Gods and Monsters Script
NOTE: THE HARD COPY OF THIS SCRIPT CONTAINED SCENE NUMBERS
AND SOME "SCENE OMITTED" SLUGS. THEY HAVE BEEN REMOVED FOR
THIS SOFT COPY.
FADE IN:
MAIN TITLES BEGIN
Writhing pools of light and dark, out of which emerge images
from "The Bride of Frankenstein," directed by James Whale.
Elsa Lanchester, as the Monster’s Bride, looks up, down,
left, right, startled to be alive. The Monster stares at
her. "Friend?" he asks, tenderly, desperately.
EXT. COUNTRYSIDE - NIGHT (B & W)
Lightning splits the black-and-white sky, revealing a single
shattered oak in a desolate landscape. Below, a HUMAN
SILHOUETTE stumbles through the darkness, the top of his
head flat, his arms long and heavy, his boots weighted with
mud.
Suddenly the storm fades. Light creeps into the scene, and
color, as we DISSOLVE TO:
THE PACIFIC OCEAN
melting into a hazy morning sky. In a box canyon off the
coast highway, we see row after neat row of trailer homes, a
makeshift village for beach bums.
INT. TRAILER - DAY
CLAYTON BOONE opens his eyes. He is 26, handsome in a
rough-hewn, Chet Baker-like way, with broad shoulders and a
flattop haircut. He grabs a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes,
lights a bent cigarette.
Clay stands and walks bare-assed across the single tin room,
his head almost touching the ceiling.
EXT. TRAILER PARK - DAY
Clay goes a few rounds with a weatherstained speed bag
that’s set up behind his trailer.
INT. TRAILER - DAY
Clay towels off, glances at the morning paper. He moves
aside a pile of paperbacks on a card table until he finds a
calendar. His finger targets today’s first appointment.
"10 A.M. - 788 Amalfi Drive."
EXT. TRAILER PARK - DAY
Clay steps out of the trailer, clean-shaven and dressed in
dungarees, a T-shirt with a fresh pack of cigarettes flipped
into one sleeve. He weight-lifts a secondhand mower onto
the bed of his rusty pick-up.
Clay climbs into the truck, slides the key into the
ignition. It takes a few tries but the engine finally turns
over.
EXT. PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY - DAY
Clay’s truck sails down the road, "Hound Dog" blaring on the
radio. MAIN TITLES END.
EXT. COLONIAL-STYLE HOUSE - DAY
Sprinklers twirl on a grassy slope outside a rambling
clapboard house. Below, a swimming pool forms a perfect
rectangle of still water. A title reads: SANTA MONICA
CANYON. 1957.
The pick-up drives past. Clay parks in the back, hops out.
ANGLE - HOUSE
A SHADOWY FIGURE stands at a window, watching Clay unload
his red power mower.
INT. HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY
The shadow is a man with dove white hair, wearing a dress
shirt and seersucker jacket. This is JAMES WHALE, age 67.
DAVID
I’d have more peace of mind if the
live-in nurse were still here.
HANNA
She was nothing but bother. I not
like her, Mr. Jimmy not like her.
We do better if you live-in again,
Mr. David.
In the dining room, visible through open double doors, DAVID
LEWIS, 55, speaks softly with the housekeeper, HANNA. She
is a squat, muffin-faced Hungarian woman in her late 50s,
dressed in black, her hair cinched in a tight bun. She
speaks with a thick accent.
DAVID
You’ll contact me if there’s an
emergency?
HANNA
Yes, I call you at this number.
(calls out)
Mr. Jimmy? More coffee?
WHALE
What? Oh yes. Why not?
He moves into the dining room, sits opposite David.
WHALE
Isn’t Hanna a peach?
Hanna ignores him, returns to the kitchen.
DAVID
She tells me you haven’t been
sleeping well.
WHALE
It’s the ridiculous pills they
prescribe. If I take them, I spend
the next day stupid as a stone.
If I don’t, my mind seems to go off
in a hundred directions at once --
DAVID
Then take the pills.
WHALE
I wanted to be alert for your visit
today. Especially since I saw so
little of you in the hospital.
The remark hits its target.
DAVID
I’m sorry, Jimmy. But with this
movie and two difficult stars --
WHALE
"The fault, dear David, is not in
ourselves but in our stars."
DAVID
(too anxious to laugh)
You remember how a production eats
up one’s life.
WHALE
Oh, David. There’s no pleasure in
making you feel guilty.
(stands)
You better go, my boy. You’ll be
late for that aeroplane.
David extends his hand, but Whale draws him into a hug. As
he starts out, David points to a framed painting.
DAVID
By the way, I like the Renoir.
WHALE
Thank you.
DAVID
(calls out)
Goodbye, Hanna.
Hanna runs out of the kitchen to escort David to the door.
Whale drifts back to the window, watches as Clay revs up the
lawnmower, creating a cloud of white smoke. We CUT TO:
EXT. STREETS OF DUDLEY - DAY (1900)
A bean-pole child with flaming red hair (WHALE at age 12)
stares up at the coal smoke pouring from a seemingly endless
row of chimneys. We’re in Dudley, a factory town in the
English Midlands region known as the Black Country.
SARAH WHALE (O.S.)
Stop lagging behind, Jimmy. We’ll
be late for church.
YOUNG WHALE
Yes, Mum.
Whale runs to catch up to his six brothers and sisters. His
father, WILLIAM WHALE, frowns at the boy’s prissy trot.
WILLIAM WHALE
Straighten up, son.
Young Whale’s movements thicken into a dim imitation of
manly reserve. The Whale family marches up a steeply
mounting street to Dixon’s Green Methodist Church.
INT. WHALE’S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY
Whale’s eyes tighten. He focuses on Clay Boone as he peels
off his T-shirt, revealing a tattoo on his upper right
forearm.
WHALE
Hanna? Who’s the new yardman?
HANNA
Bone? Boom? Something Bee. I
hire him while you were in the
hospital. He came cheap.
Whale nods, chooses a walking stick. He emerges into the
sunlight.
EXT. WHALE’S HOUSE - DAY
Whale moves jauntily onto the front lawn, singing to
himself:
WHALE
The bells of hell go ting-a-ling
For you but not for me.
Oh death where is thy sting-a-ling?
Grave where thy victory?
Whale steps up next to Clay.
WHALE
Good morning.
CLAY
(not looking up)
Mornin’.
WHALE
My name is Whale. This is my
house.
CLAY
Nice place.
WHALE
And your name is --?
CLAY
Boone. Clayton Boone.
WHALE
I couldn’t help but notice your
tattoo. That phrase? Death Before
Dishonor. What does it mean?
CLAY
Just that I was in the Marines.
WHALE
The Marines. Good for you. You
must have served in Korea.
Clay shrugs nonchalantly.
WHALE
Getting to be a warm day. A
scorcher, as you Yanks call it.
CLAY
Yeah. I better get on with my
work.
Whale clears his throat behind the back of his hand.
WHALE
When you’re through, Mr. Boone,
feel free to make use of the pool.
We’re quite informal here. You
don’t have to worry about a suit.
Clay glances warily at Whale.
CLAY
No thanks. I got another job to
get to this afternoon.
Whale holds Clay’s look.
WHALE
Some other time, perhaps? Keep up
the fine work.
Whale heads off, smiling to himself. Pleased to be naughty
again.
INT. WHALE’S HOUSE - STUDIO - DAY
The room is filled with unframed canvasses, many of them
copies of paintings by the Old Masters.
Whale rolls out the easel, lifts a half-painted canvas into
position. He stares at the blotches of color, trying to
remember what he intended to paint.
Whale pulls out a heavy volume on Rembrandt, opens to a
black-and-white plate of "The Polish Rider." We CUT TO:
INT. WHALE HOUSE - DUDLEY - NIGHT (1908)
A rough pencil outline of the same painting. Whale, age 16,
sits on his bed, ignoring the roughhousing of the three
younger BROTHERS who share the room. The door opens and
Whale’s mother SARAH enters.
SARAH WHALE
Jimmy. The privy needs cleaning.
WHALE
I have my class tonight.
Both have Midlands accents, like head colds that flatten
their speech. Whale holds up the sketch to show his mother.
SARAH WHALE
Don’t get above yarself, Jimmy.
Leave the drawring to the artists.
Whale squeezes the pad behind the bed, jumps up.
WHALE
Quite so, mum. To the privy.
And he heads cheerfully out of the room. His mother shakes
her head.
SARAH WHALE
"Quite so."
(calls out)
Jimmy Whale. Who are ya to put on
airs?
But Whale is already out the door. We CUT TO:
INT. WHALE’S HOUSE - BEDROOM - DAY
Whale studies his face in the mirror. He gives his white
hair a few final licks with his silver-backed brush.
INT. WHALE’S HOUSE - KITCHEN - DAY
Whale comes in from the bedroom.
WHALE
There is iced tea, Hanna? Cucumber
sandwiches?
HANNA
Yes, Mr. Jimmy.
(smiles)
An interview. After so many years.
Very exciting.
WHALE
Don’t be daft. It’s just a student
from the university.
The doorbell rings.
INT. WHALE’S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM - DAY
Whale settles into his club chair and opens a book,
pretending to read until Hanna ushers in the visitor.
HANNA
Mr. Kay, sir.
WHALE
(feigning surprise)
Yes?
Whale looks up at EDMUND KAY, 22, a slim boy who rests his
weight on one slouched hip, his arms twined behind him.
There is a look of mild disappointment on Whale’s face as he
realizes that Kay is a baby poof.
WHALE
Ah, Mr. Kay. I’d almost forgotten.
My guest for tea.
Whale stands and holds out his hand.
KAY
Mr. Whale, this is such an honor.
You’re one of my favorite all-time
directors. I can’t believe I’m
meeting you.
WHALE
(gently, teasing)
No. I expect you can’t.
KAY
And this is your house. Wow. The
house of Frankenstein.
(looks around)
I thought you’d live in a spooky
old mansion or villa.
WHALE
One likes to live simply.
KAY
I know. People’s movies aren’t
their lives.
He suddenly growls out an imitation of Boris Karloff.
KAY
Love dead. Hate living.
Kay laughs, a high, girlish giggle. Whale fights a cringe
with a polite smile.
KAY
That’s my favorite line in my
favorite movie of yours. "Bride of
Frankenstein."
WHALE
Is it now? Hanna? I think we’ll
take our tea down by the swimming
pool.
It’s clear from Hanna’s frown that she doesn’t approve of
the idea. Whale ignores her, turns back to Kay.
WHALE
Will that be good for you, Mr. Kay?
KAY
Sure.
WHALE
(opens the back door)
After you then.
Whale inspects the boy from behind, noticing his wide hips
and plumpish posterior.
EXT. WHALE’S HOUSE - BACKYARD - DAY
Kay’s hands flap animatedly as Whale leads him down to the
pool.
KAY
I love the great horror films. And
yours are the best. "The Old Dark
House." "The Invisible Man." They
look great and have style. And
funny!
Whale points to a small shingled house near the pool.
WHALE
This is the studio where I paint.
KAY
Nice.
(refusing to be
sidetracked)
And your lighting and camera
angles. You’re got to go back to
German silent movies to find
anything like it.
EXT. WHALE’S HOUSE - UPPER PATIO - DAY
Clay Boone gulps some water from the garden hose. He
glances down at the pool, where Kay and Whale sit in
cast-iron chairs.
HANNA
Time for you to leave.
Clay turns to Hanna, who holds a tray loaded with finger
sandwiches and a pitcher of iced tea.
CLAY
I’m on my way.
She doesn’t move until Clay starts off.
EXT. WHALE’S HOUSE - POOLSIDE - DAY
Kay flips open his steno pad.
WHALE
So, Mr. Kay? What do you want to
know?
KAY
Everything. Start at the
beginning.
WHALE
I was born outside London, the only
son of a minister who was a master
at Harrow. Grandfather was a
bishop. Church of...Church of
Eng...
Whale’s tongue trips on the word, his voice suddenly drowned
out by the blast of a factory whistle. We CUT TO:
INT. FACTORY SHOP FLOOR - DUDLEY - DAY (1908)
Fiery melt is poured into molds on the shop floor of a
machine parts factory. WHALE, 16, grips the hot casting
with tongs. His father WILLIAM, his face blackened with
grime, hammers away at the flaws. A heavy blow causes young
Whale to drop the mold, prompting catcalls and sneers on the
floor. There is a look of genuine fear in Whale’s eyes as
he looks up at his singed, beast-like father. We CUT TO:
EXT. WHALE’S HOUSE - BACKYARD - DAY
Kay clears his throat softly.
KAY
Mr. Whale?
Whale smiles politely to cover his momentary disorientation.
WHALE
Yes?
KAY
Your father was a schoolmaster?
WHALE
Of course. I attended Eton -- it
wouldn’t do for a master’s son to
attend where his father taught. I
was to go up to Oxford but the war
broke out and I never made it. The
Great War, you know. You had a
Good War, but we had a great one.
He glances to see if the boy smiles at the quip.
WHALE
You can’t imagine what life was
like after the Armistice. The
twenties in London were one long
bank holiday, a break from
everything dour and respectable. I
had a knack with pencil and paper,
so I was hired to design sets for
stage productions.
Hanna comes down the path with the tray. She places it on
the table.
WHALE
Thank you, Hanna. Very nice.
Hanna remains planted next to the table.
WHALE
You can go now.
She makes an audible sigh and starts back up the hill.
WHALE
There was one play in particular, a
beautiful, grim study of war called
"Journey’s End". Every experienced
director turned it down, so I
offered myself, bullying and
begging for the job. "Journey’s
End" made the careers of everyone
associated with it. It was only a
matter of time until Hollywood
beckoned.
KAY
How much longer before we get to
"Frankenstein"?
WHALE
Am I correct in assuming, Mr. Kay,
that it’s not me you’re interested
in, only my horror pictures?
KAY
Oh no, I want to hear everything.
You made twenty pictures in all --
WHALE
Twenty-one. The romantic comedies
and dramas were much more to my
liking. The horror pictures were
trifles. Grand guignol for the
masses.
KAY
But it’s the horror movies you’ll
be remembered for.
An abrupt look of anger flashes across Whale’s face.
WHALE
I am not dead yet, Mr. Kay.
KAY
No. I never said you were. Or
will be soon.
Kay leans over the steno pad, determined to be more worthy.
KAY
So. "Journey’s End" brought you to
Hollywood --
Whale takes in the boy’s blank, bored expression. He sighs.
WHALE
I have a proposal, Mr. Kay. This
mode of questioning is getting old,
don’t you think?
KAY
I don’t mind.
WHALE
Let’s make it more interesting. I
will answer any question you ask.
But, for each answer, you must
remove one article of clothing.
Kay’s mouth pops open.
KAY
That’s funny, Mr. Whale.
WHALE
It is, isn’t it? My life as a game
of strip poker. Shall we play?
KAY
You’re serious.
WHALE
Quite.
KAY
Then the rumors are true?
WHALE
What rumors might those be?
KAY
That you were forced to retire
because, uh -- a sex scandal.
WHALE
A homosexual scandal, you mean?
For me to answer a question of that
magnitude, you’ll have to remove
both your shoes and your socks.
Kay just sits there, squinting and grinning.
KAY
You’re a dirty old man.
Whale tilts his head as if brushing off a compliment. Kay
kicks off his penny loafers, bends over to remove his socks.
WHALE
You are kind to indulge your elders
in their vices. As I indulge the
young in theirs.
Two pale feet emerge. Whale leans forward to examine them.
He leans back again.
WHALE
No. There was no scandal.
And he reaches into his coat for a cigar. Whale’s hand
trembles as he slices a hole at the base, then lights the
cigar with a wooden match, sucking and rotating until the
tip is roundly lit.
WHALE
My only other vice. I suppose
you’d like a fuller answer to your
question.
Kay nods.
WHALE
It will cost you your sweater.
Kay hesitates a moment, then sets his pen aside to pull the
sweater over his head, revealing a sleeveless T-shirt.
KAY
Too warm for a sweater, anyway.
WHALE
You must understand how Hollywood
was twenty years ago. Nobody cared
a tinker’s cuss who slept with
whom, so long as you kept it out of
the papers. Outside of Hollywood,
who knows who George Cukor is, much
less what he does with those boys
from the malt shops along Santa
Monica?
Kay stares at him in disbelief.
KAY
George Cukor? Who made "A Star Is
Born"? I never guessed.
WHALE
Take off your vest and I’ll tell
you a story.
Kay plucks at his T-shirt, glancing toward the house.
WHALE
Don’t be shy. There’s time to stop
before you go too far.
KAY
I guess.
Kay peels off the shirt and tosses it on his shoes and
sweater.
WHALE
George is famous for his Saturday
dinner parties. Great artists,
writers, society folk, all rubbing
elbows with Hollywood royalty. But
how many of those oh-so-proper
people know about the Sunday
brunches that follow? Gatherings
of trade eating leftovers, followed
by some strenuous fun and frolic in
the pool.
(flicks an ash)
If a goat like that can continue
about his business, my more
domestic arrangements could’ve
raised very few eyebrows.
The revelation seems to have left Kay a little shaken. he
flips to a blank page.
KAY
Can we talk about the horror movies
now?
WHALE
Certainly, Mr. Kay. Is there
anything in particular you want to
know?
KAY
Will you tell me everything you
remember about making
"Frankenstein"?
He glances down at his few remaining articles of clothing.
KAY
Can that count as one question?
WHALE
Of course.
KAY
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
Kay stands to unbuckle his belt, glancing around the yard
again. He unzips and steps out of his sharply creased
flannel legs. His thighs are thin and pale.
KAY
Just like going swimming, isn’t it?
WHALE
Maybe you’d like a swim when we’re
through. I never swim myself, so
the pool tends to go to waste.
KAY
Okay. "Frankenstein." Tell me
everything.
WHALE
Righto. Let me see.
Whale swallows a wince, trying to block the pain pushing
against his skull.
WHALE
Universal wanted me for another
story, and wanted me so baldly -- I
mean badly, not baldly. I was
given the pick of stories being
developed, and I picked that one.
KAY
Who came up with the Monster’s
makeup and look?
WHALE
My idea. Muchly. My sketches.
Big heavy brow. Head flat on top
so they could take out the old
brain and put in the new, like
tinned beef.
KAY
He’s one of the great images of the
twentieth century. As important as
the Mona Lisa.
WHALE
You think so? That’s very kind --
Whale clutches at the air, suddenly notices that his hand is
empty. He looks down and sees the cigar on the flagstones.
KAY
Boris Karloff. Where did you find
him?
Whale bends down to retrieve his cigar -- and the change of
gravity drives a spike through his skull.
KAY
Karloff, Mr. Whale. How did you
cast him?
Whale turns toward the froggy voice.
WHALE
Please. Excuse me. I must go
lie --
He forces himself up with one hand. Kay finally looks up,
notices Whale’s colorless lips and desperate eyes.
KAY
Mr. Whale? Are you all right?
WHALE
I just need to -- lie down.
Studio. Daybed in studio.
Whale lurches from the table. Kay jumps forward, catching
him under an arm.
KAY
Oh my God. What’s wrong, Mr.
Whale? Is it your heart?
WHALE
Head. Not heart.
He leans against Kay, who leads him toward the studio.
WHALE
Forgive me.
EXT. WHALE’S HOUSE - DAY
Hanna runs down the path, clutching the front of her apron
in two tight fists.
INT. WHALE’S HOUSE - STUDIO - DAY
Hanna swings open the screen door -- and grimaces when she
sees Kay in his BVDs. He is kneeling next to Whale, who is
stretched out on the daybed.
HANNA
Water. Glasses at the sink.
She goes to Whale, scooping different bottles from the
pocket of her apron.
HANNA
Which ones? I bring them all.
WHALE
Luminal.
She empties a pill into her palm. Whale places it into his
mouth and takes the glass of Water Kay passes over Hanna’s
shoulder. Whale swallows the pill, then glances up at Kay,
feigning surprise.
WHALE
Mr. Kay. You’re not dressed.
Kay frantically crosses his arms over his chest and middle,
turns to Hanna.
KAY
I was going to take a swim.
WHALE
I’m sorry I spoiled it for you.
You should probably go home.
KAY
Right.
Kay hurries outside to retrieve his clothes. Hanna undoes
Whale’s bow tie. She makes no attempt to be gentle.
WHALE
You must think I’m terrible, Hanna.
HANNA
I do not think you anything
anymore. Just back from the
hospital and already you are
chasing after boys.
WHALE
Oh shut up. All we did was talk.
My attack had nothing to do with
him.
HANNA
Perhaps we should get you uphill
before the pills knock you cold.
WHALE
No. Let me lie here. Thank you.
Hanna nods, moves to the door. Whale closes his eyes,
breathes deeply, trying to block the throbbing SOUND in his
brain. We CUT TO:
INT. FACTORY SHOP FLOOR - DUDLEY - DAY (1908)
The noise is deafening -- the clank of chains, the screech
of wheels and the endless banging of hammers. William Whale
continues to knock away at the hot casting. The rhythmic
sound blends into the insistent knocking of:
A FIST
which smashes against sheet metal.
INT. CLAY’S TRAILER - DAY
Clay Boone’s eyes dart open.
DWIGHT (O.S.)
Boone! You awake? Eight o’clock.
CLAY
Fuck off!
DWIGHT (O.S.)
You told me to get you up, asshole.
A baseball-capped head is visible through the louvered glass
in the trailer’s door. DWIGHT JOAD, 30, Clay’s neighbor,
squints to see inside.
CLAY
I’m up. Thanks.
DWIGHT
Hasta la vista, Boone. And give
the jail bait a squeeze for me.
Clay glances over, seems surprised to see a naked back
facing him on the bare mattress.
CLAY
Hey, um...Rose --
The girl stirs, turns to face him. She is 18 at most.
DAISY
Daisy.
CLAY
Huh?
DAISY
My name is Daisy.
CLAY
Time to go, Daisy.
She presses her naked body against Clay’s.
DAISY
You know. I could help you fix up
this place real nice.
Clay takes a deep breath, trying to clear the gumminess from
his brain.
CLAY
Don’t you have to be somewhere?
Like high school maybe.
DAISY
I gave it up for Lent.
Daisy smiles at her own joke. Clay frowns.
CLAY
Right.
(jumps up from the bed)
Time to hit the road, kid.
INT. WHALE’S HOUSE - STUDIO - DAY
Whale ponders the half-painted canvas, clearly distressed by
his lack of progress. The stillness is punctured by the
sound of Clay’s lawnmower being dragged up the brick steps.
Whale smiles, puts down his brush.
EXT. WHALE’S HOUSE - BACKYARD - DAY
Clay stops, turns around, feeling someone’s eyes watching
him.
WHALE (O.S.)
(singing)
The bells of hell go ting-a-ling...
The mower slips out of Clay’s hands momentarily. he looks
around, spots Whale inside the studio.
WHALE
Everything alright, Mr. Boone?
CLAY
Just got away from me. Sorry to
disturb you.
The screen door squeaks open, clatters shut. A leather
slipper and rubber-tipped cane appear. Whale strolls into
view,