MATT: Oh, I'm terribly sorry.
Matt sets his cane down so the tip is in the trigger guard of Ski Mask 1's dropped gun.
MATT: Would a small gratuity make up for the inconvenience?
He gets out his wallet, transferring his cane to the crook of his arm… and in the process, he catapults the gun so it slams into Ski Mask 2's head. If this were a cartoon, here's where the little stars and birdies would come in. Matt sets down a five on the counter, in front of a slack-jawed cashier.
MATT: Well, I do apologize for the mess, but since you persist in being unhelpful, I'll just have to take my business elsewhere.
The bells jangle as he leaves, with everyone else wondering what in the world just happened.
INT. CAR – MORNING
Matt gets back in. The Chauffeur sets down the sports section.
CHAUFFEUR: They didn't have any donuts?
MATT: Fresh out.
EXT. LAW FIRM – MORNING
Establishing shot, as the Chauffeur parks the car. This is the kind of building that oozes slick power.
INT. LAW FIRM – MORNING
Moving past some truly random modern art, Matt drops into his desk. He seems haunted.
MATT: (V.O.) I know that seemed pretty cool back there, but I broke the rules. My father…
Matt takes hold of a framed picture on his desk. The blind man's picture. A young Matt Murdock and his father, JACK MURDOCK. Shabbier clothes, but happier times. He rubs the glass with his thumb as if he could still feel his father's warmth.
MATT: (V.O.) He would be ashamed.
Matt's obsequious boss, JEFFERSON, stops in. Not the kind of guy you want as a boss. Or an acquaintance.
JEFFERSON: Hey Mattie. How's my favorite lawyer?
MATT: I went to see the doctor. He thinks someone's wrong with my eyes.
JEFFERSON: Ha ha, hilarious! Guess what?
MATT: What.
JEFFERSON: You're going home. Back to the old homestead. New York, New York! The city so nice they—
MATT: Why would I want to go back to New York?
JEFFERSON: The Natchios case. You know, that real estate magnate who caught his wife in bed with another man and… you know the rest. All yours, buddy. Walk in the park plea bargain. Just work your magic, chisel some years off his sentence, and you'll be back in time for kayaking.
MATT: I'd really prefer not to. Me and New York… I just like it here more.
Even Jefferson can smell the bullshit.
JEFFERSON: Look, this is an easy win. Do this, and the Owens case is yours.
MATT: The pedophile?
JEFFERSON: Alleged. I've seen the (finger quotes) 'victim' and she's the least credible witness ever. You'd destroy her. On the stand. From there, you'll have a shot at being the youngest junior partner this law firm has ever seen, then a corner office… then I'd better start watching out!
They laugh, fakely.
MATT: ("heh") You should.
JEFFERSON: So how 'bout it, Matt? You gonna get your brief on that plane and show the boys what you can do with homefield advantage?
MATT: (V.O.) Follow the rules, follow the rules…
A fake smile forms.
MATT: I'd love to.
EXT. AIRPLANE – DAY
Take-off! The engines roar like artillery.
INT. AIRPLANE – DAY
In his seat, first-class, Matt turns up his iPod. The opening bars of Stevie Wonder's 'I Wish' drown out the agonizing noise, more or less, background noise. A STEWARDESS comes by, gives Matt a drink, flirts a little. Trying to take his mind off everything, Matt flirts right back. We don't hear it.
MATT: (V.O.) I know how it looks. The Armani suit, the sports car you don't even have to drive, the boss who thinks you're the best thing since Johnnie Cochrane, the women throwing themselves at you. So what's so bad about going to New York? It's a nice town. Get in, get out, watch a Broadway show, sleep with this stewardess. The thing is, I can't enjoy it much when New York is tearing into me.
EXT. HELL'S KITCHEN – FLASHBACK
We're high up, bird's eye view, or the view from a plane. Slowly plunging down into Hell's Kitchen. Not Clinton, or whatever you want to call it. Hell's. Kitchen.
MATT: (V.O.) New York. Hell's Kitchen. My birthplace. Just thinking about it cuts into me, tears away the suit, the car, the work, the women. Strip away all that, and the aught-aughts, what have you got? A little kid who loves his dad.
Stevie Wonder takes over the soundtrack. We've down among the grit and the grime and now we know this is the past, but here's a caption for the slow people in the audience. "15 YEARS AGO."
This is Scorsese's New York. Heat and crime and cops and robbers. But there's a community here. And a sense of mischief. It's not a bad place to grow up, for Matt.
On the street, a FAT COP is lecturing some kids. Their boombox still defiantly shoots NWA.
FAT COP: You play that goddamn jungle music once more in my neighborhood, you're gonna have a nightstick so far up your ass you'll taste it!
We DOLLY UP the fire escapes strung with drying clothes and smoked cigarettes, into an open window, where a PRETEEN MATT MURDOCK is head down, studying hard. But his ears twitch. Someone just said his name.
FAT COP: (O.S.) Why can't you be good kids, like that Murdock boy? He's never in any trouble.
Breaking the image of studious concentration on his face, Matt blows bubblegum. Listening.
KID: (O.S.) Matt Murdock, that wimp? Yeah, he's a real daredevil.
The bubble pops, revealing Matt's eyes. Full of mischief.
CUT to the Fat Cop, still hammering into the kids.
FAT COP: You watch how you address a police officer, you little—
Boom. Matt, a WOOL CAP pulled over his face, zooms by, grabbing the cop's nightstick out from under his muffin-top. And the chase is on!
Even at this age, it's obvious Matt is a natural athlete. He bobs and weaves, easily keeping ahead of the Fat Cop. Then a POLICE CRUISER pulls up at the intersection he's crossing. The Fat Cop YELLS and Matt is in the shit. He goes hellbent for leather down the sidewalk, jumping a game of craps, sliding under two guys carrying a sofa, then ducks into an alley. The COPS, slim and fit authority figures, get out of the squad car. They give chase.
Matt climbs a chainlink fence like it was a ladder, but doesn't go down the other side. Instead, he crouches on the top and SPRINGS – catching the bottom rung of a FIRE ESCAPE LADDER. His meager weight doesn't pull it down and as the cops are still scaling the fence, Matt is up the stairs.
EXT. ROOFTOP – FLASHBACK
Matt zooms over the parapet and pauses to examine his prize. The nightstick might as well be Excalibur to him. Then he looks out at the city, stretching for miles from this vantage point. Hell's Kitchen. Something beautiful in the brickwork, the sheer humanity of it. It promises something he doesn't yet understand.
Matt takes off with the speed of youth, jumping the gap between buildings like it was nothing. Fearless.
Author's notes: A few things here. First, I liked the idea of setting up the Mafiosos with a modicum of honor, meeting in a backalley, and then later we have the Kingpin in a high-tech skyscraper, having completely taken it to the next level. But as I wrote it, Kingpin didn't really have a place in the story. He was, after all, just telling Bullseye what to do. So a quick rewrite and Kingpin is our Emperor Palpatine, someone who can be more fully explored in the Elektra Saga (or whatever you want to call the sequel). That keeps the cast small and streamlined, which is very important to me. You don't want this to turn into Spider-Man 3. Then at the end, the audience gets to see the Kingpin and holy shit, it's Phillip Seymour Hoffman (or whoever)! Awesome!
Another thing was Matt's intro, where I wanted to quickly get across that he's clever and resourceful and has a tendency for this kind of thing, whether as a kid or an adult. Him being a soulless L.A. lawyer is something from MWF, although it only came up at the end. I liked the idea that Matt doesn't just pay lip service to disobeying his father's wishes, in a man-pain sort of way, but actually has a lot of internal conflict over acting as Daredevil. It sets him apart from all the other heroes who do what they do to honor their dead parents/planets/refrigerators. To Matt, fighting crime is like spitting in his father's face.
And for the record, here's who I'm picturing for the various parts.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-05-26 10:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-27 06:34 pm (UTC)Except that it would totally be spoiled by the trailers and promotion.
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Date: 2010-05-27 06:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-27 06:51 pm (UTC)