The Usual Suspects

The Usual Suspects  

Screenplay by                             Christopher McQuarrie

Produced by                               Michael McDonnell

                                                 Bryan Singer

Directed by                                Bryan Singer

Cast List:

Stephen Baldwin                      McManus

Gabriel Byrne                          Keaton

Chazz Palminteri                      Dave Kujan

Kevin Pollak                            Hockney

Pete Postlethwaite                   Kobayashi

Kevin Spacey                           Verbal

Suzy Amis                                 Edie Finneran

Benicio del Toro                                  Fenster

BLACK

The lonely sound of a buoy bell in the distance. Water slapping against a smooth, flat surface in rhythm. The creaking of wood.

Off in the very far distance, one can make out the sound of sirens.

SUDDENLY, a single match ignites and invades the darkness. It quivers for a moment. A dimly lit hand brings the rest of the pack to the match. A plume of yellow-white flame flares and illuminates the battered face of DEAN KEATON, age forty. His salty-gray hair is wet and matted. His face drips with water or sweat. A large cut runs the length of his face from the corner of his eye to his chin. It bleeds freely. An un-lit cigarette hangs in the corner of his mouth.

In the half-light we can make out that he is on the deck of a large boat. A yacht, perhaps, or a small freighter. He sits with his back against the front bulkhead of the wheel house. His legs are twisted at odd, almost impossible angles. He looks down.

A thin trail of liquid runs past his feet and off into the darkness. Keaton lights the cigarette on the burning pack of matches before throwing them into the liquid.

The liquid IGNITES with a poof.

The flame runs up the stream, gaining in speed and intensity. It begins to ripple and rumble as it runs down the deck towards the stern.

EXT. BOAT – NIGHT – STERN

A stack of oil drums rests on the stern. They are stacked on a palette with ropes at each corner that attach it to a huge crane on the dock. One of the barrels has been punctured at it's base. Gasoline trickles freely from the hole.

The flame is racing now towards the barrels. Keaton smiles weakly to himself.

The flame is within a few yards of the barrels when another stream of liquid splashes onto the gas. The flame fizzles out pitifully with a hiss.

Two feet straddle the flame. A stream of urine flows onto the deck from between them.

The sound of a fly zipping. Follow the feet as they move over to where Keaton rests at the wheel house.

CRANE UP to the waist of the unknown man. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of one pocket and a strange antique lighter from the other. It is gold, with a clasp that folds down over the flint. The man flicks up the clasp with his thumb and strikes it with his index finger. It is a fluid motion, somewhat showy. Keaton looks up at the man. A look of realization crosses his face. It is followed by frustration, anger, and finally resignation.

VOICE (O.S.)

How are you, Keaton?

KEATON

I'd have to say my spine was broken, Keyser.

He spits the name out like it was poison.

The man puts the lighter back in his pocket and reaches under his jacket. He produces a stainless .38 revolver.

VOICE (O.S.)

Ready?

KEATON

What time is it?

The hand with the gun turns over, turning the gold watch on its wrist upward. The sound of sirens is closer now. Headed this way.

VOICE (O.S.)

Twelve thirty.

Keaton grimaces bitterly and nods. He turns his head away and takes another drag. The hand with the gun waits long enough for Keaton to enjoy his last drag before pulling the trigger.

GUNSHOT.

The sound of Keaton's body slumping onto the deck.

MOVE OUT ACROSS THE DECK

Below is the stream of gasoline still flowing freely.

The sound of the gasoline igniting. The flame runs in front of us towards the barrels, finally leaping up in a circle around the drums, burning the wood of the pallet and licking the spouting stream as it pours from the hole.

MOVE OUT ACROSS THE DOCK

Away from the boat.

The pier to which the boat is moored is littered with DEAD BODIES. Twenty or more men have been shot to pieces and lie scattered everywhere in what can only be the aftermath of a fierce fire-fight.

A BARGE COMES INTO VIEW

On the deck of the barge is a tangle of cables and girders. The mesh of steel and rubber leaves a dark and open cocoon beneath its base.

MOVE INTO THE DARKNESS

Sirens are close now. Almost here. The sound of fire raging out of control.

SIRENS BLARING. TIRES SQUEALING. CAR DOORS OPENING. FEET POUNDING THE PAVEMENT.

MOVE FURTHER, SLOWER, INTO THE DARKNESS

Voices yelling. New light flickering in the surrounding darkness.

SUDDENLY, AN EXPLOSION.

Then silence. TOTAL BLACKNESS.

We hear the voice of ROGER "VERBAL" KINT, whom we will soon meet.

VERBAL (V.O.)

New York. – six weeks ago. A truck loaded with stripped gun parts got jacked outside of Queens. The driver didn't see anybody, but somebody fucked up. He heard a voice. Sometimes, that's all you need.

BOOM!

INT. DARK APARTMENT – DAY – NEW YORK – SIX WEEKS PRIOR TO PRESENT DAY

The black explodes with the opening of a door into a dark room. Outside, the hall is filled with blinding white light. Shadows in the shapes of men flood into the room. We can make out men in hoods with flashlights. They are laden with weapons.

VOICES

POLICE. SEARCH WARRANT. DON'T MOVE.

It is a blur of violent action and sound. Beams of flashlights cut the darkness in all directions.

FINALLY: A dozen flashlights land on one man. He lies naked in bed, Merging from a deep sleep. He squints at the flood of blinding white light, more annoyed than frightened. He nearly laughs at the sound of countless guns cocking. He is McMANUS. Age twenty-eight.

VOICE (O.S.)

Mr. McManus?

MCMANUS

Yeah.

VOICE (O.S.)

Police. We have a warrant for your arrest.

MCMANUS

Will they be serving coffee downtown?

Two dozen black gloved hands grab him and yank him out of bed.

INT. AUTO BODY SHOP – DAY

An old paint mixer vibrates furiously. TODD HOCKNEY, a dark, portly man in his thirties is working on an old Fire-bird. A YOUNG HISPANIC KID mixes paint a few feet away. SUDDENLY, the garage door opens TO REVEAL:

A row of five men silhouetted by the bright sun. Hockney squints.

HOCKNEY

Can I help you?

Hockney's voice is gruff.

MAN

Todd Hockney.

Hockney reaches for something just inside the door of the Fire-bird.

HOCKNEY

Who are you?

All six men INSTANTLY PRODUCE GUNS and aim them at Hockney.

MAN

Police.

Hockney withdraws a filthy towel and wipes grease and sweat from his forehead.

HOCKNEY

We don't do gun repair.

EXT. STREET – NEW YORK – DAY

FRED FENSTER, a tall, thin man in his thirties strolls casually down the street. He is dressed conspicuously in a loud suit and tie with shoes that have no hope of matching. He smokes a cigarette and chews gum at the same time.

He happens to glance over his shoulder and notice a brown Ford sedan with four men in it cruising along the curb. He picks up his step a little. The Ford keeps up.

He looks ahead at the corner. He tries to look as comfortable as he can, checking his watch as though remembering an appointment he is late for. The Ford stays right on him.

SUDDENLY, he bolts. He gets no more than a few yards before cars pour out of every conceivable nook and cranny. Brakes are squealing, radios squawking, guns cocking. Fenster is surrounded instantly. He stops short and flaps his hands on his thighs in defeat.

INT. MONDINO'S RESTAURANT – DAY

An attractive man and woman walk quickly through the front of a small New York cafe. They are charged with nervous, excited energy.

The man is DEAN KEATON, a well dressed, sturdy looking man in his forties with slightly graying hair. He looks much better than he did in the opening scene. The woman with him is EDIE FINNERAN, age thirty-three, poised and attractive – easily the calmer of the two.