Hellhound 9: No Hiding Place

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 3: Movin' On

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.