Robert Johnson: Hellhound on My Trail

Hellhound Postscript: Blues Walkin' Like a Man

2008-09-13T08:28:00.000-07:00

And so ends one version of the life of Robert Johnson--my 40-year-old script admired by many over the decades, but criticized by some too for sentimentality. (I'd say in defense that I tried to portray a flawed man rather than a myth.) At any rate, Hellhound is now on-line for anyone to examine and decide for him/herself.

Eventually there were other attempts: Alan Greenberg's too-surreal Love In Vain (which appeared as a book but was never filmed), and the silly Crossroads picture, and the Blaxploitation Leadbelly movie (which I egotistically thought might have "borrowed" some ideas from my widely circulating script), and the more recent Johnson docudramas--they all had ideas worth considering, but none of them attempted to create a whole world and a thoroughly imagined life.

I may not have nailed it, but I did struggle to do justice to one amazing Bluesman's poorly documented, Depression-era history, and be as culturally/socially/linguistically accurate as a white man writing a third of a century later might be.

Was Johnson's life tragic? Or was he merely heroic and skillful, pathetic and foolish in equal measure? The two or three known photos of him are finally as confusing as the recorded memories of other musicians and (supposed) friends concerning his musical prowess and his sad early death.

Only the great 29 songs (in 40-some existing takes) and the mystery remain.

Hellhound 22: Hello, Satan

2008-09-10T10:07:00.000-07:00

NIGHT--INTERIOR ROADHOUSE

The place is filling up, not yet at capacity--black people out from town or in from their sharecrop farms for the Saturday night dance. Betty Mae and Ralph sit in tense silence at a table between the dance floor and the bar. Robert is on the small bandstand beside the crowded dance floor.

JOHNSON: I 'uz thinkin', peoples--gettin' sho' nuff hot an' funky in here. Time to slow on down... time for some blues.

A few voiced objections from the dancers, but most are ready for a drink and a rest; these head for the bar.

JOHNSON: Could use a drink m'self. What say, Ralph?

ANGLE ON TABLE

Curtis registers displeasure, but then waves his agreement. He gets up and heads over to the bar to help Charles with the drinks.

ANGLE ON JOHNSON

He grins gleefully at getting the boss to work for him. Now he heaps insult on injury with the song he proceeds to play.

JOHNSON: All right, brothers an' sisters. I wrote this li'l thing for a' ol' frien'...

The song is his gentle "Honeymoon Blues," with such lyrics as these:

Betty Mae, Betty Mae, you shall be my wife some day (repeat)
I wants a sweet girl that will do anythin' that I say.
Someday I will return with the marriage license in my hand (repeat)
I'm gonna' to take you for a honeymoon in some long, long distant land.

Robert's own glances make it quite clear to whom the song is dedicated.

ANGLE ON THE CROWD

Some stirring and amused whispering. A few people watch Betty Mae. Others look around for Ralph.

CLOSE ON BETTY MAE

She doesn't know how to react--embarrassment, worry about her husband's reaction, pleasure at Johnson's words. She alternately stares down at the table and sneaks glances at the crowd of listeners.

ANGLE ON THE BAR

Ralph is behind it serving some people. He seems to be ignoring the whole thing aside from a general tightening of his facial muscles and a sheen of perspiration. Charles glances at him curiously; Ralph becomes aware of this and stares his barman down. Charles turns away, busying himself with customers.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The music continues throughout. Curtis takes out a new bottle of whiskey and turns his back on his customers (and the camera), presumably opening the bottle, but doing something at the back shelf too. When he moves away, we can see the now-open can of Red Devil lye.

ANGLE DOWN ON CROWD

Ralph approaches the bandstand carrying the loosely corked bottle and a glass. Without looking at Johnson, he hands these to him, then returns to the table where his wife waits. We can't see his face, but something there makes Betty Mae drop her eyes.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

As he pulls the cork and tosses it; he also puts the glass aside.

JOHNSON (patronizing tone): Why, thank ya, Ralph.

He takes a long pull from the bottle, then shudders at the taste.

JOHNSON: Brrr! Ralph, you keep servin' mule-kick like this, you gonn' rez-u-reck Pro'bition!

ANOTHER ANGLE ON THE ROOM

No sign from Ralph that he has heard this quip. Some laughter from the crowd as Johnson takes a small swallow, then sets the bottle at his feet and moves into his next song. Dissolve to:

CLOSE ON THE BOTTLE

Now half-empty. Johnson's feet shift awkwardly beside it.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He looks decidedly ill now, shifting about uncomfortably. He is sweating heavily.

JOHNSON: Folks, I'm feelin' some sickly. I'm gonn' get off here now...

ANGLE ON CROWDED DANCE FLOOR--JOHNSON'S P.O.V.

Vocal opposition to this from the happy dancers looking up at him.

WOMAN: No, Robert! You cain't quit now!

FIRST MAN: You is in the alley!

SECOND MAN: We come all way out from town!

Betty Mae can be seen still seated in the background; she appears concerned. Curtis is talking to someone else.

ANGLE ON BANDSTAND

Johnson shifts uncomfortably, but he accedes to the crowd's demand.

JOHNSON: All right, I stay... long's I kin...

He looks over at Betty Mae and Curtis, and watching them seems to decide what to play next--his touching and beautiful "Love in Vain":

I followed her to the station, with her suitcase in my hand (repeat)
Well, it's hard to tell, it's hard to tell, when all your love's in vain, all my love's in vain...
When the train lef' the station, she had two lights on behind (repeat)
Well, the blue light was my blues, and the red light was my mind...

CLOSE ON BETTY MAE

Her reaction to this despairing love song.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

Looking sicker and sicker as he struggles to get through this number. But he finally keels over, actually fainting.

ANOTHER ANGLE

He falls off the stool, knocking the bottle over, his guitar crashing down among the dancers. Consternation and concern from them.

ANGLE ON THE TABLE

Betty Mae leaps up, but Curtis grabs her arm and holds her back. Then he slowly gets up himself. He walks toward Johnson holding Betty Mae behind him and shouldering other people aside.

CURTIS: It's all right, folks. Prob'ly jus' too much to drink. I warned him 'bout that... Some o' y'all with a car tote him in to Greenwood. Pete? Thomas?

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson is half-conscious, writhing on the floor. The two large men Curtis designated lift Robert to his feet. Curtis lets go of his wife, gesturing to the other onlookers.

CURTIS: Cool down now! The boy be fine. Bar's still open, an' we get somebody up to play right quick.

The men half-walk, half-carry Johnson forward. He is more alert now, and as Curtis turns away, their eyes meet.

CLOSE ON CURTIS

Sweat streaming down his face; his look is stony and slightly triumphant.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

Pain twisting his features, he yet gives Curtis a searching look, then a slight nod and the ghost of a half-smile.

ANGLE ON THE GROUP--HAND-HELD

Now stomach cramps double Robert over, and the men half-carry him towards the door out. Betty Mae sounds a wordless moan and tries to move past Curtis, but he holds her back again; then both of them slowly follow along after the three men, walking out of the building.

NIGHT--EXTERIOR ROADHOUSE--HAND-HELD

Many people watch from the doorway of Ralph's Roadhouse as Johnson and the men move across the half-lit spaces outside. Curtis halts Betty Mae once more. Suddenly the most excruciating pains yet clutch at Johnson's insides; and like a puppet yanked aside, his reacting muscles tear him from the supporting arms and throw him onto the ground.

JOHNSON (groaning): Maee...

BETTY MAE (screaming back): Robert!

She tears herself free from Curtis and runs across to Johnson.

LOW ANGLE SEEING MOSTLY DARKNESS

In low light, writhing in pain, Johnson is on his hands and knees; his head hangs down and his silhouette against the night seems some mockery of a four-legged animal. Betty Mae drops to her knees and tries to wrap her arms around him.

BETTY MAE: Oh Robert...

But Johnson has passed beyond awareness now. He moves free of her arms, crawling away from her, away from the light from the roadhouse. Betty Mae spins around, looking for Curtis.

ANGLE ON THE ROADHOUSE

Curtis is alone in the foreground, the watching people beyond him; even Curtis looks horrified now. Betty Mae runs to confront him, striking him about the head and chest with her flailing arms. He makes no move to stop her.

BETTY MAE: You did this! You! I wasn't gone with him! I wasn't!

ANGLE ON JOHNSON

Johnson's hands-and-knees shape moves terrifyingly in the darkness, moaning and groaning its guts out. The soundtrack picks up the highest moan and echoes it electronically, building on it, creating a whole cacophony of animal-like howls. Then the film and sound fade to black and silence.

CLOSE ON HEADSTONE--ZOOM OUT

A new wooden marker reads "ROBERT JOHNSON (1911-1938)." Hands drop a bouquet of wildflowers, as the zoom out reveals the donor, Betty Mae. Robert's grave lies in a small country graveyard. (Music plays throughout this Epilog, a reprise of Johnson's "Me and the Devil," the ending portion that says, "... bury my body down by the highway side... so my ol' evil spirit can get a Greyhoun' bus an' ride.")

ANOTHER ANGLE

Betty Mae turns away and walks across the graveyard to the low wooden fence; a suitcase awaits her outside it. She climbs over the rickety barrier and stops beside her suitcase at the edge of the highway. She is silent and dry-eyed.

Sounds of a large moving vehicle on the road; she looks up.

ANGLE ON THE HIGHWAY

A Thirties-era Greyhound bus approaches; the destination sign above the windshield reads "CHICAGO." Betty Mae flags it down, and the bus stops.

ANGLE ON THE BUS--PAN

Betty Mae boards, and the bus accelerates. Camera follows its departure, holding particularly on the greyhound emblem. Soon that symbol escapes, and the bus recedes up the highway, growing smaller and smaller in the Mississippi farmlands distance. Super roll CREDITS... and END.

Hellhound 21: All My Love's in Vain

2008-09-06T07:43:00.000-07:00

ANGLE ON THE CROSSROADS

Now signs of the town of Greenwood are visible in the distance. Johnson sits in the shade of a tree, picking out a tune on his guitar and keeping a watchful eye on the roadhouse. When Betty Mae appears and walks hesitantly toward him, he stands up.

BETTY MAE: I cain't see you, Robert. It's not right. (mournfully) Why are you here?

JOHNSON: Baby, I had to see you--I got things to say. You gone back to town, ain'cha? I walk you there.

He picks up his suitcase and starts in the direction of Greenwood. Betty Mae stands still for a moment, torn two ways, then when Robert stops and motions to her, she reluctantly moves forward, still keeping her distance from him.

ANGLE ON THE ROADHOUSE--ZOOM IN

The camera move discovers Ralph's face, inside his roadhouse, watching their departure. Tight on his face then, we see he imagines the worst: Betty Mae's old love has returned to steal her away. He shows a mixture of anguish and anger.

ANGLE ON THE TWO--MOVING

Robert and Betty Mae walk along the highway heading to Greenville. They walk in silence at first. When they do talk, they avoid each other's eyes--when one turns, the other looks away.

JOHNSON: I need you. I ain' know till now jes' how much. (after a pause) I got to ramble, it's in me. I alluz thinkin' I could run alone or wid some buddy, an' fin' woman love whensoever I want, wherever... But that kin' ain' nothin'--no better'n wind in the trees an' dust in the road. You lonelier'n if you was alone.

Betty Mae is watching him now, but Robert stares resolutely off into the distance.

JOHNSON: Bad luck doggin' me ever'where I go... I know I have done evil--I kill one man, an' I hurt some peoples, you mos' of all I 'spect.

Now Betty Mae looks away, resisting her impulse to comfort him.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

His face as he continues.

JOHNSON: I was angry, an' I give you up that way, when what I shoulda done, I shoulda hol' on tighter. Ain' been no whole man no day since--juicin' an' foolin' aroun'. (bitter laugh) I been near drownin' in that stuff.

ANGLE ON THE TWO

Now he stops and faces her, pleading.

JOHNSON: But i ain't in that fast life now. No more, Mae. I come for you now--you what I been try'na fin' all these years.

Betty Mae has her hands over her ears.

BETTY MAE (wailing): Stop it, damn you, Robert! Stop...

She backs away from him before continuing.

BETTY MAE: I love you, Robert. I do. But it's too many years. I'm married now. You cain't jes' come here...

ANOTHER ANGLE--MOVING

Robert is thoughtful as he resumes walking; Betty Mae falls in step beside him.

JOHNSON: I ain' come here t' take you off, Mae. Onlies' thing that's set, I be playin' at Ralph's t'night. Well, tha's my life, ain' it?

BETTY MAE: Ralph loves me strong, Robert. He's a decent man, a hard-workin' man. But he won't accept anythin' between you an' me. He's proud, an' he hol's onto what's his. I won't leave him. 'Specially now...

JOHNSON: I ain't aimin' to do no one else wrong. I ain' so greedy, Mae, no more. I been playin' these blues long enough--I reckon I kin live 'em a mite longer.

Now Betty Mae grabs his arm, stops, and turns him toward her.

CLOSE ON BETTY MAE

She is almost in tears.

BETTY MAE: It's forever, baby. I been tryin' to tell you--I got Ralph's child in me now.

ANGLE ON THE TWO--FAVORING JOHNSON

His reaction: stunned amazement, followed by disappointment, and then somehow a visible acceptance. He nods, chuckles, and slowly walks on.

JOHNSON: Well, well... he's a lucky man. (quietly, almost an incantation) God bless the chile.

Now he takes Betty Mae's hand in his; she allows it now.

JOHNSON (smiling cheerfully): That's all right, mama. Nothin' bad between us. (singing a bit ridiculously) Got a house full o' chil'ren, ain' ne'er one mine...

He winks at Betty Mae, and she laughs in pleased relief. Then, hand in hand, more like old friends than ex-lovers, the two of them amble on down the highway towards Greenwood.

Hellhound 20: Someday I Will Return

2008-09-03T08:11:00.000-07:00

DAY--EXTERIOR COUNTRY CROSSROADS

This crossing of roads (outside Greenwood, Mississippi) looks very much like the one from Johnson's earlier nightmare, though he does not appear to notice. An ancient rattletrap Ford truck wheezes to a halt, and Robert dismounts from the passenger seat, nodding his thanks to the black driver.

JOHNSON: Thank ya.

CLOSER ON THE TRUCK

As Johnson reaches into the truck for his guitar and suitcase, the driver leans over.

DRIVER: Curtis place up the way there. (winks) Good times tonight an' ev'ry Sat'dy night!

Then he waves and sputters off in the Ford. Johnson turns to survey the surrounding countryside.

WIDE ANGLE--P.O.V.--PAN

Robert's view of his surroundings: two distant farmhouses, early-spring green fields of cotton, some other plantings as well. And up the road, two hundred yards or so, set well back with its own long dirt-road entry, a large wooden structure almost like an overgrown shed--Ralph Curtis's dancehall/tavern, with proud sign "RALPH'S ROADHOUSE."

ANOTHER ANGLE

He sets out walking towards the building.

INTERIOR ROADHOUSE

Inside, it is somewhat less impressive, though rather large--a battered bar and tables in one half and a large dance floor beyond. Ralph himself is sweeping the fance area, while his assistant Charles stands behind the bar, cleaning sink and drain; a can of "RED DEVIL" lye waits on the bartop near him.

Johnson enters from outside and saunters over to Charles.

JOHNSON: Ralph Curtis?

CHARLES (waving toward the back): 'At's him yonder.

Robert deposits his suitcase by the bar and, guitar in hand, heads for Curtis.

ANGLE FAVORING CURTIS

Ralph--Betty Mae's husband--is stocky and stolid, a perennially suspicious, easily perspiring member of the incipient Negro middle class. He looks at Johnson impassively as the bluesman near him.

CURTIS: Yeah? What?

JOHNSON (showing guitar): I play--breakdowns, blues, you name it. Need a job.

CURTIS: This ain' no dime juke or two-bit crib. If you can cut it, could be we use ya.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson runs through a few dazzling runs on guitar and plays the opening to "Preachin' Blues" (heard early in the film). Curtis holds up his hand.

CURTIS: So you got that part down. The rest of it is, we open Satiddy only, you stay sober and play onta dawn on a right night. Two dollars, more if you draw folks good. Well?

JOHNSON: Better'n choppin'.

CURTIS (dismissively): Right. Be here come nine... what's you' name anyway?

Robert is already walking away. He turns back with a half-smile.

JOHNSON: Johnson. Calls me "Blues Boy Bob."

ANGLE ON THE BAR

Johnson picks up his suitcase as he walks by.

JOHNSON (to Charles): So long.

Then he heads on out the door. Curtis has trailed him over to the bar.

CHARLES: Who 'zat? Look some familiar.

CURTIS: Say his name Bob Johnson.

CHARLES (thinking while he cleans mugs): Bob Johnson... Johnson... Well, sho'... 'At's Robert Johnson, from up Rob'sonville way. You heard 'is records, ain'cha? Real woman-poison too, folks say.

Curtis is already frowning and staring after Johnson.

ANGLE OUT THE SCREEN DOOR

Which shows Robert making his way down the road, Betty Mae coming towards him. She doesn't recognize him at first, but then stops in astonishment. The two ex-lovers approach each other slowly. Their initial words are not heard, as Charles continues speaking voiceover:

CHARLES' VOICE: Oh, yes, he pick 'em up an' drop 'em down. Say, Ralph, ain't you' wife come from up there?

ANOTHER ANGLE

As Curtis strides over to the screen door and yanks it open.

CURTIS (back to Charles): Shut you' mouf.

EXTERIOR ROADHOUSE

As Curtis emerges and bellows out...

CURTIS: Betty Mae!

ANGLE ON THE TWO

Now the couple is in the foreground and Curtis distant in background, gesturing from the door.

JOHNSON: ... to fin' you, Mae.

Betty Mae waves reassuringly at her husband.

BETTY MAE: I never tol' him, but...

JOHNSON: I be wait out at the crossroads. We got t' talk.

Betty Mae hurries off towards Curtis, but she looks back at Johnson, very much troubled by this encounter. He turns and saunters off.

ANOTHER ANGLE

As Betty Mae approaches her fuming husband.

CURTIS: What 'uz he sayin' at you?

BETTY MAE (not meeting his eyes as she passes): Nothing. He wanted a place in town to stay at. Why, who is he anyway?

She hurries on into the roadhouse. Curtis looks stricken by this casual lie, then somehow both angry and despairing, watching Johnson recede into the distance.

Hellhound 19: See That Lonesome Road

2008-08-30T15:21:00.000-07:00

DAWN--EXTERIOR LOGGING CAMP--MOVING

This is an East Texas "piney woods" logging camp with sawmill, board shacks, and an off-shift barrelhouse tavern right on site too; its flimsy sign has a handwritten "MUD'S." Both sawmill and barrelhouse are going full-tilt as Johnson wanders into camp, carrying his suitcase and the replacement guitar strapped across his back. He passes the working area with scarcely a sideways glance, arrives at Mud's just in time to stop, allowing two men, the one helping his drunk cohort, to stumble out from inside.

DRUNK (to Johnson): Good evenin', brother!

Robert looks up at the dawn sky, then grins and answers:

JOHNSON: Evenin' to you.

He walks on inside.

INTERIOR BARRELHOUSE

One long room filled with off-shift workers--a narrow bar, a few tables, a smoke-filled atmosphere, and a battered upright piano stuck off in one corner. An old juke joint/barrelhouse pianist named Henry sits noodling riffs and runs just about as tired as the workers all around the room. Robert skirts the bar and goes over to the piano.

ANGLE ON PIANO

Johnson sets his suitcase and guitar down, which attracts Henry's attention; he turns his head to the sound, revealing dark glasses and blind eyes. And he begins playing a more complete tune, some slow blues number.

HENRY: Who that?

JOHNSON (leaning on the piano): A weary man.

HENRY (playing throughout their talk): New man too, I'd say. The voice...

JOHNSON: Uh-huh. (about the music) Tha's nice 'n' peaceful.

HENRY: Slow drag for the end o' things. You play?

JOHNSON (looking over at the guitar): Gittar. Some harp when I 'uz a kid.

HENRY: That so? What'd you' name be?

JOHNSON: Robert Johnson.

Henry stops playing long enough to hold out his right hand.

HENRY: Henry Perkins. Calls me "Blin' Boy."

They shake hands and then he resumes the music.

HENRY: Seem like I hear talk of Robert Johnson. You him?

JOHNSON (shrugs): Depen's what you hear.

HENRY (smiles): Bad blues gittar, folks say.

JOHNSON: I get on.

Henry lifts one hand to reach for his beer mug atop the piano, finds it empty.

HENRY: Mebbe we try some piano-an'-gittar after 'while.

JOHNSON: Don' min'.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Henry turns to call across to the bartender.

HENRY: Hey, Mud. Two short'uns.

Robert walks over to pick up the two mugs. The room has gradually begun emptying out as the next camp shift makes ready to start. He returns with the beers, pulls up a chair, and sits down next to Henry. He sips from his mug, but Henry takes a deep draught, then sets his aside and resumes playing.

HENRY: Well, Robert Johnson, where be you boun'?

CLOSE ON THE TWO--FAVORING JOHNSON

Robert shrugs silently, then realizes Henry can't see that motion.

JOHNSON: Wherever. Somewheres better than I been, hope to God.

HENRY (slaps his knee): Ain' that th' trufe! But you ain' soun' near old 'nuff to talk it.

JOHNSON (bitterly): How ol' you got t' be to be dead?

Henry absorbs this silently, segueing into another blues number; the talk ceases for a moment.

HENRY: Some better up North, folks say. Seem like they's movin' up there, anyway--Indiana, Chicago, an' such like.

Johnson absorbs this in silence, shaking his head gloomily.

HENRY: Yessir, that's black man's future, folks say. Mebbe I oughta roll on up that river myself.

JOHNSON (intensely): Blin' Boy, it ain't. I been there.

CLOSE ON HENRY

As he turns and answers Robert just as intently.

HENRY: Son, I be fo'ty-nine year old, near's I kin tell. Live my whole life in Arkansaw, Loo-zana, Eas' Texas--these ol' piney camps. It's damn got t' be better!

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson shakes his head but says nothing. He finishes his beer, and Henry resumes playing. Then:

JOHNSON: No better, jes' diff'runt.

Henry plays silently, lost in the music for a moment.

HENRY: Yeah, I 'speck you right. Hell, if'n I found it, I ain' know whut t' do wid it anyways.

Another silence as they both mull things over. Then the 6 a.m. steam whistle sounds loudly from outside; Robert is startled a bit, but Henry pays no attention.

HENRY: You hear 'bout Bessie?

JOHNSON: Hear what?

HENRY: She done pass on, coupla weeks back. Auto-mobile crash, over t' Mis'sip' or Alabam. Bled on out, folk say, try'na get inta the white man hospital.

JOHNSON (clearly shaken): God-dam, Blin' Boy. Bessie Smith cain't be gone like that.

HENRY: Well, she is. "Queen o' the Blues"? Don' make no nevermin's, it's the road we all gone down, fast or slow. (sings a line from a Smith record) "See that lonesome road, Lawd, it got to end..."

ANGLE ON THE ROOM

Now the midnight-shift workers begin streaming in, their first noisy stop the bar. Then they spread out heading for tables or the small open space meant for dancing.

CLOSE ON THE TWO

Robert and Henry have to talk loudly now to hear each other.

HENRY: Know what the answer is, Robert? Get'cha a good woman. Not no bottle--Lord knows, not these blues lines. Jes' a sof' sweet gal ta hol' onta.

JOHNSON (doubtful): I don' know...

HENRY: I'm tellin' ya, ain't I? You ever have a gal like that?

ANOTHER ANGLE

Several of the new arrivals are ready to whoop it up now.

FIRST MAN: C'mon, Blin' Boy, put me in the dozens!

SECOND MAN: Kick 'em on down!

A third man is in the dance space, all set to step out.

THIRD MAN: I got to be movin', son--where you' Ma Grinder at?

Henry waves one hand in response.

HENRY: Comin' at ya.

Then he bangs into a high-spirited, gutbucket piano stomp.

CLOSE ON HENRY

Robert leans into make himself heard.

JOHNSON: One like that a long time ago, but she took up wid somebody else.

HENRY: Well, you young, ain'cha? Git 'er on back.

Now Henry really gets into the number, swaying and rocking on his piano stool.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The workers are whooping and hollering too, some of them leaping and dancing, beer mugs right in their hands. Johnson looks lost in thought.

HENRY (shouting): Yessir, that's the ticket! One good gal!

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He finally accepts the notion, makes up his mind, nods his head, and speaks aloud but to himself.

JOHNSON: All right, I will then...

Hellhound 18: Me an' the Devil

2008-08-27T09:19:00.000-07:00

((The fifth section begins here--the last act in this extended look at the harsh life of a Thirties bluesman. We begin, still in Dallas...))

DAY--INTERIOR OFFICE

This is the unused office which the record company ARC has converted for its schedule of "field" recording in Dallas. Two white women are seated on a moth-eaten couch talking listlessly. The sound of string band music comes from within the closed recording portion. Johnson enters, dressed in clean clothes. He is cold sober and now, unexpectedly on the morning after the previous scene, a stronger, more confident man, even quietly dignified. The women look at him with some distaste or dismissal, but he ignores them, standing quietly off to one side.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The closed recording room door opens, and Dawson escorts out the four-man string band in their Western clothing. The women rise to stand with their men.

DAWSON: Thanks, boys. A fine session. I think we'll all do well...

The players insist on each man shaking Dawson's hand as a goodbye. Then all exit, passing now on both sides of Johnson and giving him the onceover. Dawson nods at him coolly.

DAWSON: Well, Johnson, you ready now to work? I got you a replacement guitar.

The bluesman walks over to him, subdued and somehow a different man.

JOHNSON: Yes. I am.

Dawson looks at him in surprise. The change really is apparent. Guitar music begins on the track...

INTERIOR--RECORDING AREA

The set-up is different this time. Johnson at the mic is separated from Harry the engineer and Dawson by a glass office partition. They work the equipment and watch as he finishes his outspoken sexual blues called "Traveling Riverside":

Now you can squeeze my lemon till the juice run down my leg
Till the juice run down my leg, baby... (spoken) You know what I'm talkin' about...
(and so on, to the end)

The song finishes, and Johnson relaxes in his chair, not bothering to turn and look at the white men.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Dawson speaks via the rigged-up intercom.

DAWSON: Whew! I said sexy, Robert--not pornographic. What do you call that, anyway?

HARRY (muttering again, but audible): Most disgusting thing I ever heard. Animals, that's what they are...

ANGLE ON ROBERT

Now he turns to stare at the engineer through the glass. His answer is cold and proud.

JOHNSON: Call it "Mammyjammer Blues." In honor to you' frien' there.

ANGLE ON ENGINEER AND PRODUCER

Harry half-rises, not quite sure whether to be angry or "honored."

HARRY: What's that supposed to mean?

DAWSON: Shut up, Harry. You brought it on yourself.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

As he points at Harry.

JOHNSON: If you is got any mo' discs, Miste' Engineer, I got two mo' songs...

ANOTHER ANGLE

Dawson signals his okay, proceed.

DAWSON: We're fine. Go ahead when you're ready.

Robert turns back to the mic, adjusts the bottleneck on his finger, and mutters to himself.

JOHNSON: Try this one on, white folks...

Then he plays/sings the haunted and paranoid (or guilty) blues--the film's title song--"Hellhound on My Trail," the awkward beginnings of which we saw early in the film.

I got to keep movin', got to keep movin', blues fallin' down like hail, blues fallin' down like hail,
Umm, blues fallin' down like hail, blues fallin' down like hail,
An' the day keeps on 'mindin' me there's a hellhound on my trail, hellhound on my trail, hellhound on my trail...

Etc. The song plays through completely, the camera watching Johnson from a variety of angles, but always medium shots; intercut with these are the folllowing inserts:

INSERT--HARRY

The engineer is listening intently, but mechanically, doing his sound job, frowning.

INSERT--DAWSON

The producer is surprised by the intensity of this song and performance.

INSERT--HARRY

He turns to fiddle with various knobs, adjusting the recording levels.

INSERT--DAWSON

He has risen to his feet, unconsciously holding his breath, at pains to keep silent and not disturb the moment.

ANGLE ON JOHNSON

As he finishes in a final burst of of guitar notes. Dawson is visible, standing beyond the partition. Johnson turns to signal something as Dawson speaks.

DAWSON: Good God, man! Where did...

JOHNSON (interrupting): Keep rollin' it--I got 'nother one...

He turns back to the mic and launches immediately into his most chilling and evil blues of all, "Me and the Devil," all anger and despair:

Early this mornin' when you knocked upon my door (repeat)
I said, "Hello, Satan, I b'lieve it's time to go."
Me an' the devil was walkin' side by side (repeat)
I'm goin' to beat my woman till I get satisfied...
You may bury my body down by the highway side
(spoken interjection:) Babe, I don' care where you bury my body when I'm dead an' gone
So my ol' evil spirit can get a Greyhoun' bus and ride.

This time the camera concentrates on Johnson only--moving fluidly all around him, in tight on his face, tight on his hands on the guitar, angled down on his body and the mic (from above), etc. The bluesman's face shows all the intensity and searing pain of the song (and of his soul). Dawson can be seen in the background once or twice, pressed against the glass, intent and staring. By the last verse, tears are streaming down from Johnson's eyes as he looks deep into the abyss of his erratic life. He ends, slumped over, head bowed over the mic.

ANGLE ON JOHNSON AND CONTROL ROOM

All are momentarily frozen, unwilling to break the silence. Then the engineer's voice sounds over the intercom.

HARRY: Goddam cylinders... useless as this nigger music...

Dawson turns to glare at Harry silently. Robert brushes the tears from his cheeks, then rises.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson turns to face the control booth.

JOHNSON: Gimme my money, boss--time to shake the Dallas dust off'n my shoes...

Hellhound 17: In the Midnight Hour

2008-08-23T13:40:00.000-07:00

DAY--INTERIOR JAIL CELL

As Johnson's limp body tumbles to the floor in a heap. His face is puffed and bruised; he moves like his body is too. From the doorway the fat cop tosses Johnson's broken, strings-dangling guitar in after him.

FAT COP: Play yourself some blues--that's what you call 'em, ain't it, black boy? Oh yeah, I dipped my wick in that ink a time or two. Haw, haw, haw!

ANOTHER ANGLE

Wincing with pain, Johnson struggles up onto the bunk, clutching his busted guitar. He looks at it, then hurls it away in disgust--causing himself further pain. He groans loudly, then lies there staring at the darkness.

TWILIGHT--ANGLE ON CELL BARS AND DOOR

The fat cop pulls the door open; he is angry.

FAT COP: On your feet, black boy. You lucked out.

Dawson appears behind him.

DAWSON: Robert? You all right?

ANOTHER ANGLE

As Johnson rises from the bunk, still wincing, but putting on a strut.

JOHNSON: Doin' some better now, Miste' Dawson.

He saunters past the fat cop and thrusts the broken guitar into his hands.

JOHNSON: Here go, boss--play you'-self some blues.

TWILIGHT--EXTERIOR POLICE STATION

Dawson and Johnson emerge and descend the steps to climb into the auto Dawson and Harry are using. Harry has the motor idling; Dawson helps the slow-moving bluesman into the back seat, and he climbs in the front passenger spot. The car speeds off.

INTERIOR AUTO

Dawson twists around to talk with Johnson while Harry drives.

DAWSON: Good Lord, man, what happened to you?

Johnson shrugs, then flinches from the pain.

JOHNSON: Pool hall fight. An' then I done what the po-lice call re-sistin' arrest.

DAWSON: You mean the cops did that to you? But it was a policeman that called me...

JOHNSON: Jes' one of 'em work on me... (exhibiting torn sleeve and tooth marks) him an' his dog. Smash my gittar too.

HARRY (under his breath): Thank God for small favors...

DAWSON: Shut up, Harry. (to Johnson) No problem, we'll find you something--and deduct it from your wages, of course. (shakes his head) Incredible... How could such brutality be allowed to go on?

Robert laughs aloud at that naive remark.

JOHNSON: You sho' ain't black.

EXTERIOR STREET--BLACK SECTION

The car stops and Johnson climbs painfully out. Dawson leans out his window to say a few more words.

DAWSON: Stay put this time, Robert, okay? You got everything you need now? Money enough?

JOHNSON: Axe the Dallas po-lice. They got mine.

Dawson digs deep and comes up with a handful of change.

DAWSON: Here's forty-five cents for a meal. Don't blow it on booze, please?

JOHNSON (with a tired grin): Don' need ta--whiskey'n my room already.

Then he painfully mounts the stairs to his clapboard hotel.

NIGHT--HOTEL HALLWAY

Johnson is talking into the wall telephone. His bruised face has been tended to and he is smiling at something camera does not see. He also looks drunk again.

JOHNSON: Miste' Dawson?

INTERIOR HOTEL ROOM

Dawson has just picked up his room phone; he is in his underwear, hair touseled, looking half-asleep.

DAWSON: Robert? What the hell's the matter now? (looks at his watch) What do you mean, you're lonesome?

HOTEL HALLWAY--ANOTHER ANGLE

Now we see the object of Johnson's attention--a smiling sexy woman who hands him a glass of whiskey and runs her fingernails down his cheek.

JOHNSON (slurring): I'm lonesome an' they's a gal here. She wants fi'ty cents an' I lacks a nickel...

Clearly over the telephone connection comes the sound of an outraged shout and a receiver slammed down (Dawson reacting at his end). Johnson flinches at the ear shock, then shrugs and hangs up.

JOHNSON: Well, mama, look like you gonn' has t' choose 'tween me an' a fi'-cent-piece.

She looks him over, then answers with her own shrug. She takes his arm, and the two of them head for his room, Johnson weaving a bit.

NIGHT--INTERIOR HOTEL ROOM

Shabby furnishings as ever; bare lightbulb illumination from overhead. Johnson sits at a small table, pouring himself another drink; he is bare-chested. The woman frets on the bed in her bra and panties.

WOMAN: Come on, daddy. Leave off that bottle.

Johnson mumbles something stupidly, lifting the glass to peer up through it at the lightbulb.

WOMAN (wheedling): I be good to ya, honest...

She rubs her pubic area but Johnson is paying no attention.

WOMAN (angry now): Shit, you ain't want a woman--all's you need 's a whiskey-tit.

With that, she bounces up off the bed and over to the table. She grabs up the bottle, and when Johnson stupidly turns to look for it, she yanks her bra down and pours a few drops on each nipple, rubbing the alcohol into her flesh. Then she smiles seductively and falls back on the bed, holding the bottle on her belly.

WOMAN: Here ya go, bottle baby...

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson lumbers drunkenly to his feet and over to the bed, where he tries to grab the bottle back. But she resists him, and finally he simply hits out at her with his arm and hand, harder than he realizes, knocking her off the bed. Her head strikes a corner of the bedstand, and she goes limp. Johnson looks around for her stupidly, then sees her on the floor. He tumbles off beside her.

JOHNSON (dazed): Mae, honey, i ain' mean t' knock you down...

INSERT--BETTY MAE

As seen early in the film when Johnson inadvertently knocked her to the floor.

AS BEFORE

Johnson awkwardly lifts the woman's head, and his hand comes away with a small smear of blood. He stares at this stupidly for a moment, then reacts with a terrible groan, scuttling backward, letting her head fall to the floor again.

INSERT--LOUISE

As seen in the death scene, Louise bloody and dead in the hotel room.

AS BEFORE

Johnson lunges away from the woman, gagging and retching, and half-crawls, half-runs to the room door, yanking it open and stumbling out into the hall.

HALLWAY--HAND-HELD

Johnson staggers away from the room and near the wall telephone falls to his knees once more, vomiting up all the cheap whiskey and bad memories.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

The back of his lowered head as he continues to gag and gasp and choke. Finally, the heaving subsides, and he crawls off to another spot where he hunches against the wall, staring blankly.

ANOTHER ANGLE--HAND-HELD AGAIN

After a moment, sounds from the hotel room bring him back to awareness. In agony but also relieved, he gets up and staggers back to the doorway. Framed across the room he sees the woman pulling on her dress and dabbing at her head with a handkerchief.

INTERIOR--HOTEL ROOM

At the sight of Johnson, she lets out a shriek of anger and charges at him. But she stops short, merely holding up her purse threateningly.

WOMAN: Where's my money, motherfucker?

JOHNSON: I... I'm sorry...

He reaches out to her, but she knocks his hands away.

WOMAN: Keep you' monkey paws offa me! Jus' gimme my fifty cents 'fore I calls my mack down on you!

Johnson reaches into his pants pocket and hands her the coins.

JOHNSON: Fo'ty-five cents is all...

She snatches it from him, counts it, then glares at him in anger, wounded dignity, and residual pain. Then she flings the coins in his face.

WOMAN: Keep it, you damn jackass-balls no-good! Your money ain't good enuff!

Then she slams him out of the way with her purse and strides from the room.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He rubs his face where the coins stung, staring after her. Then he wearily turns away.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson stumbles over to the table and collapses into the chair. He looks all the way down--drained, exhausted, sober finally, lost in depression and his memories of other days...

INSERT--BETTY MAE

From the scene of Robert's triumphant return to Son and Willie.

INSERT--JOHNNY

His typical charming self, executing a bow.

INSERT--LOUISE

As she was when first seen, sultry and sexy and fiery.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

Tears well up in his eyes and begin to trail down his cheeks. He rubs his neck where the lucky bag once was, then slowly lowers his head onto his arms crossed on the table top. He doesn't move again.

((END OF SECTION 4--of my failings in this script, Johnson's "dark night of the soul" is probably the most overwritten and romantically cliched; chalk it up to a fledgling screenwriter in his 20's trying to write stuff that might somehow seem tragic and mythic. At any rate, Section 5 rises above all this pathos. Stay tuned...))

Hellhound 16: Deep Ellum Blues

2008-08-19T08:05:00.000-07:00

DAY--INTERIOR DALLAS TRAIN STATION

Waiting beside a newly arrived train are Dawson, nervously pacing, and Harry, as ornery as ever. The train is emptying, people disembarking, milling around, but no sign of Johnson. Finally, from a far-back car comes Robert--he is dressed in better clothes now but these are wrinkled and dirty too. He is also already drunk, staggering badly; the wound near his eye has healed, leaving a small scar. (In the scenes that follow, Johnson is sullen and careless--not arrogant exactly, just not caring what happens, and careless of black-white relationship rules.) Dawson hurries to meet him.

DAWSON: Robert! Good to see you.

He hold out his hand to shake with Johnson.

ANGLE ON THE TWO

Johnson interprets this as an offer of assistance--so he hands his flimsy suitcase to Dawson instead. (His guitar is slung over his back.)

JOHNSON: Yeah.

Dawson is surprised, but he quickly passes the suitcase over to surly and reluctant Harry, who handles it as though it might bite.

DAWSON: Welcome to Dallas. How was the trip?

Johnson looks at him stupidly for a beat, then mumbles...

JOHNSON: Fine, fine... better'n ridin' the blin's, I 'spect. (pause) What now, white folks?

ANOTHER ANGLE--MOVING

Dawson is anxious to get moving, so he sort of half-steers Johnson into walking. Harry is left to carry the suitcase; his disgust is evident.

DAWSON: First thing we do is get you settled in a hotel. We'll be recording in an office I'll show you--starting tomorrow. (then alluding delicately to Johnson's inebriation) If you're ready...

Johnson says nothing, so Dawson babbles on.

DAWSON: We've got to get a dozen or so new numbers--strong stuff. "32-20" didn't hit like "Terraplane," you know. Got to sew up that race market...

They continue through the station, Harry dragging along behind, Dawson guiding Johnson. The white people ignore them, but a couple of black porters turn to watch this odd procession.

JOHNSON: I got the stuff. (sly glance at Dawson) All's I needs now 's a drink.

They pass on out of the station during Dawson's response.

DAWSON: We'll see. But you've got to pull yourself...

The rest is lost to the exterior city noise.

INTERIOR POOL HALL

In Dallas's black section, a dingy hall with three tables and a bar. A game is in progress between two men; a young woman, the barman, and another man are watching boredly. Johnson reels in, bottle in hand and guitar on his shoulder. He looks the scene over then makes a zig-zag beeline for the sexy girl.

JOHNSON: Hey there, honey, who's got the game?

WOMAN (coldly): My man Jack.

JOHNSON (moving in): Is that right. Well, peaches, while Jackson's busy, what say you an' me go somewheres an' shake yo' tree.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The woman moves away from him without speaking. Johnson then repositions himself between her and the game.

JOHNSON: Now don' be unfrien'ly, baby--where's 'at Texas hospitality you...

He doesn't finish the sentence because something is jabbing him in the back--Jack has arrived, with the tip of his pool cue grinding into Johnson's kidney area.

ANGLE ON THE TWO

Johnson turns to face Jack.

JACK: Lemme cue you in, Eightball--you want a game? You got it. Want trouble, fine, you kin have that too. But Marla... uh-uh.

To emphasize the message, he jams Johnson's stomach with the cue. The bluesman stands quiet as Marla moves around him to stand beside Jack. But when they turn away with a sneer, Johnson slams the bottle down on Jack's head.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Jack drops like a shot, Marla screams and crouches down to help him, and the second player and the no-longer-bored onlooker both charge Johnson, who grins nastily and tosses his guitar aside. The player swings his cue, and Robert dodges him, overturning a small table into the path of his opponents.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

As he grabs up several billiard balls and starts hurling these at the opposition.

CLOSE ON OPPONENTS

They dodge two balls, but a third smacks the cue wielder in the gut, doubling him over.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Jack is out cold, and Marla runs screaming out the bar's front door, calling for help. The barman has moved out from behind the bar as well, carrying a sawed-off cue; he and the third man stalk Johnson, who retreats warily, waving his last ball. Then he slings it at the third man, who dodges it just as Johnson himself hurtles through the air and knocks him to the floor.

CLOSE ON THE BRAWL

As the barman and now-recovered second player close in to join the fray. They pummel Johnson with fists and feet until the barman finally slugs him with the sawed-off cue; and Robert passes out...

ANGLE UP--CLOSE ON SNARLING DOBERMAN--P.O.V.

This is what Robert sees first as he comes to--a snarling dog right in his face.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The Doberman is on a leash held by a fat white policeman. The cop steps back and yanks his dog to heel. Robert shows fear of the dog.

FAT COP: Get up, boy.

Johnson shakes his head to clear it, then clambers to his feet. The barman and a younger cop (Schmidt) approach; everyone else has vanished.

BARMAN (gesturing and pointing): Yes-suh, Miste' Schmidt, crazy nigger come in here, blin' drunk an' spoilin' for a fight, start wreckin' over my place, had to col'-cock him to keep...

Johnson has been rubbing the back of his head, eyeing the dog warily.

JOHNSON (interrupting): Where Jack an' that bitch at, then?

Barman (all innocent): Jack who? (to Schmidt) What I tol' ya, that fool still half outen his mind. Nobody 'cep'im him here since two 'clock.

Johnson starts to move toward the barman, but the fat cop and dog quickly block him.

FAT COP: Stand you' ground, boy. (to Schmidt) C'mon, Smitty--this one's enuff. Nigra in the hand's worth two in the woodpile. Haw, haw, haw!

ANOTHER ANGLE

He grabs Johnson's arm and starts hustling him toward the door. Robert tries to pull loose.

JOHNSON: Hol' up, boss. Need my git-tar.

The fat cop shoves him hard, but Schmidt intercedes.

SCHMIDT: Forget it, Joe. I'll get the guitar.

He picks it up and actually starts strumming it awkwardly while the fat cop impels Johnson ahead of him and out the door.

EXTERIOR POOL HALL

The street is deserted--black people evidently anxious to avoid the Dallas police. The fat cop shoves Johnson toward the waiting paddy wagon.

JOHNSON: Quit pushin'. I'm goin', aint I?

FAT COP: Naw, boy, you ain't goin'--you smart-assin' me, and I don't cotton to it. You ain't from aroun' here, are ya.

JOHNSON (now Tomming blatantly): Lawd, no-suh, Miste' Charlie, suh. I'se jes' a po' country boy in this big ol' frien'ly city. Doin' some re-cordin, suh, tha's all.

The fat cop is busy snapping handcuffs on Robert, but Schmidt perks up, stopping his half-assed attempt at picking out a tune.

SCHMIDT: That right? You make records? What's your name?

ANGLE ON PADDY WAGON

The fat cop throws Johnson into the van as he tries to answer.

JOHNSON (loudly): Robert Johnson. I'm here with the 'Merican Record Corporation! An' they'll be lookin' for me!

Fat cop Joe grabs the guitar and tosses it in on Johnson.

FAT COP: Too bad they ain't gonna find you, boy. You drive, Smitty. (then over Schmidt's half-protest) Nope, Johnson here's a dangerous prisoner, so me an' Smoke's gonna ride inside and keep an eye on 'im.

Johnson is struggling to stand up inside the wagon as the fat cop un-leashes his Doberman, which leaps inside with a growl. Joe winks at Schmidt and climbs inside, pulling the door shut.

INTERIOR PADDY WAGON

Johnson and his guitar are huddled in the forward area, the dog crouched in front of him growling. Joe moves toward them as the van starts moving as well.

CLOSE ON FAT COP--P.O.V.

He closes in on Robert, cracking his knuckles.

FAT COP: So, you big-mouth, black-ass, uppity-nigra record star, too bad you resisted arrest.

Hellhound 15: B'lieve I'm Sinkin' Down

2008-08-15T16:08:00.000-07:00

((The fourth section of Hellhound begins just below; there are five in all, so look for the entire finished script, 20-some parts total, to be posted in a few more weeks.))

DAY--EXTERIOR STREET

A busy street in some town, cars and many white people hurrying past Johnson, who stands playing his guitar somewhat desultorily. No one stops to listen, though one or two passersby toss nickels or dimes at this beggar's feet. And "beggar" is what he looks like--fresh scab near his eye, dirt and dried blood on his shirt, scruffy pants, shoes without socks. Johnson is in bad shape, and no better when he bends down to pick up the few coins.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He picks the coins up, one by one. Suddenly large legs and huge boots step before his face.

LOW ANGLE UP--P.O.V.

On the mammoth towering figure of a gross, perspiring Southern white lawman.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson stands up gingerly, shielding his guitar behind him. Very nervous, he plays the "Tom" completely--so much so that the scene becomes embarrassing and uncomfortable for the viewer too.

LAWMAN: What's this, boy?

JOHNSON (mumbling): Nuthin', suh.

LAWMAN: Whut say, boy? Speak up.

JOHNSON: I jes' playin' mah git-tar.

LAWMAN: Not in this heah town, you don't, boy. Wheah you from?

JOHNSON (darting nervous looks): Memphis, suh. On my way back there, suh.

LAWMAN: Well, you jes' keep movin', y'heah? We don't want no (sarcastic now) big-city nigras comin' in this litta-bitty town o' ours.

Johnson is shifting and shuffling, anxious to be away.

JOHNSON (bobbing his head): Yassuh, I do it...

LAWMAN (off-hand now, bored): All right, boy. Git on you' way now. Ten p.m.'s curfew for culuhed folks. Don' lemme find you heah-'bouts come mawnin'.

JOHNSON: Yassuh, cap'n.

Still bowing and scraping, he scurries off.

EVENING--EXTERIOR FARM

To this ramshackle, back-country farm at twilight comes Johnson. He is dressed as before, carrying his guitar, yet looks somewhat better; we'll see that the scab has healed some too. The black farmer sits on his porch steps whittling.

FARMER: 'Lo.

JOHNSON: (wearily): Mighty low. (sheds his guitar) But it's a nice 'nuff evenin'.

FARMER: Summer come early.

JOHNSON (after a moment): You got somethin' could lay the dust?

ANOTHER ANGLE

Farmer gestures with his whittling knife.

FARMER: Water over there.

JOHNSON: Whiskey mebbe go wid it?

The farmer stops whittling and regards him thoughtfully, then nods at the guitar.

FARMER: Is you kin play that?

JOHNSON (collapsing on the steps): Oh yes, my frien', I do play gittar.

ANGLE ON THE TWO--DOOR BEYOND

The farmer twists around to shout into the house; some children are peeking out already.

FARMER: Yo, Martha! Bring us 'at jar out. (to Robert) Hongry too?

JOHNSON (shrugging): Not so's you'd notice...

He picks up his guitar and begins picking and chording softly, tuning up some. Martha appears in the doorway, nodding shyly and handing the Mason jar of corn liquor to her husband. Then she leans against the doorframe, kids clinging to her skirt and peeking around. Johnson accepts the first drink gladly.

JOHNSON (toasting): Better days. I hope.

He takes a healthy swig and passes it back to the farmer, who drinks more carefully, savoring the taste. Johnson starts a slow blues instrumental.

NIGHT--EXTERIOR PORCH

The music continues over. By the moonlight we see that the children are long gone, the woman is rocking slowly back and forth, Robert is tipsy and consuming the last of the jar's contents, and the farmer is now playing Johnson's guitar.

NIGHT--INTERIOR SHED

Later, Johnson lies snoring in a smushed heap of corn-cobs and straw, inside the farmer's rickety shed. The music slowly fades.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

Still later. Now his sleep is fitful; he struggles and utters a strangled groan--another nightmare...

NIGHT--EXTERIOR CROSSROADS

In pitch-black darkness Johnson stands at a rural crossroads, a town vaguely in the distance. He is nervous, agitated, glancing about fearfully. A mournful howling dog sounds on the track throughout the ensuing brief scenes...

Now distant shouting men too. Johnson's fears mount, but he seems rooted to the spot, unable to move.

ANGLE ON ONE ROAD

As an old sedan speeds past on the crossing road, driven by a white man resembling Dawson the record producer. Johnson, still rooted, tries to flag him down, to no avail.

ANGLE ON DISTANT TOWN--RAPID PAN

The voices are getting louder, as a second car comes speeding from the town. The driver seems to be Johnny, with Betty Mae as his passenger. Jonson waves frantically for them to stop, but the car passes him by. Betty Mae turns to look back as the car speeds away. An incoming vehicle appears beside it, this one seemingly driven by Louise.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson is finally able to move, and he runs into the road to stop this third car. But Louise drives as though she can't see him there, and at the last moment Johnson must leap from the path of the speeding car, rolling off the road.

ANGLE ON TOWN

As Louise's vehicle speeds toward the town--suddenly illuminating a gang of white-hooded figures coming for Johnson.

ANGLE ON HILL

A lone tree looms against the night sky. Up this rise go the men hauling Johnson. One figure throws a rope over a high limb.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

As the hooded men fashion a noose and slip it over his head. They brutally yank him erect till only his toes are touching the ground.

CLOSE ON HOODED LEADER

This menacing figure now removes his hood, revealing himself to be plantation-owner Lubbell. He brandishes his riding crop, striking Johnson lightly across the face, then bursts into maniacal but silent laughter.

ANOTHER ANGLE

One of the other figures steps forward, opening a straight-razor. He stands before Johnson, and Lubbell pulls the hood from his head--it is, of course, black gangster Ras.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

His utter terror; his frantically pleading eyes. Then he simply closes them. (The dog's howling has kept getting louder and louder through all the above.)

CLOSE ON RAS

As he smiles evilly, then lifts the razor and strikes suddenly downwards. The camera image is optically forced to a blood-red, then orange, blankness, dissolving to:

CLOSE ON SUN--ZOOM OUT

Dawn over the farmer's nearby field. Zoom out reveals Johnson seated, leaning against a broken wagon.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He is drawn and haggard, his eyes bloodshot, traces of straw in his clothing. He stares out across the field, lost in thought, guitar across his lap. Absently, he reaches up to touch the missing mojo bag, then realizes what he is doing and shifts his hands to the guitar. He positions it and begins idly picking, trying out chords and lines as he goes.

JOHNSON: I was standin' at the crossroads... (pause) ...crossroads, an' I could not get...

Hearing voices, he stops and turns.

ANGLE ON THE HOUSE

The farmer and his family have come out on the porch, the children still brushing sleep from their eyes.

ANGLE FROM THE PORCH OUT

Robert stands up, slings the guitar over his back, and waves goodby.

JOHNSON: Thank you.

Close to camera, the farmer and children wave back. The woman calls out to him.

MARTHA: You got to eat some-thin'!

Johnson looks back, already heading off.

JOHNSON: Give mine t' the chil'ren.

The he walks away. When he stumbles momentarily, the watching farmer looks at his wife and speaks for the first time this scene.

FARMER: That boy is livin' fas' time...

Hellhound 14: The Killing Floor

2008-08-12T08:33:00.000-07:00

DAY--INTERIOR RESTAURANT/BAR

A long bar closer to camera, some tables for eating further back. The front window reads "SPIVEY'S" (seen reversed from here inside). Camera view puts Robert and Louise in background; they are huddled together at a table, laughing and talking intimately, though none of their words reach us. The bartender putters around behind his bar. Seated there drinking and watching the happy couple in the reflecting mirror on the wall is a black man, a street hustler type. He finishes his beer and then, whistling, saunters over to the wall phone and begins dialing.

NIGHT--INTERIOR HOTEL ROOM--SLOW ZOOM IN

The room is in total darkness, but the bright neon sign outside the window keeps flashing on and off, adding a pulsating reddish glow to the room. Robert and Louise are in bed; they have likely just had sex because he rolls off from atop her. The two rest happily beside each other, breathing deeply. Then on the soundtrack a mournful howling begins, some unseen hound baying in the distance. Louise shivers and moves closer to Johnson.

LOUISE: Somebody dying...

Her words chill Johnson too--always the superstitious one--but he tries to make light of the continuing sound.

JOHNSON: Naw, baby, settle down. Some ol' hound, one eye on the moon, other on some sweet bitch.

They snuggle together silently then.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Suddenly there is the sound of something crashing into the room door and splintering the wood; the door bursts open, kicked in by the heavy-set, gangsterish man (Louise's keeper Ras) who steps inside, a huge .45 in his hand. Louise has screamed during his entry; closer to the door and Ras, she cowers against Robert.

RAS: Well, well now. Ain't y'all the picture... So, Lou, you an' your cousin here talkin' old times?

Johnson still hasn't moved. Louise tries to recover some, hoping that Ras may be willing to talk. She starts to rise from the bed.

LOUISE: Ras... Please... Don't do anything, please. I'll...

RAS: Cheat on me, bitch.

He shoots her coldly three times. Louise's body sprawls backwards across Johnson--who struggles to cast her aside and tumble to the floor on the far side of the bed. Ras takes two steps closer, aiming for Robert too; but when he fires, the gun jams. He throws it aside, pulling a straight razor from his coat pocket.

RAS: I sooner cut you, nigge', down...

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson manages to escape to the far side of the bed away from the razor. He is weaponless and naked (his body seen only in motion as the pulsating red light continues). Ras closes in on him fast, slashing out. Johnson leaps backwards to avoid the blade but is still nicked on his face, near one eye.

JOHNSON (in shock and pain): Motherfucker!

He stumbles backwards over a chair, his hand knocking a near-empty bottle from the table. Johnson grabs this up from the floor and smashes it on the table edge, holding up the jagged top as his own cutting weapon.

CLOSE ON THE TWO--HAND HELD

A series of quick-cut, in motion, jagged shots of the ensuing fight between razor and bottle-knife. In the flickering reddish light it becomes an obscene dance of death, as much imagined by the viewer as actually seen, in the alternating darkness and light of the room--feinting, slashing, parrying, grappling, circling each other, the two men grunting and perspiring. Robert's face when seen is set and focussed, blood dripping from the cut; Ras in contrast looks manic, even evil, a grim smile frozen on his mouth. The light flickers on razor, bottle, teeth, and sweating flesh.

Finally, in a lit moment, the two grapple close again. Ras starts a swing of his razor, and Johnson steps inside that slash as the light goes off again. In the moment of darkness there is the sound of a blow and a terrifying scream. A body falls as the returning half-light reveals Johnson (minus his neckbag now) standing over the bloody body of Ras, whose face is a pulpy mess. (The dog's howling has continued throughout all this frantic action; now it stops.) Johnson kicks at the fallen man; when there is no response, he wearily drops the bloody bottle-knife beside the body.

JOHNSON: Lord Jesus...

He grasps for his lucky bag--and it's not there! He looks about in sudden panic. But...

ANGLE ON THE DOOR

Now Robert becomes aware of pounding feet coming up the unseen stairs outside the room.

MAN'S VOICE: Ras! Ras! Everything all right?

Already Johnson has been grabbing up his clothes and guitar. With no more than a glance at Louise's body, still naked himself, he dives out the open window onto a fire escape.

NIGHT--EXTERIOR FIRE ESCAPE

Tumbling down the metal stairs, dropping some clothing as he scrambles, yanking his trousers on at a staggered run, he leaps down to the ground. From the window above two black men shout and fire wildly after him, but he escapes into the alley darkness.

((END OF SECTION 3))

Hellhound 13: Louise, Louise

2008-08-09T14:37:00.000-07:00

NIGHT--INTERIOR SALOON

A dark and dingy gutbucket hangout for black millworkers and down-and-outers. Rough-looking men and a few hard women drink and talk. Johnson is seated on a chair in one corner, ostensibly playing for the customers though no one is listening. He gloomily picks and strums a slow instrumental--the sound of which carries through the next few scenes.

DAY--EXTERIOR STREET

Robert drunk, paper sack-wrapped bottle in his hand, wandering aimlessly through rainy, blustery Chicago slum. He stops in the scanty covering offered by the overhead elevated train tracks; tipsily reeling, he stands drinking and looking at nothing as an "El" train goes by overhead.

NIGHT--INTERIOR HOUSE

Robert, Big Bill (seen earlier), both with their guitars, plus a piano player, an upright bass man, and a cornetist, as well as a trio of young women (one on Robert's lap), all sprawled happily in the plush parlor of a fancy-house, passing marijuana cigarettes, taking deep drags and then giggling and coughing--and all the while attempting to play between hits.

DAY--EXTERIOR STREET--MOVING

The instrumental music slowly comes to an end as Robert wanders now in a bright, fresh spring morning. The world and he look a whole lot better. People smile and nod and yell greetings. Kids run around underfoot. He tips his hat to older people. Then, suddenly, a half-block away, Robert sees a woman who looks very much like Louise, entering an apartment building with parcels in her arms. She vanishes within and, too late, he runs down the block and on into her building.

INTERIOR APARTMENT BUILDING

Robert dashes into the hallway hoping to see Louise, but she has disappeared. No one is in sight. He looks at the unlabeled individual doors, and then starts calling out:

JOHNSON: Louise! (no response, so again louder) Louise!

One door opens and a little girl sticks her head out; she looks at him silently.

JOHNSON: Hello, darlin'. Kin you he'p me? (girl nods) Is they a purty woman name' Louise live here 'bouts?

The little girl silently nods again.

JOHNSON: Well, where she at then?

Still silent she points up the stairs. Robert turns and sprints up the stairway without thanking her.

UPPER HALLWAY AND DOORS

Johnson surges up into view and stops to survey the several doors on this floor. He shrugs, steps up to the closest one, and knocks.

LOUISE'S VOICE: Who is it?

She is already opening the door as he responds.

JOHNSON: Me. Robert.

Louise halts the half-open door and stares coolly at Johnson.

LOUISE: Robert. No. I tol' you to stay away.

JOHNSON: Yeah, you did. An' I did it--till I seen you jes' now on the block. Eyesight to the blind, baby. I need you, Louise--devil come som'ever.

He pushes his way inside.

INTERIOR APARTMENT

Louise does not retreat, and the two of them stand just inside the half-open door.

LOUISE: Damn you, Robert. I want you too. But we can't. I'm scared of him--he beats me some already, and he'd kill us for sure wi' this.

JOHNSON: Leave his turf then. Got to be somewheres safe. Come on wid me...

LOUISE (drawn to him, wanting it, thinking) Wait, I got a cousin lives in Joliet. I could say I'm visiting her...

JOHNSON: Le's go, baby. Right now.

LOUISE: Just like that?

Now Robert smiles and shoves the door closed behind her.

JOHNSON: Well... mebbe somethin' else come first...

DAY--EXTERIOR BUS

Through a light rain now, a Thirties-style bus moves along a highway. In the background looms a grim, forbidding, greystone prison.

INTERIOR BUS

Robert and Louise are seated together towards the rear of the mostly empty bus; the prison can be seen outside in the distance. Louise is happily talking, while Robert strums his guitar quietly.

LOUISE: So then I come north, on my own. I wasn't gonna wind up some dirt farmer's wife or white woman's house gal. I was a waitress for a while, then I worked as a ten-cent dancer at the Dixie Ballroom. That's where he found me. Oh, it was fun at first--all the attention an' the presents Ras give. But then he set me up in that apartment, and he just keeps me there, waitin' on him to visit. Lord, like to break my mind.

JOHNSON: Mebbe we do somethin' about that...

He points out the window at the distant buildings.

JOHNSON: Is that a prison over there?

LOUISE: Joliet Pen'tentiary. Big and ugly, isn't it? Colored go in there an' never come out.

JOHNSON: Ain' nobody never gonn' cage me like that. Crackers love to catch 'em a black man. I go down dead first...

The two of them fall silent, huddled together on the bus.

DAY--INTERIOR HOTEL ROOM

Robert and Louise are lounging around--Robert likely naked under the sheet, propped up watching her, his lucky bag prominent against his chest. Louise is in her underwear, going methodically through the pockets of his pants, talking as she goes. The first item she pulls out is a rolled-up guitar string.

LOUISE: What's this, Robert? I thought we agreed: No strings attached!

JOHNSON (lazily): That G-string look mighty right on you.

Louise glances at him and smiles.

LOUISE: Go 'head with that. (holds it to her leg like a garter) Rather tie it 'round your big ol' root, pull you 'round after me...

Robert laughs and stretches.

CLOSE ON LOUISE

She dumps all the coins from his pocket and counts them silently, then:

LOUISE: Some big spender. Total out at four dollars, 'leven cents. What we get back to Chicago on?

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson sits up in bed.

JOHNSON: I play somewheres, pick up mo' change. You know I gots to head south, to Dallas, come June--cut some mo' records.

Louise is suddenly sad.

LOUISE: Oh Robert... that's less than a month. Then I'm lef' to Ras again.

JOHNSON: Come wid me if yo' want.

She doesn't answer, instead goes fishing at the bottom of his last pocket--and pulls out the same old lipstick top Johnson has been using to play slide throughout most of the film. Now her eyes flash saucily.

LOUISE: Which one o' your gals give you this?

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He closes his eyes for a moment, effected by the sudden memory.

JOHNSON: Was a gif' for someone I knowed a long time gone.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Louise has detected something in his voice. She jumps up and strides over to the open window. Before Robert realizes what she intends, she hurls the lipstick top out through the billowing curtains. Then she turns around, striking a pose, hands on hips.

LOUISE: All you gonna carry from now on is what I give you!

Now she runs from the window and jumps on top of him. They tumble back laughing on the bed.

Hellhound 12: Kick 'Em On Down

2008-08-06T13:49:00.000-07:00

NIGHT--INTERIOR HALLWAY OF APARTMENT BUILDING

The camera is jammed in amongst the men and women packed into this first-floor space (hall, stairwell, and open door to small apartment) where a house rent party is in full swing--shouts, laughter, and the resonant echoes from an Armstrong/Oliver New Orleans-styled jazz group arranged on the upper stairs. Johnson and Johnny are present, now in dapper suits and flashy hats, Johnny talking to chums, Robert roaming restlessly, his eyes alert for some attractive and available woman. Several in the crowd speak to him.

MAN: Hey, Bob, you rootin' groun' hog--you gonn' play t'night or me?

JOHNSON: Say, Bill. Mought's well us bof'.

WOMAN: When you comin' to see me, daddy?

Johnson smiles and points at her companion, who takes no offense at his remark.

JOHNSON: When you ditch him.

ANOTHER MAN (holding up rolled cigarettes): I got muggles here that is the mezz. Getcha high as Geo'gia pines, my man...

Johnson waves him off.

JOHNSON: Mebbe later, Blinky.

Now he stops and stares at someone across the crowded area.

O.S. JOHNSON--MOVING

Ahead of Johnson we see Louise, small, sexy, and a rich brown color, with carefully processed and coiffed hair. She is talking with some girlfirends. Robert moves towards her through the crowd; she notices as he draws near, coolly staring back at him.

JOHNSON: Hello, sweetmeat.

LOUISE (disdainful): Somethin' you want?

JOHNSON: You.

With no more introduction than that, he takes her arm and tugs her away with him. The girlfriends are surprised; Louise reacts angrily at first, trying to yank free. Then she shrugs and acquiesces, going along for the ride. She throws a not-to-worry smile back at her friends.

DAWN--INTERIOR HOTEL ROOM

The furnishings are merely adequate. Johnson is asleep in the bed; Louise is dressing, almost ready to depart. Johnson stirs on the bed and reaches over to where she should be sleeping beside him:

JOHNSON: Louise...

No body there, he opens his eyes and looks around.

JOHNSON: Louise? (seeing her) Hey, baby, what you doin'?

ANGLE ON MIRROR

Louis is straightening her dress in front of the mirror, Johnson reflected in the glass.

LOUISE (business-like): Leavin', Robert. I'm goin'.

JOHNSON (lazily): Ain' no rush. Wait up an' I go 'long witcha.

LOUISE: No! (turns to face him) No, daddy. You can't. Last night was good, but this is today. You ain't a part of my life, an' you can't be...

JOHNSON (sitting up): Wha'cha mean, woman. We got a passle o' nights headin' to us.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Louise has her make-up out now, but she pauses to walk over to the bed and put her arms on Robert's shoulders, keeping him on the bed.

LOUISE: No, Robert. I like you. A lot. But you are courtin' death around me. I got me a steady-rollin' man, a man of means. And he is mean enough to see you dead if he found out about this.

She looks into his eyes for a moment, then walks over to pick up her hat and purse, dropping the unused make-up inside the purse. Johnson rises from the bed, grabbing for his trousers, still bare-chested.

JOHNSON: What are you mumblin' on at?

LOUISE: Get back from me now. I'm tellin' you they's no way for us. Don't even look for me...

And with this parting warning she dashes to the door and hurries on out. Johnson is still trying to pull on the second leg of his pants. He hobbles over to the door after her, but she has already vanished.

DAY--INTERIOR CAFE

Robert and Johnny are sitting across from each other in the small restaurant seen earlier during their Southside jaunt. Johnny is wolfing down a plate of barbecued ribs and greens. Robert's similar plate is largely untouched; he is focussed instead on a another bottle.

JOHNNY (smacking his lips): Now these is ribs, nigger. Kin smell the Delta drippin' off'n 'em. Make me homesick. Say, what about that? You 'bout ready to head South agin? This big city ain't sit right...

JOHNSON: I like it fine.

CLOSER ANGLE

On each of them in turn as their dialogue proceeds.

JOHNNY (looks at him admiringly): You the tush-hog, ain'cha. Git-tar an' a gal, strum on 'em both, is all you wants. Where' you get to las' night, anyways?

Johnson simply shrugs, pours himself another drink.

JOHNNY (eating again): I trustin' you ain't go wi' that big-leg woman I see you talkin' at. That Nubian princess is somethin' fine--skin like coffee an' cream, um, um. But I axed about her an' she's a bad 'un. Lady frien' to the man wit all the action here-'bouts. He's the ba-ad mothe'fuyer, folks say...

JOHNSON: That so? Ain' no truck wid me.

He empties the glass, thrusts it aside, and upends the bottle instead, then:

JOHNSON: Got us a gig tomorr' evenin'. Uptown, John--an' no bucket o' blood neither. (grins evilly with the bottle poised) White folks time, for when they comes a-studyin' at the Nee-gros. Well, the coins what I studyin', an' white ones spen' fine too. Club suit you, I 'spect?

Johnny is indeed excited at the prospect, waving a rib around as he answers.

JOHNNY: Hell, yes, Bob--that's travelin' money. I never did see nobody for luck like you--you musta been conjuratin' that bag again.

Johnson touches his lucky bag.

JOHNSON: Big Bill set it, truly--took me in t' meet the man. But my luck done met a woman done hoodoo me some, I b'lieve...

Johnny stops eating to look at Robert curiously. But Johnson has his head tipped back, glugging the whiskey down.

NIGHT--INTERIOR CLUB

A bar, several tables, and a small bandstand; a few white couples seated waiting. The clock over the bar reads exactly 9:00, but the owner is already drumming his fingers on the bar impatiently. Robert swaggers in, followed somewhat cautiously by Johnny. Both have their guitars and Robert has a sack-wrapped bottle.

OWNER: Where the hell you been? I said nine o'clock, ready to play.

JOHNSON (grinning tipsily): Tha's what it is, an' tha's what I is. An' Johnny too, my ass-istant here. (laughs)

He upends the bottle to drink two last swallows, then shakes the remaining drops out sadly and sets the empty carefully on the bar. Meanwhile Johnny is looking around nervously.

JOHNSON: Keep the whiskey comin' , boss, an' we play ya a mess o' blues.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The two musicians walk to the bandstand and clamber up, Johnny still nervous, Robert too tipsy to care. As they tune up, Robert dons the same old lipstick top for his little finger, and starts talking to the audience.

JOHNSON: Good evenin', peoples. How you-all be gettin' on?

There is no answer, though one woman titters.

JOHNSON: Me an' John here gonn' see is you folks ready--see kin you kick 'em on down. (louder, to the owner) Say, Mist' Clark, where's 'at drink at you promise'? (to the audience) Mist' Clark, see, he the man in this be-yoo-tiful club we all be sittin' in, an' mos'ly drinkin' too.

The bartender arrives with two shot glasses. Johnny nods his thanks and sets his aside, but Johnson tosses his off and motions for a refill.

JOHNSON: Some ol' fool tol' me white folks was jes' black folks after they's ceased--he say y'all ain't got no soul a-tall 'lessin' it be sto'-bought...

Johnny is just as stunned as the audience at this effrontery. There are some mutterings, and Johnny reaches over to pull at Johnson's arm.

JOHNNY: Hush up, Bob. Le's be playin' now.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

But Robert goes blithely on.

JOHNSON: Oh, I tol' that fool he was a liar---yes sir. Lord have mercy, ain' none o' mine--we is jes' poor Ethiopian musicianers. I knows you white folks get the blues jes' like us...

Then he rolls his eyes in minstrel-show exaggeration and launches straight into an upbeat dance number, Johnny scrambling to catch up in the arrangement.

ANGLE ON SHOT GLASSES--ZOOM OUT

Three empty glasses beside Robert now on another chair. He looks drunker, Johnny tireder, and the crowd has dwindled some, except that a new couple is sitting close to the stage, the woman eyeing Johnson somewhat appreciatively. The two musicians are retuning and talking.

JOHNNY: Ain't found her yet. But I reckon we goin' to Memphis nex' t' look...

JOHNSON (staring now at the nearby woman): You know how lonesome it get sleepin' all by you'se'f... (laughing at his own recklessness) Well, you swing mine an' I swing yours, sweet chile.

Now he's laughing so hard he starts coughing too.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The woman looks more amused than offended, but the boyfriend is on his feet coming for Johnson. The owner quickly interposes himself and stops the angry man, murmuring soothing words. Meanwhile, Johnny has sized things up and he quickly moves over to Johnson (still coughing and laughing), steps in and clobbers him on the jaw, knocking Robert off his chair, guitar flying and crashing into the empty shot glasses. Robert tumbles to the floor and is too surprised or too drunk to move.

The owner points at Johnson's collapsed condition to mollify the boyfriend, then he escorts the couple to the door, motioning for others to leave too.

OWNER (calling out): Sorry, folks, closing early tonight...

Then he strides back to the stage area where Johnny is kneeling beside Robert.

ANGLE ON THE THREE

Robert actually looks peaceful.

OWNER: Get up, you bum. You're fired.

JOHNSON (laughing again): Cain't fire me--I jes' quit.

OWNER (to Johnny): Go on, get him out of here before I call the cops. I don't need no black bastard causin' trouble in my club, and I especially don't want his black ass bleedin' in here.

JOHNNY: Yes-suh...

But when Johnny tries to help him up, Robert knocks his hands away and rises slowly on his own. Johnny picks up both guitars and heads for the door.

ANGLE BACK TOWARD THE BANDSTAND

Johnson walks with drunken dignity to the door, the white owner still standing by the stage glaring after him. At the door, Johnson stops, turns around, and in a parody of Johnny's brand of charm, gives a foolish half-bow.

JOHNSON: Thank you all for a lovely evenin'.

Laughing again, he staggers on out.

NIGHT--EXTERIOR CLUB--MOVING

Outside the club, however, Johnson stops laughing. He stares at the nervous Johnny without saying anything at first--simply holds out his hand for his guitar and then staggers off, shrugging the strap up and over his head. Johnny follows along too.

JOHNNY: Why you haveta get unruly? You ain't jes' drunk, I know that. But you is gone crazy, mouthin' like that to a goddam room full o' crackers. You be whupped at leas', mebbe strung up, ifen I ain' knock y' upside the head...

Johnson refuses to look at his friend, instead talks as though to a third party.

JOHNSON: Lissen at the house nigger. Thinks he knows his way aroun' white folks. (slowly now, emphasizing each syllable) Ain't that jes' some-thin' now.

He stops short and addresses Johnny straight on.

JOHNSON: Son, you is shit t' those peckerwoods an' shit t' me. They walk all over you' head an' you be sayin' "Thankya, thankya," an' done lick the boots clean. Tell you what, John--you ain' tell me how t' live, an' I ain' tell you how t' play.

Then he walks on. Johnny draws back injured, but walks after him.

JOHNNY: Hell sakes, Bob. You ain't livin', you's dyin'... Ever since Betty Mae done lef', you got some kinda mean shit in you that's jes' got to git out!

JOHNSON (musing to himself sarcastically): Why I hole up in dis-yeah crappe' town wid a dumb spaginzy like you...

Johnny has had enough insults, and he asserts his dignity.

JOHNNY: I ain't so dumb. Huh. Think you kin smile an' sass yo' way through anything. Well, that ain't it. This world is white man's, Robert. Ifen you black, git on back! I knows it--an' I know where I be livin' better'n this ruckus. If you be smart, you git right an' ride wid me...

CLOSE ON THE TWO

Johnson looks at him scornfully.

JOHNSON: Tuck yo' tail 'tween yo' laigs, ol' monkey man. I'm set right here.

JOHNNY: That's it, then. Reckon I see you somewheres else, some other time.

He holds out his hand for a farewell handshake. But Johnson scorns the gesture and walks away.

JOHNSON: Not in this life, burrhead.

ANOTHER ANGLE--MOVING

Johnny shakes his head sadly, watching Robert go. Then he turns and heads the other way. Johnson keeps moving a distance further. Then he stops to look back. But Johnny has vanished, and Robert seems surprised--evidently expected him still to be following along.

JOHNSON: Johnny?

No answer. He shrugs and moves off into the darkness.

Hellhound 11: Sweet Home Chicago

2008-08-03T09:37:00.000-07:00

((The third section begins here.))

NIGHT--EXTERIOR REDLIGHT DISTRICT--MOVING

The first of several brief scenes detailing Johnson's several-months' descent into seamier aspects of the bluesman's "Sportin' Life"; on the soundtrack throughout is his rocking, bitterly violent "32-20" with its lines like these:

I sent for my baby, an' she don't come (repeat)
All the doctors in Hot Springs sho' cain't he'p her none...
An' if she gets unruly, things she don' want to do (repeat)
Take my 32-20, man, an' cut her half in two...

In this first scene Johnson and two low-lifers wander drunkenly in the redlight district of some town, carousing, shoving each other, pawing at the street women.

NIGHT--EXTERIOR WOODEN STAIRWAY

Johnson following a chippie up the rickety stairs to her second-floor "crib," grabbing at her and drinking from a bottle. At the top of the stairs, she opens the door and starts inside, but he stops to stand teetering dangerously, head back to guzzle down the last of the whiskey. Then he smashes the bottle down into the alley below, staggers over to the woman, and vanishes inside.

DAY--EXTERIOR COUNTRY JUKEJOINT

Johnson is playing cards with another man, the game called Georgia Skin, flipping the cards over from the top of the deck. Thee are a few onlookers and Robert has another bottle at his elbow. He takes a snort, rubs his lucky bag, winks at the folks watching, licks his thumb ostentatiously, and then flips over the Jack of Diamonds--which wins the hand and a great deal of (unheard) congratulations from the watchers.

NIGHT--INTERIOR BEDROOM

Johnson and another chippie are in a well-furnished hotel room, elaborately sniffing cocaine, fumbling at each other, giggling and laughing and ending in a heap on the bed.

DAY--INTERIOR BLACK CLUB

Johnson sits slumped over a table, drunk again, barely conscious. At the outside door, across the room, his friend Johnny appears; the barman meets him and points over to Robert. Johnny comes gloomily over and begins the difficult task of getting Johnson up on his feet and out of the club. Robert reacts with drunken affection at the sight of his old friend.

The music has continued throughout, but now there is a harsh, nerve-jangling sound, as a 78 record player's steel needle scrapes across a record, stopping it in mid-phrase, and:

DAY--INTERIOR WHOREHOUSE

We see Johnson standing beside an old-fashioned, bell-horn, wind-up victrola; he has just stopped the record as heard. Robert and Johnny are in the sitting room parlor of a plush, New Orleans-style black whorehouse. He turns to face Johnny again, tipsy this time rather than incapacitated.

JOHNSON (giggling): He, he, he. Wha' chu think o' that, nigger? You' ol' buddy Robert on record...

CLOSE ON JOHNNY

He is quite subdued--puzzled by his friend's belligerant attitude, and working at keeping the peace.

JOHNNY: Soundin' good, Bob. I been hearin' you all aroun'.

ANOTHER ANGLE

As Johnson hurls the disc across the room at Johnny.

JOHNSON: Bet you' raggedy ass!

But his aim is bad, and it hits a nearby Tiffany-style lamp instead, which crashes to the floor.

JOHNSON: Fame an' fortune you done tol' me to grab aholt of!

Johnny kneels to pick up the broken lamp.

JOHNNY: You sho' nuff grab on t' some-thin'. What in hell's eatin' on you anyways?

ANGLE ON DOOR

As the madam and one of her girls come hurrying in to check on the clatter. Madam swears when she sees the lamp's condition.

MADAM: More o' your dam-fool doin's, Robert Johnson. I don't care what kinda killer musician you is, I won't have this in my house.

Johnson lunges unsteadily over to wrap himself around the other girl; he squeezes a breast and she struggles to break free.

JOHNSON: You kin squeeze my lemon, baby.

The angry Madam shoves him away from her girl.

MADAM: Ain't I tol' you 'bout that too? Keep you' ham-hocks offa my girls, lessen you payin' your way. Johnny, you get this dumb country boy out o' here!

The two women stalk out.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Robert is weaving back and forth.

JOHNSON: G'on, you b.d. bitch. If you cain't sell it, sit on it! I ain' take no pigmeat an' sowbelly offen you!

Then he collapses on the couch. Johnny has watched the preceding sadly. Now he walks over to pat Johnson awkwardly on the shoulder.

JOHNNY: Come on, Bob. Le's you an' me find us somewhere's else to easy ride.

Johnson frets and mumbles.

JOHNSON: ... ain' seen Chicago...

JOHNNY (helping him up): That's it--mebbe we roll on up Big Muddy, bust you' conk in Chicago-town..

And they stumble toward the door.

DAY--EXTERIOR STREET--MOVING

A crowded street in Southside Chicago, black people of all ages passing, sitting on front stoops, kids playing in the street. Robert and Johnny are walking along, carrying their guitars and valises. They are dressed in their good clothes, but compared to the big-city folk they look a bit back-woods. The two of them seem slightly awed by the hustle and bustle and gab going on all around.

ANGLE ON STREET CORNER

Finally they muster the nerve to approach two rakish hipster-hustlers, dressed to the nines in the height of black Thirties fashion (not yet zoot suits, but flashy). The city guys exchange a look and a rib-dig suggesting something like "Let's get these hicks."

JOHNNY: 'Scuse me, gents, can you tell me...

FIRST HUSTLER (interrupting, to his buddy): Say, bro', looka these two hankachief heads from down yonder, brushin' at the cuckaburrs in their wig, ya dig? All jumped up to pick out what's goin' down in windy ol' Chicago town. I kin tell by the drape o' they vines (fingering the wrinkles in Johnson's baggy jacket) they has de-signs.

Johnson pulls away, surprised. Talker Johnny's jaw is still hanging.

SECOND HUSTLER (to Johnson): Don't mind my signifyin' man, this here Dapper Dan with the built-in tan. They calls me Lewis 'cause I gives 'em bliss--I got my shit, grit, an' mother-wit in-tact. (now to Johnny) So whatcha need, doodley-deed? You lookin' to grease you' chops, or Lindy Hop? Mebbe get tall an' have a ball? Lay it on me, jeff--name you' gig an' we all dig!

FIRST HUSTLER (laughing): Lewis, that' some hincty jive. Jes' slip me five.

ANOTHER ANGLE

They slap hands while Robert and Johnny stand there still confused--should they be angry? are these street dudes still speaking English or some bizarre variation? They look at each other for an answer, but neither knows.

JOHNNY: Uh... say whut? I ain't unnerstan' all that.

SECOND HUSTLER: We's rhymin' it an' chimin' it. Give you the gate to ease you' weight--he'p you get hip, foxy an' fly. Stick wid it an' you got to git it!

JOHNNY: Uh, thanks... I guess.

ROBERT (getting angry): Jes' tell us the way to the Black-an'-Tan club.

The first hustler hits the strings of Johnson's guitar.

FIRST HUSTLER: Well, dog my cats--two razor-leg, slewfoot, mojo men from way behin' the sun come nawth to moan an' holler an' blow the blues from kin to cain't. Ain't they somethin', Lewis?

SECOND HUSTLER: Somethin' else, Daniel. (to Robert) All reet, big feet, 'fore you cain't see for lookin', here's the route you is be tookin'... (and he winks at his partner)

ANGLE ON CORNER

At this point, Johnson's song called "Sweet Home Chicago" begins on the track, drowning out those directions--though we see them acted out in all their elaborate glory. Hustler Lewis points this way and that, waves his arms in circles, names numerous streets, and counts blocks on his fingers. Robert is antsy and suspicious, but Johnny restrains him and pays close attention, trying to duplicate the airy map along with Lewis. The active scene looks like some weird game of charades.

Finally the directions end. Johnny shakes hands with both guys, and Robert nods coolly. As they stride purposefully off carrying all their gear, the hustlers burst out laughing, collapsing against each other in great glee.

ANOTHER ANGLE--MOVING

Further down the street, the hustlers visible in the distance. Johnny looks at Robert and shrugs; Johnson shakes his head, still not sure what has just happened. "Sweet Home Chicago" continues through the following brief scenes:

EXTERIOR SHOP--MOVING

Robert and Johnny passing a "good luck" store, its display windows filled with an amazing variety of powders and philtres, religious statues and dream books, voodoo artifacts and conjure bags, bones and roots and herbs. Johnny is amused and lingers to look, but Robert nervously hurries on, fingering the lucky bag around his neck.

EXTERIOR CAFE--MOVING

A hole-in-the-wall cafe devoted to soul food, with handwritten signs advertising "sweet potato pie," "red beans & rice," "chitterlings," and "downhome cooking." Again Johnny is willing to stop, but Robert wants to press on and get where they're bound.

EXTERIOR INTERSECTION

The two are now on a corner amidst a crowd of black people. A black policeman is in the street directing traffic, and they marvel at this, to them, strange sight. Then they cross the street with their burdens, bumped and jostled some by the other folks hurrying on.

EXTERIOR HOUSE--MOVING

The two now passing a house of ill repute with several stunning and fetchingly attired young women arrayed in the windows. This time Robert is the one who wants to linger, but Johnny pulls him on.

EXTERIOR STREET CORNER

The two peer up at a street sign, trying to get their bearings. They look around at the various directional options, confer on their memories, finally decide which way to go, pick up their gear again and move off.

EXTERIOR BARBERSHOP--MOVING

Now they are passing a black barber shop, but this one looks somewhat ritzier than Lucky's back in Memphis. Discreet dark drapes line the window, and there's a cost placard in the door glass; name sign above the door reads "CONK-EROR JONES, TONSORIALIST." Johnny points at the cost of a hair treatment and shakes his head at this outrageous figure.

EXTERIOR STREET CORNER

They are evidently nearing their goal at last, weary but heartened to see this particular corner. Johnny signals the new direction with his head and holds up two fingers for the two blocks left to go. They stagger off again.

EXTERIOR STREET--PAN

Robert and Johnny coming towards the lens, looking more eager; camera pans around to follow as they turn the last corner and stop suddenly, shocked to see...

EXTERIOR STOCKYARDS

A wide view of the cattle pens at the vast Chicago Stockyards, hundreds of beeves milling about and lowing loudly, their noise drowning out the last few bars of the Johnson song that's accompanied their long trek across Chicago's Southside.

CLOSE ON THE TWO

After their initial surprise, Johnny is laughing, Robert angry at first but then finally chuckling too. A final loud "Moo-oo" ends the sequence.

Hellhound 10: Intermission

2008-08-01T09:24:00.000-07:00

Last night, a serendipitous musical event occurred here on Vashon Island. Blues musician John (Paul) Hammond came to town to play a benefit concert... and the fact of that performance dovetails nicely with the on-going, gradual posting of my 1970 screenplay.

In the first place, his famous father, the other John Hammond of record producing/artist discovery fame, sought to include Robert Johnson in his seminal Spirituals to Swing concerts (December 1938), but learned instead of Johnson's then-unexplained death. He still chose to play Robert's music on stage before starting the concert proper.

And decades later, Hammond Sr. was closely involved, first in the issue of the great Robert Johnson single LPs, and then in the long-delayed creation and release of the bestselling Johnson CD box set. I actually spoke to him by telephone in the mid-Eighties, back in the heyday of my attempts to sell Hellhound to Hollywood, inquiring about the rights to Robert's music. (By the way, he blamed oddball researcher Mack McCormack and copyrights-grabber Steve LaVere for the confusion and costly delays.)

Son John probably heard Johnson's 78s in his father's home as a child; he's not sure about that, but from the beginnings of his own tentative fumbling with guitar and vocals, the younger Hammond did clearly have an affinity for Johnson. He has likely covered nearly all of Robert's 29 songs on one album or another over the years (the compilation shown above documents some of them). And he also "starred" in the Search for Johnson documentary made in the early Nineties.

Hammond's own first recordings were on the 1963 Blues at Newport album, which I latched onto in '64; when I heard his powerful performances of three songs, including Johnson's "Me and the Devil" and Chuck Berry's great "No Money Down," loudly welcomed and urged on by several elder black bluesmen, I thought there and then, "All right, a white man can play and even sing the blues!"

It helped me feel vindicated in my own mid-Sixties love for the country blues, and encouraged me to think seriously about writing a screenplay on Johnson and the hard life of a Depression Era bluesman. Over the next couple of years I researched as best I could--there wasn't much about Johnson specifically, but more and more stuff was appearing to detail the complex existence of other Thirties blues figures--and then wrote the script, revised and ready by 1970 for copywriting and a hoped-for quick movie sale. (No such luck, then or later.)

But that's one reason why I'm publishing my screenplay on line now... I'm asking you readers to remember one thing: I wrote Hellhound many years before Greenberg's surreal Love in Vain book or the excellent Searching for Johnson book by Peter Guralnick, not to mention the hit CD set, Hammond's solid documentary, and the later docudrama featuring Danny Glover and Keb Mo.

At any rate, I hereby acknowledge my long-standing debt to the brilliant, even heroic, example of the two Hammonds, whose separate efforts have enriched the lives of millions of listeners.

And by the way, last night's concert was great, with Hammond ranging freely over the history of the blues and thereafter--John Hurt to Howlin' Wolf, Billy Boy Arnold to Tom Waits, and his own originals to, of course, Robert Johnson's eerie and impassioned "Come On in My Kitchen."

We could hear the wind howl.

Hellhound 9: No Hiding Place

2008-07-29T08:18:00.000-07:00

DAY--EXTERIOR ROAD--MOVING

Johnson is ambling down a dusty road in the black section of Robinsonville, carrying his old guitar and even-more-battered valise. He glances about him as he walks, nodding his head often as though pleased by familiar sights of home. Some children run out to watch him pass, and an old man peers at him as though possibly half-recognizing him. Johnson smiles and nods at any whose eye he catches, though their responses are guarded.

ANOTHER ANGLE

As Robert nears his goal, Betty Mae's house (from earlier scene). The house looks about the same, save for a newly painted front door. Robert mounts the steps and knocks. Sounds of a tapping cane and muffled words from within.

MAN'S VOICE: Jest a minute, jestaminute...

A wizened old man hobbling and leaning on his cane opens the door.

MAN: Yes, yes, whut you want?

ON THE TWO

Robert is temporarily dumbfounded.

MAN: Well?

JOHNSON: Yeah, I 'uz... lookin' for Betty Mae...? Betty Mae Hen-dricks?

MAN (shortly): Ain' nobody here name' that.

JOHNSON: But she live here, her an' her mama, Miz Jewella Hen'ricks.

MAN: No, she ain't--place's empty when I come here from Jackson. Yessuh, so look out de way...

Aa he steps back and slams the door shut.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson is briefly angry, then appears puzzled as he descends the steps. He looks around for someone else to ask, but now the area seems deserted. He starts walking dejectedly back the way he came.

WOMAN'S VOICE: Hello, son!

He turns to see...

ANGLE ON YARD

A matronly woman scrubbing clothes in an old tin washtub. She comes towards him, wiping her hands on her skirt.

WOMAN: Don't I know you? (peering at him) 'Course. You Robert Johnson. Still lookin' th' image o' your Mama, Lord rest 'er.

Johnson mutters an embarrassed greeting, not recognizing this woman.

WOMAN: Elvie Brown, son. Don' you reco'leck me?

Now he does. He puts down the suitcase, removes his hat, and shakes her hand.

JOHNSON: 'Scuse me, Miz Brown. How you be doin'?

WOMAN: Well, jes' fine, Robert. Where you has been off to, all these years gone?

JOHNSON: Oh, you know. Ramblin'. Making' music. (shows his guitar)

WOMAN: Is that a fack. (touches the strings) Is you a travelin' preacher?

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

The question is so outrageous and unexpected that Johnson starts laughing.

JOHNSON (still chuckling): No ma'am, not pre-zackly. Reckon I plays jus' blues an' breakdowns.

ANGLE ON THE TWO

Now the conversation begins to run at cross purposes as each pursues his/her own subject.

WOMAN: Aww, no, Robert, don' tell me you done lose the church. Now how your mama feel, in hebem where she be?

JOHNSON (ignoring that): Where's Betty Mae gone, an' Miz Hen'ricks?

WOMAN (surprised): Lord have mercy, Miz Hendricks passed, two years now. She with your mama an' the chosen ones on th' other shore. But blues is the devil's music, son--they swoll y'up with sin.

Johnson waves his hand in frustration.

JOHNSON: Nev' mine me--where'd Mae get to?

WOMAN (getting into it now): You mus' be up-lift, Robert. You don' need that sinful music an' that shameful life--God's holy word is all you needs. Let the Holy Sperrit fill your voice--give the Lord your life! He the one you got t' go by.

Johnson looks battered now, by the sultry heat and by her words.

JOHNSON: You right, I 'spect. But where is Betty Mae?

WOMAN: Betty Mae Hendricks 'uz one chile knowed her duty to her folks an' her God. (sniffs at Johnson) Not like some could be name'. She stay by her mama to the very end an' see she be give a decent Baptist fun'ral...

Robert's patience is exhausted and his temper flaring. He slings the hat he's been holding off to one side and shout-pleads with her.

JOHNSON: God dam, Miz Brown--where is Betty Mae gone?

WOMAN (calm but indignant, drawing herself up): Don't you be cussin' at me, Robert Johnson--I ain' no street woman. Cussin' and cryin' won't he'p you none. Betty Mae done marry herse'f a nice, fine Christian gentaman name' Ralph Curtis, come by down Greenwood way.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson looks shattered by this news; each of her ensuing words strikes him like a blow, backing him up and away from her.

WOMAN (triumphant): They done move back south after the weddin'. A real church weddin', Robert Johnson!

Backing away, clutching at his neckbag, he stumbles over the valise and almost falls. Dazed and hurting, his hat and valise forgotten, he turns and hurries away from this determined harpy; he is practically running, guitar flapping on his back. A stray hound barks and bounds after him.

ANOTHER ANGLE--MOVING

Looking back at the diminishing woman as she shouts a further warning:

WOMAN: You kin run, run to the rock! But the rock cry out, "No hidin' place!" Every-body got hisself a date!

DAY--EXTERIOR COTTONFIELD

Camera starts close on the "LUBBELL PLANTATION" sign, then gradually (as the scene proceeds) rises up and away to a high and wide angle, looking down on the vast field. The year's tending is over--the plants have been chopped, the rows are empty now. Staggering across these hilly rows comes Johnson, his hat and valise gone forever, the guitar bumping wildly back and forth. He is thoroughly drunk, with a half-empty bottle in his hand from which he drinks as he stumbles along, shout-singing loudly between gulps a few lines from his song called "Rambling on My Mind".

JOHNSON: I got ramblin', I got ramblin' all on my mind... I got mean things, I got mean things on my mind... Li'l girl, li'l girl, I will never forgive you no more...

All the while he is wandering across the field, coming towards the rising camera. Finally he trips and goes sprawling headlong in the dirt. The guitar clangs loudly and he rolls over, shoving it aside. On his back, not rising, lying in the middle of this vast and barren field, Johnson bellows out one last line from the song:

JOHNSON: I got the blues for Miss So-an'-So, an' the chile's got the blues about me...

((END OF SECTION 2))

Hellhound 8: Texas Shuffle

2008-07-26T13:07:00.000-07:00

((Continuing from Part 7; Johnson has just arrived in San Antonio by train.))

Song begins on soundtrack, Johnson's sprightly novelty number called "They're Red Hot." This plays throughout the following montage of scenes:

DAY--EXTERIOR STREET

Johnson walks along, eyeing the Mexicans and the stucco buildings a bit uncomfortably; he is sort of a fish out of water. He crosses over the San Antonio River.

EXTERIOR ANOTHER STREET

Now he is clearly in the Mexican part of town--all signs are in Spanish, and he is lost. He tries to ask directions from a woman with two children, but they flee from him.

EXTERIOR STREET CORNER

Johnson in a by-gestures, halting-English conversation with a young Mexican woman selling tamales on a street corner. She is beautiful, and he is vaguely interested--but both are hampered by their inability to comprehend each other. After a great deal of waving and puzzled listening and repeating and laughter, she finally points in a certain direction and he ambles off, turning to wave goodbye to her.

EXTERIOR DELAPIDATED GROCERY

Johnson, still carrying his valise and guitar, approaches this structure a bit warily; no one is in sight. Then the door opens, and two black men come out, looking Johnson over as they pass. He breaks into a relieved smile and stops them to ask for information.

EXTERIOR FLOPHOUSE

This grubby building, Johnson's San Antonio ghetto accommodations, stands near a decent gas station/garage--which Robert eyes curiously as he passes, heading for the flophouse door.

NIGHT--INTERIOR ROOM

Johnson alone in his grim, cramped quarters; he looks around, sighs deeply, and starts plunking on his guitar.

DAY--INTERIOR HOTEL ROOM

Finally he is standing in bright daylight in a nice hotel room, with a microphone and cable before him, playing the last few bars of "They're Red Hot" on camera. When he finishes, he turns to look where the mic cable stretches under a door into an adjoining room.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The door opens and Ben Dawson comes bustling in--a youngish, fast-talking white man in rolled-up shirt-sleeves, distant, officious, yet friendly too.

DAWSON: That's enough of that one--what is it, anyway?

JOHNSON: Some Mex gal I seen sellin' 'em.

Into the room now comes Harry the recording engineer, small, balding, and bitter. He is intent on examining the cable on across the floor and up to the mic. Walking backward, he bumps into Johnson.

HARRY: Watch it.

Dawson continues to pace about nervously; he pulls Johnson over toward the window, away from the equipment.

ANGLE ON THE TWO

Dawson chatters on.

DAWSON: Okay. Got any more? You need a drink or something? I mean, we got some good stuff on the cylinders, Johnson, that "Kind-Hearted Gal" number, for example. But no real grabbers, know what I mean? We need a winner, something that'll make your people sit up and take notice. A nice sexy number maybe--what about that?

Johnson shrugs non-commitally.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Harry has been examining the gear. Now he yells at Johnson.

HARRY: Hey, you, whatever-your-name-is! I told you to keep your mitts off the mike. (to Dawson) Look at this, Ben--your boy tipped it down again. I knew I was getting a muddy sound.

JOHNSON: I ain' touch it.

HARRY (sarcastic): You tryin' to tell me it slipped down all by itself?

JOHNSON (heating up): I ain' tellin' you nothin'.

DAWSON: Forget it, Harry. (checks his watch) Look, I got to leave anyway. (to Robert) Tell ya what, you go home, take a coupla days, come back with a grabber, right? We'll wrap this up tight. (starts past him, then stops) How you fixed for money?

Robert slips the guitar and strap up over his head and off.

JOHNSON: Use some, I reckon.

Dawson digs out a ten dollar bill and stuff's it into Johnson's shirt pocket.

DAWSON (sounding paternalistic): Make it last, Robert. What with advancing you train fare and all, the company can't afford to pay you much for the session, of course.

Then he bustles on out. Johnson shifts the bill to his pants, looks rather gloomily at the plush furnishings of this room that isn't his, and follows on out too. As he passes the mic, engineer Harry glares at him. Johnson carefully ignores the look.

DAY--EXTERIOR GAS STATION

This is the black-owned garage next to Johnson's flophouse. Robert is stretched out in afternoon shade, leaning against the building, hat tipped down over his eyes, small whiskey bottle in his hand. Near him, in the garage area, the mechanic and his silent helper are in heated discussion with the black owner of a hood-raised Hudson. Two small boys are hanging around too.

OWNER: Got-dam it, I'm tellin' you I can't have this vee-hicle breakin' down every time I drive out the g'rage. Don't you lazy-ass niggers knew you' job? "He'p out the race," say Rosa--"take it t' Harris's." So I do, an' what I get? Nothin'--that's what I get.

MECHANIC: Aww, shut up you' mouf, Washin'ton. I'se tellin' you--we's gone over dis hunk o' trash from you' fancy crow-mi-um hood doodad to you' tail-draggin' muffler. Ain' nothin' wrong wid it--'cep'im maybe de driver.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He tilts his hat back and sits up enough to take a swallow and watch the fireworks.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The boys have crept in to peer inside the hood; one of them leans against the fender, and the owner jumps forward to shoo him off.

OWNER: Look out now! You gonn' scratch 'er paint. (rubs fender with his handkerchief) Lookahere, Harris. You go over her starter?

MECHANIC (dignified): 'Course I is.

OWNER: Check th' oil filter an' her car-byoo-rator?

MECHANIC: Yas, yas.

OWNER: What about the gasoline, uh... (waving his arms inarticulately) uh, connects?

MECHANIC (exasperated): Say whut? Look, Mist' Biggety Wardheel Washin'ton, I knows auto-mo-biles. Dis-yeah shiny, nigge'-rich Hudson o' yours ain't worth a shithouse!

OWNER (comic-angry): Now you done it. (slams the hood down) Insults my car. I tell you somethin' ...

The rest of his tirade is lost in the opening chords of another song, as:

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He smiles cheerfully and toasts the noisy arguers...

DAY--INTERIOR HOTEL ROOM

And we are back in the makeshift recording studio as Johnson begins his serio-comic, double-entendre "Terraplane Blues." This time he is seated in front of the microphone.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON--PAN

A great slow circular pan around Robert's head and upper torso as he curls over slightly to play and sing:

Well, I feel so lonesome, you hear me when I moan (repeat)
Who's been drivin' my Terraplane for you since I been gone.
Can't flash you' lights, mama, you' horn won't even blow (repeat)
Sho' must be a disconnection way down below.
I'm gonn' hist you' hood, mama, I'm boun' t' check you' oil (repeat)
Got a woman I'm lovin', way down in Arkansaw...

Intercut with this slow continuing move are a series of inserts of a station mechanic at work:

ECU IGNITION

As hand inserts key and turns.

ECU SPARKPLUGS

To make them seem looming and phallic.

CLOSE ON HEADLIGHTS

As hands rub knobbed headlights.

ECU DIPSTICK

As it is pulled part-way out and reinserted.

ECU OILCAP AREA

As oilcan spout is inserted dripping oil.

CLOSE ON REAR FENDER

As hands rub nicely rounded rear fender.

These inserts must be comically sexy without becoming offensive. The sequence ends on Johnson again as he finishes the song.

ANGLE ON DOOR

Unseen in the next room, Dawson lets out a whoop of pure pleasure and comes bursting through the door.

DAWSON: Beautiful! Perfect! That's the one we needed!

He claps Johnson on the shoulder in his enthusiasm, practically dancing around the room.

DAWSON: A Terraplane--brother, who'd have guessed... Yessir, that's the tune that'll make Robert Johnson a name to reckon with. (stops to point) You are gonna be a star if you don't watch out. I guaran-tee that'll go five, maybe ten thousand in the market.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Now he becomes more serious, while still pacing. Johnson watches him with suppressed amusement, guitar across his knees.

DAMSON: Listen, Robert, we're gonna need to keep in touch. If "Terraplane" sells like it should, we'll want you back come summer to cut some more tunes. (stops again) So where are you gonna be?

Robert finally busts out laughing; takes him a moment to straighten his demeanor to immobility again, then he ticks the locales off on his fingers.

JOHNSON (put-on serious): Well, now, le's see... Shre'port... Rosedale, I 'spect... Yazoo... Mebbe Rob'sonville... Wes' Helena... (shrugs) Take you' pick.

Dawson is momentarily non-plussed, actually speechless.

DAWSON: Hmmm...

Robert stands to stetch his tired shoulders.

JOHNSON: Nemmine that--I check wid Mist' Turtle nex' spring.

Dawson claps his hands together officiously.

DAWSON: Right, good, that does it. Now we can...

ANGLE ON DOOR

Before he can finish that sentence, Harry the engineer strolls into the room, looking vindictive.

HARRY: Hold it, boss. You're gonna want another take on that last damn thing. (indicating Johnson with his thumb) Jimbo here's voice got lost in his guitar.

And he stares challengingly at Johnson, who carefully ignores him again.

DAWSON: Oh great. Just the news I needed. Well, let's try it again, Robert. This time, keep your mouth closer to the mic, okay?

Dawson seats Johnson and positions his head near the microphone, then he and Harry retreat to the adjoining room. Johnson watches them go, then chuckles and shakes his head in bemused amazement.

JOHNSON: White folks... phew-wee!

Hellhound 7: Tell Everyone

2008-07-23T07:44:00.000-07:00

DAY--EXTERIOR PARK SQUARE

Another area of Memphis, this near the border between black and white sections. Johnny, Robert, Booker, and two other black men are lingering in the sunshine--passing a bottle around, making tipsy remarks to the passersby, pushing each other in good fun, etc. All this casual activity is pantomimed because the soundtrack is playing Johnson's odd, upbeat, near-theme, "Dust My Broom." Johnson finally takes up his guitar to play something, and we jump cut ahead to:

ANGLE ON JOHNSON

Him playing that very song, the last couple of verses. During the lapsed time Booker has found a passing woman to dance with him; Johnny is handing his hat around to pull in cash from white passersby, but very few stop to listen or contribute. In the background, however, one smallish white man in a suit has paused with evident interest. Johnson ends with a fluorish.

FIRST BLACK MAN (as he receives Johnson's guitar): I guess you ain't lost you' touch.

JOHNSON: I keep tryin' to get right.

SECOND MAN: You pert' near bad's anybody I ever seed. You play wid Charley Patton 'fore he passed?

JOHNSON (bored response): Run wid him some down Clarksdale an' Belzona.

JOHNNY (plucks a dime from his hat): Lookee this. White man the soul o' gen-u-rosidy, ain't he.

The white man from the background has now come forward; he is a salesman type in a clip-on bow tie, his speech fussily proper.

WHITE MAN (to Johnson): You're pretty good with that, young man. Ever cut any discs?

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson immediately assumes a "new" persona aimed at whites--sullen, silent, seeming not too bright. Johnny listens in silence but mounting interest.

JOHNSON: Whut?

WHITE MAN: I was wondering if you've ever made any 78 records.

JOHNSON (avoiding looking at him): Nossir, I jes' play.

WHITE MAN (a bit frustrated): Well, would you like to make some then?

Johnson just shrugs.

WHITE MAN (peevishly): Look, I'm not trying to sell you funeral insurance or something, for God's sake! My name is Vincent Tuttle. (pulls a card from his coat pocket) Here's my name and address. (pointing at card) I'm serious. I work for this company, the American Record Corporation. We've been cutting... er, race records for you people for almost 15 years--Bessie Smith, Leroy Carr, all the big ones record for us.

Johnson still hasn't looked at him, hasn't paid any attention to the card Tuttle has been offering, so Tuttle has also been talking to Johnny part of the time.

WHITE MAN: Don't you understand? I'm offering you a chance to become famous among your people!

JOHNSON (rousing at last): Uh-huh. What it gonn' cost me?

WHITE MAN: Why, nothing. ARC'll be recording over in Texas in a couple of weeks. We'll pay your way over, plus, say... (craftier now) five dollars a song. And if your session's any good, well...

Johnny is clearly excited about all this, and he nudges Robert into responding.

JOHNSON (shrugging again): I'll think on it.

He turns on his heel and walks away, retrieving his guitar from the man who has been chording on it. Tuttle, taken aback at first, then calls after him.

WHITE MAN: Hey, I don't even know your name! Who are you?

Robert pays no attention; Johnny answers instead.

JOHNNY: Name' Robert Johnson. An' he the bes' there is.

WHITE MAN: Is he as slow as he seems?

JOHNNY: Nossir, jes' cautious. I know he be int'rested.

Johnny plucks the card from Tuttle's hand.

JOHNNY: We be callin'.

After his retreating back, Tuttle calls out once more.

WHITE MAN: Tell him party blues always sell pretty good...

Then Tuttle glances around, sees the other faces watching him--black, brooding, unfriendly--and nervously scuttles off.

DAY--INTERIOR BARBER SHOP

Lucky himself is the only person visible this time, seated in his front barber chair, reading the city's black newspaper and keeping a weather eye on the street outside. From an open door at the rear of the shop come the outcries and spirited remarks of a noisy crap game in full swing. Suddenly the front door bangs open. Lucky jumps with a start, but it's only Robert and Johnny.

JOHNNY (gangster-films voice): All right, youse guys--dis is a raid.

Johnson laughs aloud, but Lucky waves his arm irritably.

LUCKY: Funny man. Why'n'chu go hustle a high-yaller gal or somepin'.

Now Johnny dances over, grabs up Lucky's broom, and charges around the shop furiously, sweeping all the real or imagined dust and hair, keeping up his patter all the while.

JOHNNY (self-importantly): We is conductin' im-portant bizness in this here ee-stablishment, so don' you gimme none o' you' nappy jive. (bowing, gesturing Robert into the vacant chair) Whatcha need, Mist' Johnson, suh--shoeshine, man-ee-cure, process, pick a li'l number? (points with broom to the noisy back room) Roll the bones? Letcha deal go down for Georgia Skin?

Finally he runs out of breath. Robert is chuckling and Lucky laughing so hard now he can't rise from the chair.

LUCKY: Ee-nuff! Lord, you gonn' make me dis'member my bizness...

ANOTHER ANGLE

Lucky gets up and goes over to rummage among the creams for hair and skin, emerging with an envelope.

LUCKY: Mist' Charlie here for you, Robert--li'l dude name' Turtle or somepin'--and' lef' dis.

Johnson seems surprised, but Johnny looks knowing as Robert takes the letter, examines it as though it might hold a snake inside, then tears the envelope open. He shakes out green cash and a note. Manwhile, the crap game at shop rear has yielded up a pale, freckled black with reddish hair, who shakes his head ruefully.

JOHNNY (keeping one eye on Robert): Hey, Red, how's the highroller?

RED: Shee-it. Cleaned me up one side an' down th' other. Seed so many snake-eyes, thought i 'uz gone whiskey-blin'.

LUCKY: Siddown, son, I give ya a li'l trim, on the house.

RED: Practice some other nigger, you ol' buzzard--I'm gonn' check up on Annie, see has she got any coins. Them johns o' hers are the poorest excuse for spenders I ever seed!

LUCKY: Run yo' mouf on out. God sho' don' like ugly!

CLOSE ON ROBERT AND JOHNNY

Johnny peering over Johnson's shoulder, waiting while Robert tries to sound out the note from "Turtle." But Johnson gives up and passes it to his friend.

JOHNSON: You the smart one, John. Read me. What's this money?

JOHNNY (reading and answering): Say here American Record Corporation want you to cut some de-mos--meanin' records I 'spect, over to Texas... San Antone, Robert, an' money's to pay you' ticket.

JOHNSON: The man don' give up, do he. Well, I ain't in'trested. Send it back to 'um--or mebbe we buy us a good time right here...

JOHNNY: Wait up. Is you crazy? Peckerwood gonn' pay you to get famous, an' you sayin Nossir?

JOHNSON: That's all bullshit. I study to this wid other musicianers Mist' Charlie done talk up, taken roun', an' stole offa. What I need wi' that? We be doin' all right.

CLOSE ON JOHNNY

He is very enthusiastic, working to convince Robert.

JOHNNY: Lookit now. Here's front money an' you be paid there too. All's you do is go t' Texas an' play. Where's the stealin' in that? Hell, you stealin' from them. You allus makin' music anyways--let 'em pay you for it. Peoples gonn' know you from Fannin Street to Chi-cago--Blin' Lemon have nothin' on you. (as though announcing) Robert Johnson, King o' the Blues.

ANGLE ON THE TWO

Robert now thoughtful.

JOHNSON (catching on): You done this wi' that Turtle fella, ain' chu? (reaches up to touch his lucky neck-bag) Well, all right, you an' me go to San Antone--see all them see-noritas up close, mebbe fin' young John hisself a Mex'can mama.

Now Johnny seems embarrassed.

JOHNNY: Aww, Bob, I ain't goin'. They's callin' you. Sho' the chips most for one. I got people to see on down in Arkansas. You go on you'self.

WIDER ANGLE ON THE SHOP

Johnson gives another of his easy-going shrugs.

JOHNSON: You say it. I catch you up come Wes' Helena. (sudden idea) Yeah, an' I may bein' check out Betty Mae too...

He breaks into a grin and a finger-popping sway, singing some improvised workds:

JOHNSON: Be goin' to San Antonio, baby, but I ain' take you...

Lucky has been tidying up his shop through all this; now he opens the steam cabinet and...

DAY--EXTERIOR TRAIN

Steam billows from a braking engine at the San Antonio station. Johnson and another black man disembark from the "Colored Only" car; Robert wears a dusty suit and carries a paper valise and his worn guitar. He steps down into the confusion of a Mexican-American city--Spanish insults hurled about, few black people, no one meeting him. He wanders through the station and out into the afternoon heat; he looks about blankly with no real notion of where to go or what to do...

((More to come soon.))

Hellhound 6: Big 6 Barber

2008-07-20T09:09:00.000-07:00

DAY--EXTERIOR STREET--MOVING

A year or two have passed. We see Johnny and Robert looking sharp and comfortable in their city clothes, moving along a street in the black section of Memphis, Tennessee. Robert's guitar is strapped across his back. The two men are happy and laughing; they nod at some men and tip their hats to a couple of black matrons, who react as though somehow insulted. Johnny then mimics their high-falutin' walk, to Robert's further amusement. Soon they reach their actual destination: a mid-block, hole-in-the-wall, dusty-window barber shop complete with painted barber pole outside. The hand-lettered notice across the glass reads:"'BIG 6 BARBER SHOP." Peering in through the clouded front window they see a couple of indistinct figures within, then pull the screen door open and enter.

INTERIOR BARBER SHOP

Clean but cramped quarters--wall mirrors, two barber chairs, other metal chairs along one wall, and a host of black barbering paraphernalia of that era: skin creams, hair straighteners, process gear, and so on. The men inside are Lucky, the barber (an older man) minus his white jacket, and customer Eddie, whose process job is almost finished. They look up at Robert and Johnny enter.

JOHNNY: Howdy, Lucky. Eddie.

EDDIE: Hey, Johnny. How you, Robert?

Lucky comes forward to shake their hands, Johnny first.

LUCKY: Ain't that somethin'! (now Robert) Damn, you sons, lemme eyeball ya. Where you been raisin' sand all this time?

JOHNSON: Hoboin' up the country an' all.

LUCKY (gesturing at chairs): Siddown, siddown. Line it on out.

Robert takes a metal chair, laying his guitar aside, while Johnny flops in the empty barber chair. Lucky resumes work on Eddie's head.

JOHNNY: Tell ya what we ain't done... ain' no richer. No wiser neither, i 'spect. Jes' ramblin' roun' from town t' town. How 'bout y'all? Where's the rest of you badass scoundrels allus in here?

LUCKY: Be 'long direckly, 'ceptin' Jimmy Joe and George Wilkens. Jimmy Joe passed some months back, and George, po-lice haul him in las' week. Bastuds take my grease money an' still bus' my runners.

JOHNSON: White man don' think like black--never play straight wi' the peoples.

LUCKY: Now, that is a fack.

A momentary pause as all examine that truth.

JOHNNY: Hell, Lucky, you still runnin' policy?

LUCKY: 'Course I is. Who else gonn' do it, I axe you. You got a number?

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He speaks, clutching that lucky neck-bag; seems introspective, possibly a bit nervous.

JOHNSON: I dreamp' one, sun-up this mornin'. Houn'dogs was soundin' way off, an' whole town was burnin', and dam' if the high sheriff wasn't comin' fast... His eyes bug out, an' his big ol' .38... Then all them change to three big O's... I woke up smilin', feelin' fine.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Lucky has paused to listen to Johnson. Now he resumes his barbering, sounding thoughtful.

LUCKY: That's bad luck number, Robert, that triple-O. 'Sides, po-lice an' dogs signifyin' somethin' else. I look it up in the Rajah book in a minute.

JOHNSON: Nossir. Three-O I dream, three-O I play.

LUCKY (shrugging): You the boss. Write y'up a ticket soon's I gets this ol' nigger (whacks Eddie's head) done right. Give your nappy head a treat too, on the house.

JOHNSON: Oh no--that fried an' dried ain' none o' mine. (tugs at his hair) These kinks ain't much, but they's the nach'ral Robert. (half-singing) The men don' know, but the li'l gals, they understan'...

The guys laugh long at that; Johnny reaches over to slap hands with Eddie.

EDDIE: Where y'all roostin' at, anyway?

Robert and Johnny exchange a look, then Johnny shrugs and answers.

JOHNNY: Nowheres yet. But if I know my man here, we be sleepin' right, hugging' all kines o' sof' things by tonight. (and winks broadly)

ANOTHER ANGLE

More laughter as the front door opens and another young man, Booker T. Long, saunters in. At the sight of Johnny, he dances over and punches him lightly on the arm.

BOOKER: Hell, you still Geechie-ugly, ain' cha.

JOHNNY (shakes his head in mock disgust): Booker T. Long. Ain't yo' Mama learnt ya no manners yet?

Then Johnny springs up and grabs Booker, and the two of them wrestle around the front area of the shop, bumping chairs, walls, knocking each other's snappy hats off, etc. Johnson watches these antics with amusement; Lucky ignores them completely, finishing up with Eddie. He removes the process gear and yanks the white sheet off Eddie with a flourish. Meanwhile, the wrestling is over, and Johnny introduces Booker and Johnson.

JOHNNY: This here's Booker T. (the two shake hands) An' that's the funky, flyin' fingers of Mr. Robert "Blues Boy" Johnson you's touchin', Book. He play till the cows come home--or the womens.

Eddie comes forward, pulling a basic harmonica from his pocket.

EDDIE: How 'bout a little get-right music this mawnin'?

LUCKY: Now you sayin' somepin'.

Robert takes up his guitar.

JOHNSON: Le's do it, then.

Booker and Johnny take seats, Johnny with a metal container as a drum, Booker ready to pound the chair back. Robert shifts to a barber chair, guitar ready; Eddie moves to the front area so he can dance while he blows harp; and Lucky opens a straight razor and holds up the strop to whomp it on. Johnny and Booker talk during all this set-up activity.

JOHNNY: What chu doin' these days, Book.

BOOKER: Well, you know--little this, little that. Dealin' some. You?

JOHNNY: A 'prentice musicianer, you could say. (nodding at Johnson) Doggin' him 'round, keepin' him hones'. Say, we come across Ben Green, yestiddy it was, over'n Wes' Memphis.

BOOKER (disbelief): G'on, you did.

JOHNNY: Yeah we did.

LUCKY: Nemmine that--where the music?

JOHNSON: You got it...

And he launches into a lively guitar instrumental, the others following along as best they can--raggedly at first, then with rhythmic unity--harp, strop, container, chair back, dancing feet, guitar and all. Short and sweet, the tune ends in some confusion and laughter. Sound of applause on track takes us to:

NIGHT--INTERIOR BLACK CLUB--PAN

The place is dark and smoky and packed with people, mostly couples, all dressed in urban Thirties finery. Three young and seductively lovely women are lingering beside the tiny bandstand, where the applause we heard has greeted the end of a number played by Robert and Johnny on dual guitars. Johnson has Betty Mae's lipstick cap in place of a bottleneck on his little finger.

ANGLE ON BANDSTAND

The two men nod their thanks, then Johnny stands to stretch while Robert bends down to pick up a whiskey bottle and take a swig. Both men are aware of their nearby feminine audience, with Johnny ready to rib his friend.

JOHNNY (pointing at the lipstick cap): You still carryin' Betty Mae in your heart as well's on you' finger, ain' cha.

Robert shrugs, then speaks:

JOHNSON: We get right some day.

JOHNNY (eyeing the nearby ladies): Oh I know you will. You sholy been savin' up all you' money with juicy bankers everywhere, tha's a fack...

Before Johnson can retort, one of the waiting women steps forward; she wears a tasseled blouse.

FIRST WOMAN: Ain't y'all gonn' play no mo'?

JOHNNY: Well now, peaches, that depen's. You got some branches I ain' mind pickin'. You do for me an' I sho' nuff do for you.

Then he steps forward and offers his usual charming bow to the three.

JOHNNY (slight mockery in his voice): Le's do this right, introducin's an' all. That's Robert--he the shy one. I be Johnny. We jes' po' lonely musicianers. You gals know any place to fin' us some companionship an' so-lass?

He has charmed them as quickly as that.

SECOND WOMAN: Um, um, um. How you do go on. If you's lookin' to party, Mistuh Johnny, I could be persuaded.

JOHNNY: I jus' bet you could. Well, Bob, what say?

THIRD WOMAN (turning like a model): See anythin' you like?

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson examines the first and third women, carefully and speculatively.

JOHNSON: No call here for any bad feelin'--room enuff for two in my ol' raggedy heart... (and smiles)

The two women look at each other and then smile right back at him.

JOHNNY (laughing): Reckon that takes care o' that. (to Johnson) Now, why ain' chu play somethin' else for all these good folks?

Robert nods, takes one more swig from the bottle, winks at his ladies, and settles back to play. Johnny jumps down to stand beside his new companion. The club noise is quite loud as Johnson begins his mournful and moving song "Come On in My Kitchen":

The woman I love, took from my bes' friend',
That joker got lucky, stole her back again...
Woman gettin' in trouble, ever'body throws her down,
Lookin' for a good frien', an' he can't be found,
You better come on in my kitchen,
'Cause it's gonn' to be rainin' outdoors...

ANGLE ON CROWD

Intercut these audience shots with close-ups of Johnson's fingers playing and his face hidden in shadow. The people pay no attention at first, lost in their particular worlds of the moment--cuddling, telling a joke, fending off a drunk, and so on. But as the song progresses, slowly and inexorably, the piercing guitar and sad tone of Johnson's voice begin to penetrate. More and more clubgoers fall silent, turning to watch Johnson on the half-lit bandstand.

ANOTHER ANGLE--PAN

Slow pan across the crowded room, culminating finally on Johnson (after he has ended the song). The club is completely still as he finishes. Some women are swaying and even crying; one or two men brush at their eyes as well. A sigh and a shudder--almost sexual--seem to pass through the silent onlookers when he stops. No applause, no sound at all. Johnson sits there as still as everyone else. Johnny looks at Robert and then the crowd, slowly shaking his head back and forth.

Hellhound 5: Been Here and Gone

2008-07-16T09:42:00.000-07:00

((This fifth part leads to the end of Section 1 of Hellhound. Four more sections of similar length remain, all to be offered here gradually.))

NIGHT--EXTERIOR HOUSE

The front steps of Betty Mae's house in Robinsonville, Mississippi. Johnson climbs the steps and gestures for Johnny to follow him.

JOHNNY: You don' want me--y'all ain't see each other yet.

JOHNSON: Say hello at least.

He then raps softly on the door, guitar strapped across his back as usual. After a moment, he raps again. The door opens this time, and the light from within frames Betty Mae in the doorway. She is barefoot and wearing a plain cotton dress, yet radiantly beautiful. Johnson becomes slightly hesitant before her.

BETTY MAE (not particularly pleased to see him): Oh. Hello.

JOHNSON: Hello, Mae.

In silence they look at each other for a moment. Then Robert remembers his companion.

JOHNSON: Here's my frien' Johnny. We been trav'lin' some.

BETTY MAE (shyly): Hello, Johnny.

Johnny makes another of his bows.

JOHNNY: Please' to meet your' quaintance.

Another painful pause, into which Johnny suddenly blurts:

JOHNNY: Len' me your git-tar, Robert, an' I go see the folks.

In silence Johnson hands it over, then Johnny waves his farewell and hustles away from the tension that's developed.

CLOSER ON THE TWO

Betty Mae challenges Johnson.

BETTY MAE: Well, somethin' you want here?

JOHNSON: What you mean? (clears his throat) I come to visit--you're my gal, ain' cha?

BETTY MAE (cynical sniff): Don't know where you get that idea. Nobody keepin' me.

JOHNSON: Aww, now, don' take on so. You know I ain' mean nothin' low-down. I jus' want t' see ya, been so long. Lookit, can't I come in?

BETTY MAE (crosses her arms): If you think I want you comin' 'round...

But she doesn't get to finish, interrupted suddenly by a woman's voice from deeper in the house.

WOMAN'S VOICE: Betty Mae? Who's out there?

The young woman glares at Robert.

BETTY MAE: Now see what you done. (turns to call inside) It's all right, Mama. It's just Robert Johnson.

Who uses the opportunity to slip past her and into the house.

INTERIOR FRONT ROOM

The furnishings are sparse, but homey, well-cared for. Betty Mae spins around angrily, but Johnson is already headed over to the sickly elderly woman hobbling out from a back bedroom.

JOHNSON: Hi, Miz Hen'ricks. How you feelin' now.

MRS. HENDRICKS: Don't y'all fret none about me. Good t' see y' again, son. (already hobbling back to her room) Betty Mae, give Robert some o' that sweet tea you made up. An' don't stay up too late...

She closes the bedroom door behind her.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Betty Mae is not interested in socializing.

BETTY MAE: March yourself right out o' here, Mister Johnson.

Robert moves closer to try some sweet-talk.

JOHNSON: Don' be salty, Mae honey. I jes' want us close like we useta be.

She backs away from him.

BETTY MAE: You keep back now. You crazy if you think you go runnin' off all year, then come back to find me waitin', arms out an' porch light on!

Robert follows on after her, smiling more confidently now. Betty Mae backs into the front door, which closes, and he corners her there.

CLOSE ON THE TWO

Robert closes in.

JOHNSON: Hey, li'l gal, I'm a musicianer. I gots t' go where the peoples an' the money is, ain't I?

He puts his arms around her; she doesn't struggle any more, but she doesn't yield to him either.

JOHNSON: But that don't mean I ain't comin' home when I go. Hell, I cain't leave you, you' my brownie.

BETTY MAE: Don't you sweet-talk me, Robert Johnson. I know you courtin' gals in every town in Miss'ippi an' Arkansaw combine'. You some damfool June bug, flittin' from door t' door, an' havin' to fight you' way out after.

Robert's grin is a bit sheepish.

JOHNSON: Don' b'lieve what folks talk, Mae. You th' onliest gal I care 'bout.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Robert pulls her, still resisting, over to the wornout couch and forcibly sits her down beside him. He puts his arm around her shoulders but she shrugs it off.

BETTY MAE: Take me with you then.

With his unwanted hand Robert touches her hair, and she turns to look him in the eyes, still challenging him.

CLOSE ON BETTY MAE

As Robert's answer comes.

JOHNSON: You gonn' leave yo' Mama an' come on the road?

Betty Mae's hard look crumples--she is left defeated and miserable.

BETTY MAE: Oh you smooth-talkin' devil. I can't leave her sick, an' damn you know it!

Johnson leans over and kisses her lips and she responds just slightly.

ANOTHER ANGLE

He leans back and pulls her against his shoulder with the arm around her.

JOHNSON: Well, ever'thin' be all right after while.

The two sit there in frustrated but companionable silence for a moment.

JOHNSON: I 'most forgot... (reaches into his shirt pocket) I tote this for you...

He opens his closed palm to reveal the lipstick left behind by the vamp who took his money. Betty Mae's reaction is cautious still, but warming to him.

BETTY MAE: For me? For sure?

She pulls off the top and twists the bright-red lipstick up.

JOHNSON (grinning devilishly): You' sweet lips don' need no color, but i 'uz thinkin' you might like 'um anyways.

ANGLE ON MIRROR

Betty Mae gets up and goes over to a period mirror hanging on the wall. She quickly applies a layer of red to her lips, while we see Johnson reflected as he leans back, looking satisfied with himself. She finishes and spins around to face him.

BETTY MAE: What you think? Is it too red?

JOHNSON: Not much. Come on back here...

For the first time a warm and loving smile lights up her face as she flirtatiously shakes her head "No." Then she busies herself with the gift lipstick, recapping it, turning it over in her hand, etc. Johnson is rising to come to her as she suddenly freezes, staring at the bottom of the tube.

INSERT--CLOSE ON LIPSTICK

Scratched into the base in ragged letters is a name: "Ida Hill."

CONTINUING PREVIOUS SHOT

As Betty Mae suddenly hurls the tube across the room at Johnson. It hits him in the chest, and he fumbles and catches it as it falls.

JOHNSON: What in hell?

BETTY MAE: Go on, take it an' get out!

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson starts toward her holding the lipstick.

JOHNSON: What is it, Mae--what I do?

She looks around and grabs up a convenient flatiron, holding it threateningly. And she swipes at her mouth with her free hand.

BETTY MAE: I ain't none o' your fancy women, Robert Johnson! You tote that, that Satan stick on back to her you got it off!

Now he too examines the tube and finds the telltale scratchings. Embarrassed at being caught out, he still tries to smooth things over, moving toward Betty Mae.

JOHNSON: Now, Mae, don't get het up.

But he pauses because she has burst into tears, of mortification and rage. He reaches for her awkwardly, but she leaps back and waves that iron.

JOHNSON (serious now): She 'uz nobody--some gal I met up the way. I come away wi' that, an' I truly did think you 'ud like it.

BETTY MAE (sobbing): It don't even matter. She's just one of 'em. I know. I know you--you cain't even help how you are. The blues in you, Robert--I cain't live wi' that, no more. Nossir, I know you. Are you gonn' give up your music?

She knows the answer to this already, and Robert can say nothing.

BETTY MAE: No, you won't do it. An' I won't sit home no more, tendin' Mama and waitin' for you to come by me sometime.

Johnson tries to approach her again.

JOHNSON: You don' mean it. We cain't jes' break off.

BETTY MAE (anger triumphing over her tears): Oh yes I do mean it!

When Johnson reaches to take her in his arms, she strikes his left wrist and forearm, not a damaging blow but a source of pain and a blow to his pride.

JOHNSON: Damn it, Mae!

He knocks the iron from her hand, grabs her arms with both of his, and shakes her violently, on and on, shouting all the while.

JOHNSON: Damn you, woman! I wants you by my side somewheres it kin last. But not yet! I ain't gonn' sit here, live in the gallion, spen' my life choppin' cotton, bowin' and scrapin' to the Man! I'm gonn' be somebody--I'm gonn' play music an' live fine! An' if you ain't waitin', I'm gone on widout cha!

Betty Mae has listened to all this without letting it touch her--continuing to try to pull free from his grasp. Now Johnson runs down; the emotion leaves him. As he loosens his grip on her, she yanks away and tumbles to the floor.

ANGLE ON THE TWO, FRONT DOOR IN BG

The racket has awakened Betty Mae's mother in the bedroom. She calls out in fear, and keeps moaning and keening throughout the rest of the scene.

MRS. HENDRICK'S VOICE: Betty Mae? Betty Mae! What is that? Oh Lordee... (etc.)

Johnson is contrite and bends down to help the young woman back to her feet.

JOHNSON: Honey, I ain't mean to knock you down. I...

But she shrinks away from his touch.

BETTY MAE (hysterical): Keep your hands off me! Get out of this house an' dont you never come back! (glaring up at him) I don' need you, Robert...

Johnson straightens up, looks at her in anguish and remorse but unyielding pride too. Then he nods his acceptance, turns on his heel, and stalks out the door, leaving it open behind him. As he recedes into the darkness, Betty Mae sinks lower, still sobbing, her anger and adrenaline spent.

((END OF SECTION 1))

Hellhound 4: Johnny Shines

2008-07-12T19:03:00.000-07:00

NIGHT--INTERIOR GARAGE

Johnson and three other black men on their knees shooting craps in a cluttered, lantern-lit garage. Two other men and the woman Johnson met on the street are watching. Robert is the shooter and the moneymaker; the girl is very pleased though most of the men clearly aren't. One of the kneeling losers is Johnny James, shorter and heavier than Johnson, more talkative and outgoing, and soon to become his good buddy and traveling companion.

JOHNNY: Damn! Don't you never lose?

ONLOOKER: Them bones doin' ever'thing for him but rear up an' walk.

WOMAN: Ohhh, daddy, bring it on home!

JOHNSON (big grin on his face): I like ta he'p y'all out, but this be it, las' shake. Git me if you can.

FIRST LOSER: I pass.

SECOND LOSER: How much?

JOHNSON: I leave it ride, whole nine an' change.

SECOND LOSER: All right, gunboats, you faded. Roll 'em. Le'ssee that devil jump up!

Johnson looks at his closed fist, touches his neck-bag, then lets fly almost casually, without any of the traditional jargon shouts. All bend down to peer at the results...

ONLOOKER: Lookee dat sebem from hebem!

JOHNNY: Jest as nach'rel as the blues...

SECOND LOSER: What the hell's heaven got to do wid it?

ANOTHER ANGLE

The second loser stands up in disgust, tears a ten from his pocket, and stomps off. Johnny is shaking his head in amazement; the girl is all over Johnson and his winnings. The first loser signals the heretofore silent onlooker with a head nod; the look they exchange bodes ill for Johnson. Johnny sees this and watches them depart but says nothing.

JOHNSON: Well, li'l gal, look like you my luck. You ready to party now?

WOMAN: All night, kin you do it.

They stroll on out together, the everpresent guitar in Johnson's hand again. Johnny and the talkative onlooker watch them go.

NIGHT--EXTERIOR ALLEY--MOVING

As Johnson and the woman move through patches of light and darkness. She clings to him, plying her wiles.

WOMAN: Come on, Robert. Lemme hold it. You said I'm your luck. I be good to you to home too...

JOHNSON (stuffing bills down her ample front): Keep 'em warm for me till I come for 'em.

He slaps her haunches and they amble on, squeezing and tickling each other, to the mouth of the alley. There under a dim light, she stops to rummage in her tiny purse, pulling out a lipstick and compact; she hands the lipstick to Johnson to hold while she powders her nose.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Suddenly, the first loser and his cohort run in from the shadows to attack Johnson. The girl doesn't scream and help him; she just flees the scene with his money. Johnson throws one man off his back, punches his other assailant with the fist still holding her lipstick tube.

MEDIUM SHOT

As th first man comes back for more, Johnson clubs him with his already battered guitar--a loud clang but it doesn't crumple. Johnson tosses it aside, just in time to be jumped from behind by the second man, who holds tight this time. The first man moves in to punch Johnson in the face and stomach.

CLOSE ON FIRST MAN

As Johnny suddenly charges in and clobbers this guy from behind. The man collapses, and Robert takes heart, twisting free from the man pinning his arms. He gives this guy a stomach-crunching fist in the belly, then whirls him around and gives him a kick in the butt that sends him flailing into the row of garbage cans at the mouth of the alley. Now Robert spins around, ready to take on whoever's left. But it's just Johnny, who raises his hands in a comic gesture of surrender as he dances back out of range.

JOHNNY: Whoa back, Buck. Keep your winnin's an' your fists in your pockets. I'm the one that freed ya--jes' like Abraham Lincoln hisself!

WIDER ANGLE

Robert relaxes and straightens his clothes. The he grins broadly.

JOHNSON: You the black president, huh? Well, you save my bacon an' I thanks you. (holds out his hand) I'm Robert Johnson.

Johnny steps forward and clasps his hand firmly. Then he gives a comical half-bow.

JOHNNY: John T. James, "Johnny" to them's I rescues. A stranger to this charmin' place. How's your gittar? You playin' 'round here?

ANOTHER ANGLE

As Johnson bends down to retrieve his flung guitar. He holds it up, inspects it, then announces the verdict.

JOHNSON: Jes' passin' through, southbound. New dent here. But them Monkey Wards folks make guitars can take a lickin', looks like.

Now he peers both directions half-heartedly for the woman who left with his cash.

JOHNSON: Which is what I'd like to give that li'l hunk o' pigmeat that's got my money.

Johnny has been examining the fellow he cold-cocked, who has begun stirring feebly.

JOHNNY: What? You mean I laid this dude out for nothin'? You let her scat wid my loot too?

Johnson grins and holds up the lipstick.

JOHNSON: She lef' me some coins, an' this, I got a gal can use. Come on, my man John, let's us go find us a bottle an' a place to drink it.

JOHNNY: Don' mine if'n I do...

And the two new comrades amble off down the street.

NIGHT--EXTERIOR WATER TOWER--ZOOM OUT

As another song starts on the track, Johnson's "Walkin' Blues," serving as the upbeat bridge through the following lighthearted scenes--beginning with Johnny and Robert perched high atop the town's old-fashioned wooden water tower; they dangle their legs over the edge and pass a whiskey bottle back and forth.

DAY--EXTERIOR TOWN

As Robert and Johnny pantomime Robert's invitation and Johnny's shrugging decision to travel on together.

DAY--EXTERIOR DIRT ROAD

As Robert and Johnny amble along, a black farmer and his horsedrawn wagonload of hay stop to give them a ride. Johnny climbs up next to the farmer and Robert settles atop the hay.

LATER--HAY WAGON

As Johnny and the farmer talk a blue streak, Robert lies asleep in the hay, his guitar tucked nearby as a kind of sunshade.

DAY--EXTERIOR OLD PICK-UP TRUCK

Robert and Johnny are jammed into the small cab of this beat-up truck along with the black driver. The rear window is broken and the cargo--chickens in baling wire cages--makes so much racket that the driver and Johnny signal their inability to hear each other. Johnson, on the door seat, is silent but amused.

DAY--EXTERIOR ROAD

This time a white farmer in a slightly newer truck stops to give the two wanderers a ride--but now in the back among the boxes and crates of vegetables.

LATER--EXTERIOR FIELDS

The farmer slows to let the two men jump off at a crossroads, with a very rural-looking town in the distance and farmlands all around. They wave their thanks as he drives off, then extract carrots and tomatoes from the nooks and crannies of guitar and clothes, nudging each other and laughing. The sun is low in the sky. "Walkin' Blues" ends at this point.

TWILIGHT--THE FIELDS--MOVING

Johnson and his friend trudge along the cotton rows, heading for the town. They are eating the vegetables they "borrowed," with the sunset golden behind them.

JOHNSON: She's the purtiest li'l thing I ever see, an' the sweetes'. Reckon we be married, soon's I get chips ahead.

JOHNNY (dryly): Uh-huh. Tha's why you lef' your winnin's wi' that gal in Forest City--she's holdin' 'em for you...

Johnson doesn't respond, briefly embarrassed. Then:

JOHNSON: Well, it be diff'ren' when my name's aroun'.

JOHNNY (gesturing with a carrot): You come from 'roun' here?

JOHNSON: Longtime back. No family lef' now, 'ceptin' Betty Mae.

Robert suddenly stops and lets fly with the tomato he's been nibbling at--it splatters on a nearby fencepost and faded sign: "LUBBELL PLANTATION."

Hellhound 3: Movin' On

2008-07-10T08:31:00.000-07:00

DAY--INTERIOR RENTED ROOM

Back in the present, Johnson standing in front of the window again, moodily looking out. He mumbles, thinking out loud...

JOHNSON: Hellhound... On my trail...

Sound of footsteps mounting the wooden stairs outside, then a loud knocking on the door. Johnson listens but makes no move to open it. The knocking is repeated louder.

WOMAN'S VOICE: Mr. Johnson?

He doesn't answer. She punctuates her next speech with blams on the door.

WOMAN'S VOICE: I know you in there, Mr. Johnson. You can't hole up forever. You musicians all alike--think you can take a'vantage of a poor widda woman. Well, I'll have a week's rent by tonight, or you just get out!

Final blam followed by sound of her feet descending the stairs. Johnson lets his anger explode: he grabs up the empty whiskey bottle and hurls it towards the door, but it shatters the cracked dresser mirror instead, scattering glass in all directions.

ANOTHER ANGLE

That fast, Johnson's anger vanishes. Panicked by the bad-luck implications, he grabs the bag around his neck and rubs it hard. Then, calmer, he walks over to the glass shards and aimlessly stirs them with his feet, his thoughts elsewhere. His foot rolls over the unbroken neck of the bottle, and Johnson stoops down to take this up with his right hand. He tosses it in his palm for a moment, then slips it over the little finger of his left hand. He picks up his guitar and sits down on the edge of the bed.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

As he holds the bottleneck finger vertically before his eyes. For the first time in the film, he smile is deep and wide, lighting up his whole face.

NIGHT--EXTERIOR WOOD CABIN

Another flashback, as Johnson (16 or so) approaches a tiny backwoods cabin; very nervous and cautious. (The scene that follows is played straight, serious rather than for humor.) Robert hesitates at the steps and calls softly...

JOHNSON: Mama Lion... Mama Lion.

An old black woman appears in her moonlit doorway; she is blind.

MAMA: Here, chile. Who call Mama?

JOHNSON (properly respectful): It's me, Mama. Robert Johnson.

MAMA: What chu want wid Mama?

JOHNSON (inarticulate): I needs... luck, good luck...

MAMA: Come here, chile. Let Mama see you close.

Johnson hesitantly steps up to her. The old woman peers into his face with her sightless eyes, runs her hands over his body and fingers, then nods her head.

MAMA: Yes, Robert, Mama kin he'p you. Wid music, ain't it.

She dips into her skirt pocket and throws some sort of dust over his head. Absolutely unnerved by all this, Robert sinks to his knees before her. Mama makes passes over his head with a "black cat bone," murmuring African/French patois chants. Then, talking as she works, she pulls another item from a different pocket, drops it and more dust into a minuscule cloth bag, and ties all this around Robert's neck.

MAMA: Goofer dust, Robert, t' hoodoo you' enemies. An' Li'l John the Conqueroo fo' you' stren'th an' you' music...

Then she steps back, signals him up with a gesture of her hands.

JOHNSON (standing up, unsure): What I kin pay you?

MAMA: Mama want no t'in' from you now, chile. Go on home.

Grateful, still nervous, Johnson looks back over his shoulder as he leaves. Mama Lion stands framed in the doorway, still watching him with her sightless eyes.

NIGHT--INTERIOR DANCEHALL

Flashback continues, but now some more time has elapsed since the earlier juke-joint scene. Here, chairs are bunched against the walls, with a few small tables; 40-50 black people of all ages, from tiny girls in braids to elderly men with canes, fill the hall with joyous dancing and high spirits. At the far end on a makeshift stage sit Son, Willie, a fiddler, and a man blowing jug--all smiles and sweat, stomping their way to to the end of a raucous jugband number.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Working his way through the crowd comes Robert, now 17 or so. Only six months have passed since his disastrous juke-joint experience, but he is no longer the awkward country boy; dressed in a snap-brim hat and city man's shirt, he seems older in confidence and movements. He carries a battered guitar in his left hand and pulls a beautiful young girl, Betty Mae, along with his right.

JOHNSON: Come on, Mae.

At the stage, Johnson stands looking up expectantly. Betty Mae watches the dancers, swaying her own body slightly.

ANGLE UP

As the musicians come to a ragged but happy conclusion. Willie then addresses the crowd.

WILLIE: Brothers an' sisters, we gotta break time. (Crowd groans, catcalls.) Sorry, and tha's a fact. But you-all is wearin' us down. Hold on, and we be back quick. Juice'll keep you loose, and you got each other for comp'ny!

The musicians lay their instruments aside and jump down from the stage, near Johnson.

ANOTHER ANGLE

They start to pass Johnson, not recognizing him.

JOHNSON: Hello, Son... Willie.

WILLIE: Hello you'self. Who you?

SON: I b'lieve it's the Rob'sonville boy, Johnson. You rec'lect him--five, six months back?

WILLIE: What? Don't tell me... you come to give us another lesson in the blues?

JOHNSON: I'm some better, I 'spect.

Willie looks him over, then talks as he eyeballs Betty Mae appreciatively.

WILLIE: Yeah, you do look some better... but I got a thirst tha's cryin' out somethin' fierce.

He starts to move on, but Johnson puts his hand on Willie's arm.

JOHNSON: How 'bout me playin' whilst you rest?

Willie looks at him speculatively, then grins from ear to ear.

SON: Now, you don't want...

WILLIE (interrupting): Whoa, Son. Who we to stand in the way o' this boy's kay-reer. If he's ready, let him do it.

He clambers back up on stage and calls out for the crowd's attention.

WILLIE: La-deez and gentamens! You is in luck. My pleasure to bring you that fine an' upstandin' young bluesman an' credit to his race, uh... (leaning over to Johnson, loudly) what'd you say that name was, boy?

JOHNSON (impervious to his taunts): Robert. Johnson.

WILLIE: Robert Jimsom! Treat 'um real nice now, folks.

Willie jumps down and heads off, not waiting to hear Johnson. But Son follows more slowly, lingering to listen.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Betty Mae hugs Robert and he smiles. He climbs on stage, lifting the guitar ahead of him and pulling a broken-off bottleneck from his shirt pocket. He sits down in Son's chair, dons the bottleneck, nods at the curious, milling onlookers, touches his neck-bag, does a little chording and tuning. Johnson then pauses momentarily, gauging the crowd one last time, before launching headlong into the stunning opening chords of his slide-guitar masterpiece "Preachin' Blues." Humming, talking, singing powerfully, indeed "preaching" in a way, his guitar work equally amazing, Johnson works through the number:

Woke up this mornin', blues walking like a man,
Woke up this mornin', blues walkin' like a man,
Worried blues, give me your right hand.
And the blues grabbed mama child, tore it all upside down,
Blues grabbed mama child, and they tore me all upside down,
Travel on, poor Bob, just can't turn you 'round...

Etc. The noisy restlessness of the crowd quickly becomes silence and evident interested respect. Men and women press forward eagerly, murmuring "Yes" and "All right." Betty Mae practically glows, swaying with the music.

ANOTHER ANGLE

The side door where Son leans, then jerks bolt upright, listening in amazement. He calls out the door.

SON: Willie! Oh man, come in here!

WILLIE (entering reluctantly): What is it?

SON: Shhhh...

Willie pays attention, hears Johnson's guitar, and his jaw drops; he too stands transfixed.

WILLIE: Jesus...

ANGLE DOWN

Over his shoulder, Johnson nearing the end, the crowd tensing and swaying and jumping. When he stops, the hall erupts in shouts and cheers. But he leaps down to grab Betty Mae and kiss her lustily. The people press forward to surround them; other young women cling to his arms. Johnson is relishing all the attention. He winks devilishly at Betty Mae, and she responds by holding on tighter to his waist, not about to be dislodged.

MEDIUM SHOT

Son and Willie shoulder through to add their praise.

WILLIE (holding out his hand): Hey, Robert Johnson, knock me some skin!

ROBERT (suspicious, not understanding): What you say?

WILLIE: Shake, my man. I 'pologize to you.

SON: Where'd you learn to play like that?

ROBERT: Well, it's your song I learned watchin' you.

SON (shaking his head): Nosir. That ain't how I play, and no man I ever heard. Goddam, Robert, you musta sold your soul to the devil to play like that...

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

His reaction is slightly odd--his smile pleased, triumphant, yet somehow hard too. The glint in his eyes does seem slightly threatening.

DAY--INTERIOR RENTED ROOM

Back in the present, Johnson is still seated on his bed playing his guitar. With the bottleneck on his finger, he is trying to compose a song around the memory of his nightmare. The playing is ragged as he searches for a tune or pauses for a line.

JOHNSON (talk-singing): Got a hellhound on my trail, um, got a hellhound on my trail, and I got to... (trails off, thinks, starts again) Got a hellhound on my trail... Hellhound, hellhound on my trail, Couldn't no one go my bail... (stops again) Hell, anyway.

ANOTHER ANGLE

Johnson sets the guitar aside, gets up and moves around the cramped room, humming, stretching his muscles, tossing the bottleneck in his hand. Then he seems to reach a decision.

JOHNSON: All right.

Now moving swiftly, he rolls his few belongings into a bundle, fastens that with his belt, dons his skimpy jacket, picks up his guitar and bundle and hat, and crunching through the glass fragments on the floor, heads out, slamming the door behind him.

Music on the track has already begun, Johnson's "Rambling On My Mind." The song plays over the following montage of brief scenes:

DAY--EXTERIOR BOARDING HOUSE

Johnson clatters down the wooden stairs, slings the guitar over his back, and strides off into the morning.

DAY--EXTERIOR COUNTRYSIDE

Johnson cuts through fields heading for a distant railroad track.

ON MOVING TRAIN

Looking down from a flatcar as Johnson slings his gear aboard and clambers up after it.

BESIDE TRACKS

As the freight train chugs past, Johnson aboard a flatcar near the rear of train, riding and playing.

BESIDE TRACKS--NEAR A TOWN

Further along, as Johnson swings down from the slowing freight and ambles on toward the town.

DAY--EXTERIOR STREET CORNER

In the town, Johnson playing for passersby, his hat at his feet to receive any donations. White folks pass him by, hardly glancing at him; some blacks linger to enjoy, especially one foxy young woman who is obviously interested. (Johnson concludes the last lines of "Rambling.")

ANOTHER ANGLE

The song ended, Johnson picks up his hat, counts the coins inside, winks at the last listeners, then offers his arm to the young woman, and the two of them saunter off.

Hellhound 2: Miss'ippi Moan

2008-07-08T08:44:00.000-07:00

DAY--EXTERIOR--STAIRS

Johnson is seated near the top of the ramshackle boarding-house stairs, idly picking bits of tunes on his guitar as he watches the neighborhood.

WIDER ANGLE

The black residential section of some small town. Two men stand on a distant corner, evidently arguing though their voices don't carry; in the weed-scraggly vacant lot near Johnson, black children are kicking a small rubber ball. Beyond them, a horse-drawn wagon heaped with coal stops in front of another house; the driver climbs down.

DRIVER (shouting): Hey, Miz Peters! Coal's here!

A black matron sticks her head out the door.

MRS. PETERS: Come back Satiddy, Mr. Jackson. We all right this mawnin'.

Johnson plays through all this.

ANGLE DOWN

As one boy comes chasing after the ball, to the foot of the stairs. Hearing the guitar, he stops and listens, looking up. The others yell for him to come back, then when he pays no attention, they come over to see too.

Johnson bows to his audience and plays them a sprightly tune. But the largest boy is antsy and drags the others off.

BOY: Aw, come on. Let's get that ol' coalman. I can play good's he can.

They charge off, the one curious boy taking a last look back. Johnson watches them go.

CLOSE ON JOHNSON

He smiles and nods, looking thoughtful...

NIGHT--EXTERIOR JUKE JOINT

A rickety wooden porch leads up and into the dim, noisy "Hoskins Place." Boisterous laughter from within, but not disturbing the two men, Son and Willie, who lounge on this porch idly plunking their guitars.

SON: Ready, Willie?

WILLIE: Jest about.

Willie sets his guitar aide and stands up stretching; he swaggers to the end of the porch and stands there inhaling the night air. Then he notices an indistinct figure standing off in the darkness.

WILLIE: Who is that?

ANOTHER ANGLE

The figure moves forward into the half-light; it is Johnson--nervous, awkward, about the same age as in the opening nightmare sequence. Willie looks him over.

WILLIE: Well, well. Wha' chu doin' here again, boy?

JOHNSON: Lis'nen'.

WILLIE (dryly): Uh-hunh. You learned yourself to play gittar yet?

JOHNSON (more eagerly): I been practicin' a lot, and...

Willie nods his understanding. Son has stopped playing to observe.

WILLIE: And you think you is ready to play us some blues, huh. What say, Son, do we let this here country boy strut his stuff?

SON (shrugging): Make no nevermines to me.

WILLIE: All right. Step up here, boy.

Johnson moves to the porch steps. Willie passes him a guitar, then sticks his head inside the juke-joint doorway where the din of drinking and laughter continues.

WILLIE: Hey! Hey now! Step on out here if you want some funky music to go 'long with what chu's already doin'.

He stands aside then, and several other men and women emerge; they all look like country folk dressed up for a night out. They spread out on the porch with Johnson below them on the ground, guitar in hand.

MAN: My, my. What we got here?

WOMAN: Does yo' Mama know where you are?

OLDER MAN: Don't I know you, boy? Miz Johnson's son, from over Rob'sonville?

Johnson doesn't answer, unnerved or unsure.

THIRD MAN: Well, kin you play that git'box or not?

SECOND WOMAN (shaking her hips and pelvis): I got some special rider music you can play...

Stung into action at last, Johnson strikes a tentative chord, then launches full-tilt into a spirited but pathetic attempt at some blues number like "The Moon Is Rising." His listeners react raucously.

WILLIE (laughing and slapping his knee): Whee-ough!

SECOND WOMAN (hands over her ears): Don't shoot, I give up!

Son is silent, eyeing Johnson's "technique" and shaking his head sadly. Someone gives a loud hog-call.

THIRD MAN: You th' original Miss'ippi Moaner fo' sho!

Johnson's thrashing and caterwauling halts. He looks at his mockers stolidly.

LOW ANGLE UP

Willie steps down and reclaims his guitar.

WILLIE: You best get on back wid your Mama, boy. Put your fingers where they belongs--on them cottonbolls!

The "jukers" on the porch bust out laughing again, then all--Son and Willie too--saunter back inside. Johnson stands silent and unmoving.

Hellhound 1: Blues Fallin'

2008-07-06T16:38:00.000-07:00

DAY--EXTERIOR--PAN

A Mississippi cottonfield, green plants and white cottonbolls as far as the eye can see, many black workers stooped over picking and sacking the bolls. Some are sneaking looks back at something the camera pans to discover (sounds of whip strikes during the pan): two white men are grappling with a young black of about 14--our lead, Robert Johnson, but as a teenager--one holding him still while the other, plantation owner Lubbell, lashes his clothed back with some sort of riding crop.

LUBBELL (shouting as he strikes): Ain't no nigra ever fainted from workin' in the sun! But I'll whip you senseless if that's what you want!

ON THE GROUP

As last blows are administered, Lubbell steps back and the second man lets Robert fall to the ground. Lubbell gestures to this man, who strides over, grabs up water bucket from small black girl, and dashes its contents on Robert. The young man jerks and rolls over, and Lubbell looks down at him.

LUBBELL: Now you dog it in the fields one more time, boy, and you gonn' be runnin' for yoah life--I'll loose the hounds on you, bigger'n buck, you heah me?

CLOSE ON ROBERT

As he raises his head, pain on his features but defiance in his eyes:

ROBERT: Oh yassuh, Mist' Lubbell, I hear you good...

NIGHT--EXTERIOR--MOVING

Robert (a man now) running for his life through heavy brush forest, branches clawing and whipping him. Sounds of pursuing hounds in the distance, baying and howling horribly. (Superimposed on this are strangely bright close shots of Robert asleep on a bed, tossing fitfully--i.e., we are seeing his nightmare).

Suddenly Robert breaks from woods and onto a rural dirt road. Now he can make better time, but the hounds seem to be drawing closer. Terrified, he looks back...

ANOTHER ANGLE--MOVING

As the dogs appear on the road behind him--three huge and slavering monster hounds bounding rapidly over the ground, closer and closer.

CLOSE ON ROBERT

He is frantic, straining beyond human ability.

ANGLE BACK--OVER ROBERT'S SHOULDER

As the lead hound comes within striking distance and leaps into the air at his back... And the frame freezes.

NIGHT--INTERIOR ROOM

As Robert Johnson struggles awake, shouting, thrashing atop his bed. He shakes his head to clear it, rubs his face, touches a small bag he has hanging on cord around his neck; and then rises, walking over to the window where dawn is breaking outside. As he stands, framed against the light, TITLE up: HELLHOUND ON MY TRAIL.

ANOTHER ANGLE ON THE ROOM--BRIGHTENING

Johnson, about 19 or 20, moves about the barren boarding-house room; his guitar propped against the wall, a spilled whiskey bottle on the floor, a cracked mirror and battered dresser near the door. (Main CREDITS are supered during this and following action.) He picks up the spilled bottle, looks at it, then upends to swallow the last mouthful. He peers at his face in the mirror. He picks up the guitar by the neck, then holds it against his stomach as he falls back on the bed. Without playing it, he lies staring at the ceiling.

Hellhound Intro: Dustin' My Broom

2008-07-05T14:27:00.000-07:00

In the late Sixties, I wrote--on spec--the screenplay for a proposed feature film based on the music by, and few facts known about, great African-American bluesman Robert Johnson, sometimes called "King of the Delta Blues Singers"; the script was titled Hellhound on My Trail.

Around 1970 I copyrighted this with the Library of Congress and registered it with the (then-known as) Writers Guild of America, West, Inc. Over the next couple of decades various people occasionally tried to sell my script and get a production mounted. I even published a portion of it in a Boston-based rock magazine called Fusion, but no further interest resulted.

So time passed. Since it's been nearly 40 years, I've decided to publish it myself now, section by section, a few pages at a time, in this blog. I don't really care about the possibility of its being stolen--after all, there have been other attempts at telling the Johnson story, though no completely fictional film to my knowledge--and even back in the early Seventies I couldn't claim ownership of the man and his history (just my own invented retelling of it).

But I do believe my script to be a creditable piece of work (even though I am white, attempting to capture black language of long ago), fairly well imagined back when almost nothing was known about him--neither his background, nor his death, nor even how old he was--and no photographs had been found; and I'd like to leave it for posterity (maybe).

If you are a fan of Robert Johnson's music, check back regularly as I chase this particular Hellhound.